Apple Support at Its Finest

"I Think Your Marriage Is a Glitch"

Since I've Been Apathetic and Deliquent

Here is a list of stuff from the past month or so.

-October 18th:  Saw Patti Smith in concert at the Orpheum.  Rock ON!

-October 31st: Halloween in West Hollywood.  Went to Carnaval and a club.  I was a dominatrix.  Had my ass licked (in an abrupt sneak attack) by a drunk and disorderly man who, in turn, was elbowed in the kidneys and beaten with the metal base of my whip.  His reaction?  "Ohh damn.  My bad."   He did not understand my costume.

-November 4th:  Spent the night listening to the neighborhood Obamarama.  And watching streaming CNN.

-November 8th: Attended a dinner to benefit the charity "Smile Train."  A friend / former co-worker recently established a non-profit organization in memory of her niece.  The evening was hosted by her group; friends, family and volunteers.

-Today:  Poked and prodded a German co-worker until he faced me in a very austere, German manner and stated, "Hey.  You will pay for that."  With the accent!  LOVE IT!

-Tonight:  New James Bond movie.  Midnight showing in Westwood!

Happy Year to Me

Today marks the one-year anniversary of my move to Los Angeles.  Living here has been good for me, and I am eternally thankful for this time....

Oh THANK GOD, IT'S ON YOUTUBE!

Here's a great video to imitate in the confines of your lonely bedroom.  It also gives mundane household chores a little pizzazz!:

Does Not Belong to Me

Here we have the pig version of the evil angler fish from Finding Nemo. 

I am afraid to fall asleep tonight.  Dare I chance a nocturnal disembowelment?

It was found at the 2008 Hershey, PA classic car show/swap meet.  My father could not resist taking a photo and scaring the bejesus* out of me by sharing via e-mail.  I don't think I had much bejesus* in me to begin with, but if I did, by GOD, it's absent now.  I have a sinking feeling that I could use some to courageously battle the demon pig image which haunts my brain.

*As referenced by a totally reliable source, here.

Connotations Differ on the West Coast

Smell of burning leaves in Pennsylvania:

Fuck yeah, we're gonna have s'mores!  And hot chocolate!  

Smell of burning leaves in California:

Shit, we might die.  Somebody call the fire department.

Self-Assurance Free with IKEA Purchase

Furniture assembly instructions from IKEA - these bring so much joy and amusement to my life.  They also cause me to feel unduly brilliant.  Whoever created this sequential illustration deserves some sort of award for that.

True to Life.

The Eight Phases of Dating  - click click for lolz!

Still Surfing in October

Captured at Venice Beach, 10/4/08.  As a transplant from Pennsylvania, it never ceases to amaze me that beach weather here extends well into the autumn months...

Where u go, Russia?

This made me want to take the red pill (or was it the blue pill?) and go night-night.  For a VERY. LONG. TIME. -

At least she is addressing the issue of sneaky Russians, I think.  I mean, that line, 

"They are in the state that I'm the executive of!"

causes me great anxiety for a few reasons;

1. She claims the Russians are within her jurisdiction.  Russian troops have already penetrated our borders once this year - HERE - so, this has become a matter of national security.

2. That sentence ended in a preposition and is therefore alarming to my senses.

...But anyway! Her astute observations continue, as she reveals herself to be a truly credible source on the tactics of Russian espionage -

"As Putin - where's his head?  And, uh, comes into the airspace of the United States of America, wh-where do they go?"

Holy shit, where DO they go?  She is correct in previously mentioning that Russia is close to Alaska - I just checked Google maps for reference.  I must say, however, that I'm extremely relieved by Alaska's proactive approach to border safety.  I mean, we are sending "those" out to "make sure an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia..."

"Those"?  Sarah Palin knows how to protect America, and not just with hunting rifles!  Sounds like a secret.  A delicious secret.  She may want to let Bush in on this one, since we are trying to fence the Mexicans out...I hear it's not going so well.

This is Possibly How I Came Into Existence

Today, amidst my monthly closet-dive, I stumbled upon this treasure of all treasures - a photo of my parents on their 1983 honeymoon in Canada. 

Wow.  That must have been one week of pure, absolute salacious bliss.

It is nice to know that my mother and father were once an inconceivably sweet couple who dressed in matching outfits.  Raincoats, at that.  On a lightly cloudy day.  Do you see rain?  Because I don't.  Maybe there was the remote possibility of a storm (100 miles away), but my bullshit detector is flaring up at the moment.  I mean, if those glasses truly were the style of the times, I can't imagine one would stop short of wrapping themselves in a bright yellow plastic bag (with flannel lining?) for the whole world to see.  And don't even get me started on the fucking hat.

For a new set of reasons, I will once again declare that I AM SO GLAD THE 80's WERE NOT A PART OF MY ADULT, OR EVEN ADOLESCENT LIFE.  I was a mere child who probably assumed every day to be a lesser version of Halloween.  Then Halloween really would arrive, and everybody looked exactly the same, save for some cheap vampire fangs or broomstick prop.  And the candy, of course.  And those poisonous, child un-friendly glow sticks that I always chewed on.  

My problems now are beginning to make much more sense.

This is for Your Own Safety

Texans urged to evacute...imminent Bush visit.

Eat this Snickers, You Skinny Bitch, and Say Hello to the Chicken Man for Me

Being a food lover with an extraordinarily fast metabolism works to my advantage in most any environment - especially the office. It seems as though every two hours, if I haven't yet wandered through peoples' personal spaces in a desperate search for food and/or entertainment, I am automatically offered a treat of some sort by a concerned passerby. Invariably, they will state something to the effect of, "Oh my god. You're losing weight. Like, a lot of weight...here, have this doughnut." -or- "Why can't I have your 'problem'? Here's a candy bar, hopefully you will wake up with a tire around your waist tomorrow."

They keep feeding me, and to their dismay, I continue to exhibit the same figure.

Today I realized that my co-workers have me on a feeding schedule - though it is not entirely regimented (I do not always have to wait two long hours), there is no end to the offerings. And I'm not complaining.

Generally, my first concern of any given work day is to grab breakfast to-go from the employee cafeteria (this is after I eat breakfast at home prior to my shift). Once I am finished, the first individual to notice that my desk is lacking in food items will assail me with whatever food item they can find. A pretzel? How about some old peppermints I found in my drawer?! ANYTHING TO KEEP YOU ALIVE AND FUNCTIONING UNTIL YOU GET YOURSELF SOME MEDICAL ATTENTION. This persists throughout the day.

I fear that if I do not begin to gain weight like a normal human, they will soon ship me off to the circus, and I would become the only creature the public would be encouraged to feed...awesome.

But!! Then again, I will be forced to spend time around clowns. NOT. COOL.

I Prefer Chicken.

Maritime Wonders

San Pedro, 8/31/08.

City Sky and the Beauty Therein

View from Broadway Ave., Hawthorne, CA on 8/29/08.

Character Building

I like to think that much of my early adolescence was spent developing a solid sense of personal identity, principle, and purpose. Experience was the grand facilitator, however vicarious - as I have TV to thank for much of it.

Below is a list of skills learned and qualities relative to my (current) disposition. All are accompanied by explanations - YouTube clips of the aforementioned TV influences.

- ANALYSIS
- NEGOTIATION
- CONDUCT
- COGNIZANCE
- EMPATHY

Any person who assumes that TV is an incomplete educational tool probably did not have enough Scott Bakula in their formative years.

I Am Here to Help

I found myself home at 1:30AM last night; I had been out all day with a friend from high school who happened to be in town for a business conference.  As it turns out, she is seriously considering migrating to Los Angeles and therefore requested a tour of the city.  She confided to me, "there is no hope anymore in Pittsburgh," (for herself) and that she was looking for a place which is less miserable overall.  

So I thought, hey, what is the best way to present L.A.'s most resplendent qualities and character to a total newbie?  DUH!  Sojourn everywhere by train and county bus!  And boy, did Los Angeles ever bestow itself resolutely.  Here are some of the more memorable episodes:

1. Cross-eyed, cracked-out woman on the Blue Line shuffling down the aisle and muttering, "All I gots is what I gots.  Anybody can you spare me juss 35 cent?  JUSSSS 35 CENT-AHHH!"

2. Elderly homeless man on the Red Line blowing spit bubbles and chewing loudly at other commuters.  WHILE SMILING.

3. Two young men in matching t-shirts on the Trolley to Manhattan Beach who asserted repeatedly, "We ain't got no jobs, but we ENTREPRENEURS.  You wanna make some money!?"

4. Tranny hooker on Hollywood Blvd.

5. Hollywood smoke shop employee who insisted, "Y'know, I'm a doctor.  I can get you a license and get you some real good shit! I mean, this shit will FUCK YOU UP.  Just come back to me when you move into town.  Fuck Pennsylvania, that shit is WEAK.  It's legal here, you knowwhataaahhmsayin'!

6. Very short man and his gargantuan ladyfriend on the Blue Line who were lovely enough to serenade the entire train car with Ol' Dirty Bastard on his boombox, then rap a freestyle jam about character #7.  "This is Amer-ica, you crazy bitch, donnn't be givin' me yo' nasty itch!  You look like you gonna stab me, ho, I bet 'cause you can't handle my FLOW."

7. Homeless elderly woman who proceeded to chide the very short man for his loud music.  "AHHH CANNN'T HEAR MAH STOP.  YOUR MUSIC IS TOO LOUD."

--

In case you were wondering, my friend is now totally sold.  L.A. is truly the promised land!

LOLBush

Courtesy of the Guardian UK, courtesy of Steph at the workplace -














More here!

Just Try And Tell Me This is Not Fly.

I feel fulfilled.  Finally, after multiple failed attempts, I've obtained a download of the song, "Are You Jimmy Ray?" by...uh, Jimmy Ray.

For years this song has been stuck in my head.  It manifests inexplicably, and at very inopportune moments. 

For your viewing pleasure, here is the music video:

HOW FANTASTIC IS THIS?!

Oh Jimmy Ray, I am feelin' dangerous!  Therefore, I might as well admit - at least once, back in the day, I tried to imitate the ghettofab dance moves in this video.  Because in 1997 / 1998, this was not only forgivable - it was actively encouraged, as a sober venture even! (...Albeit by individuals equally as sad as myself).   I survived it, and considering, I think I've turned out well - for example, I've never expressed interest in becoming a cheerleader.

Now please excuse me while I download an embarrassing amount of Coolio, Jock Jams, and SKEE-LO!

I KNEW IT

http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/08/14/spies.revealed.ap/index.html

Julia Child? Spy.

Ain't No Party Like a Massive Software Party

...Because where else will you find drunken synchronized swimmers? Seriously, they were blasted. And not very synchronized. Unfortunately, my camera died before I could capture the fully inebriated glory, but here's a shot of the beautiful crowd (or, about 1/5 of it) -














Also, fire makes me totally HOT. Get it? Like, sexy hot. (HAWT, if you will). ...Ha! I am so clever with wordplay!














<----Teh Sexxxxay. One drink later, and hawter still -














Many thanks to my industry hook-up! High five FREE DRINKS and FOOD. *Emphatic Fist Pump, Arsenio-Hall-Dogg Pound-Whooof*

The World Will Implode Tomorrow

Why? Because I've been invited to a VIP House Party at L.A.'s Custom Hotel - a burlesque show / circus riot for the world's most beautiful, discriminating people. You guessed it - software engineers!

I will be rubbing elbows with the Who's Who in the world of programmer geeks (and the like). This is undoubtedly treacherous, as my entire being is something of a magnet (though mostly for flamboyant gay men, and cat hair) - but, magnets are bad for computers. I, as history has revealed, am bad for computers. One can only assume that my presence at this event will explicably cast a pox on the hosting company's integrated computational solutions system. Or whatever the fuck they produce.

They have an open bar. And fire-breathers! I do believe this to be a winning combination, at least.

Questions I'm Most Often Asked by Strangers

1. Are you a dancer?
Often followed by an intensely creepy remark such as, "you know, YOU MOVE LIKE ONE."

2. Have you accepted Jesus into your life?
To this I most often respond with unintentional sarcasm. Like, "Jesus is totally my master. I love being a serf for Jesus." I'm trying to seem sincere; but I will invariably fail each time - whether by vocal tone, facial expression, or inappropriate word choice. That, and the proselytizing population can inherently detect that I was raised by hippies/devil worshippers.

3. Are you from Russia or something?
Actually, I am. You may have gathered this by noticing my indecipherable accent and the fact that I carry vodka with me everywhere I travel. Also, the babushka is a flagrant clue.
---

I'm beginning to wonder if I would elicit any stares should I combine these observations into one glorious fashion statement. If I publicly exhibited myself as a Russian ballerina/nun, would people even take a second glance? Or is this style entirely applicable to my disposition? I'm beginning to think that it is. I've got the Russian look, whatever that is, and I totally have access to a nun outfit (we've got an ex-nun in the family!) All I need now is a pink tutu, a pair of flats, and a tailor who is willing to create something atrocious for the sake of my whim. I should really contact Project Runway.

I May Want to Stay Here

I've been engulfed by fresh paint fumes since 7:45 this morning and I've got a live version of Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter" stuck in my head. Truly I am feeling a catharsis at this very moment.

Shaken, Not Stirred

Yesterday a 5.4-mag earthquake struck Chino, CA - sending waves throughout the region. This incident was the first potential disaster I've faced while living in Los Angeles (if you don't count the influx of ants in my kitchen last week, or any of the other circumstances which nature has attempted to annihilate me). I was in the middle of a half-day meeting when my co-workers and I felt a series of unsettling rumbles - before the entire building slid forward...and then back again. Three times in total.

Fortunately, my workplace is one of many newer structures in L.A. which is built on rollers in order to ensure its stability during such an event. Still, we quickly scurried for a space under the door frame at the entrance of the meeting room, which directly overlooks the lobby of our building. The gigantic chandelier above this area swayed back and forth, as did the light fixtures in our conference center. This probably caused me the greatest anxiety; because WHAT IF those things detached and flew at my face? I like to think I'd survive blunt force trauma to the head entirely by will. Not my will to live, per se, but sheer will to NOT DIE AT WORK.

No Tengo Un Bebé

On the train last night, I was approached by a young Mexican man who spoke very little English. Despite this, he felt very confident in his abilities to communicate; and he very obviously had a burning desire to speak with me. After dodging a slightly uncomfortable stare session, I allowed him to at least try to explain himself. This is how it went -

Him: Hi. I see you yesterday on this train. You are, how old?

Me: 24.

Him: You have babies?

Me: Uhmm.....no children.

Him: REALLY?

He was in complete disbelief that a woman of 24 years would not already have at least ONE child. No babies? OMGlady! TIME IS RUNNING OUT FOR YOU.

He pressed on.

Him: I see you with the, uh, paper. (Makes sketching motion with his hands). You are an artist?

Me: I draw a lot. I went to art school.

Him: Ahhh, y I am a writer! I write my dreams. I show you. You have paper? Can I use?

I lend him a piece of paper and the hard top of my sketchbook, and he excitedly drafts his most recent reverie. Accompanied by an illustration. And whaddya know? It is two swans kissing in a lake surrounded by tropical islands. He expounds.

Him: My dreams, they are...very romantic. I write a romance novel on my computer!

A pause.

Him: I put you in my romance novel!

Believe it or not, I insisted that my character would not be relevant to such a story. And though I never asked him to explain his novel further, I'll have to assume it is a story of a brief, yet heated love affair by which I produce multiple babies.

Shortly thereafter was his stop. He excused himself with a handshake and a smile - then says, "next time." Next time, WHAT???! I'm afraid he left me hanging. Just like a writer of suspense and passionate drama. He's totally legit!

Surviving the Whacky and Evading Punishment

My trip to Pennsylvania, though short, provided me a lovely snippet of my life's past. I met with family and family friends I hadn't seen in two to four years; I ate like some sort of Slavic royal duchess and enjoyed all the local delights I'd been missing; I also made a few pit stops at childhood landmarks - most notably, Waldameer Park & Waterworld, wherein I urged my very acrophobic mother to accompany me on any and all thrill rides which involved speed, stimulating lights and colors, and dizzying heights. Not surprisingly, I was only able to coerce her into riding one famed (kiddie) coaster -

Erie, PA's own Whacky Shack. Enter if you dare; but prior to boarding this ride, please forfeit your walking aid. I'M LOOKING AT YOU, GRANDPA. Waldameer is committed to safeguarding the public from maniacal geriatrics and their violent ways -

(If you've ever seen a grimacing, cane-wielding old man shuffle his way through a crowd...you understand. If it were legally permissable, he'd totally assail your ass with that stick, all the while hacking out some diatribe against the youths of today. And I wouldn't put it past him to do this while hiding out in some dark, mediocre haunted house. He'd fit right in with the display of skeletal mannequins draped in fake cobwebs).

Thankfully, my mother had no access to commonplace weaponry such as a cane. Being 57 years-old, she technically qualifies for senior discounts at most Pennsylvania theme parks. And like most demented senior citizens, she oftentimes will display invective and abusive speech towards young people and/or her own children. This is where that instinct kicked in last Sunday -

WOULD YOU JUST LOOK AT THAT DIP. Believe it or not, the 8 MPH velocity with which our cart hurled across the track was nearly insufferable to my mother. In a state of complete panic, she asserted, "Whaaaaat the ...NOOOOOOO!!! Oh. GOD!" Then proceeded to condemn my entire being for failing to warn her of such an unforeseen terror. I didn't catch the majority of her chiding; I was too busy fumbling with my camera in an attempt to digitally record her hysteria. I didn't get the shot, but here we are at the end of ride - I am almost certain she is looking for a discarded cane.

Shag Hag

Green shag carpet - still all the rage in PA.

Willing to Suffocate on Allergens for the Pleasure of Your Company

Tomorrow I fly back to Erie to spend a couple days with family.  My mother has taken all the necessary precautions prior to my arrival - she has amassed a stockpile of Claritin and, for reasons still unknown, five half-dozen packs of assorted bagels.  I theorize that I may have drunk dialed her one night and blathered my affections for That Thing I'm Hungry For RIGHT NOW!!!!!, which has resulted in this week's menu at the Peters household - Nothing But Bagels.  I guess I should be thankful that it is not celery and peanut butter, or raisins in tapioca.  Or something that came from the garden and was marinated in pollen before it became dinner.

---

Ah, Erie, my (former) hometown!  It seems I can't escape it, even when I try.  Though I'm roughly 2,500 miles away, I'm still reminded of my birth city every time I sneeze or suddenly experience an excruciating, stabbing pain in my eyes.  I've had no severe allergy attacks since I moved away in 2002, but somehow Erie still keeps shoving its way into my system.  Most recently, it presented itself to me visually:

Taken in Chinatown, Los Angeles this past weekend.  I have to go out on a limb here and assume that NO graffiti artist would ever designate himself the pseudonym of "erie," because that's just lame.  Instead, I like to believe that natives of my hometown have formed an utterly hopeless gang and are attempting to expand their turf.  For whatever reason, this seems plausible to me.  Watch out, Chinatown!  If you aren't careful, bloodthirsty Erieites will subvert your society and redesign your already-confusing shopping centers to resemble semi-automatic handguns:

For those who aren't aware - this is the directory/layout of Erie, PA's Millcreek Mall.  I am not even kidding.  Go ahead and search it on Google Earth.  This is what I'll be seeing in just over 24 hours.

Why Yes, There IS a Thick, Juicy Sausage in That Wrap! Why Do You Ask?

...Yet another weekend excursion which ended in a Zankou Chicken run. I ordered the Soujouk Sandwich - or, an Armenian-spiced beef sausage wrapped in pita. While it was irrefutably delicious, the high garlic content/consumption left me feeling as though I'd been relying on some little Armenian grandmother to cure my menstrual migraines with an ancient home-made remedy. For the first time in my life, my face could actually feel garlic - not to mention reek of it.

(Interesting side note - if you visit www.thesaurus.com and type 'home-made,' into the search bar, the website will not recognize that term. Instead, it will ask, 'Did you mean HOMICIDE?' Alternative word selections also include humiliate and maimed; all of which are COMPLETELY emblematic of home-made, old-lady medicinals).

...Now please excuse me while I apply this entire jar of Vick's Vapor Rub to the rest of my body; I am not stinky enough to be healthy yet.

Not Enough Gold Sparklies on Taco Truck Independence Day

Today marks the first Independence Day I've spent living in Los Angeles. I can't help but compare the holiday to all of the other July 4ths I've witnessed throughout the years; and I've got to say; your firework displays are cute, Los Angeles, but you just didn't present enough gold sparklies to keep me entirely captivated.

First of all; why so much of the red/green combo? What is this, Christmas? Granted, pyrotechnic demonstrations are not foreign to my Christmas pasts, considering the amount of times grandma accidentally lit her table centerpiece or Christmas tree on fire. However, red/green anything still conjures images of Santa, snow storms, and haphazardly wrapped boxes filled with confounding gifts.

Second; I was really in the mood for a taco today, but when I trolled the neighborhood for my favorite trucks, it dawned on me that THOSE SONS OF BITCHES SOLD OUT. Not out of tacos, mind you; but they had forfeited the virtual identity of their entire business by capitalizing on this American holiday. All of the taco trucks in Hawthorne and Lennox had magically transformed into firecracker vendors today. Shrouded in red, white and blue cloth and draped with the occasional American flag, I barely recognized the trailers formerly titled, "¡Sí, aceptamos tarjetas de crédito!" Now, they are strictly referred to as, "USA celebrate with fireworks!", trucks. Unfortunately, you are out of luck if you aspire to celebrate 4th of July with carnitas.

Third - let's go back to those gold sparklies (the best of any fireworks ever created) - I can't even begin to explain the smack of orgasmic glee which strikes me any time one of these suckers erupts and showers upon me a billion winks of joy. It's like the Heavens decided to rain gold sequins, FOR ONCE. I'm not certain if anyone else has an uncontrollable, hyperactive reaction to any variety of gold sparklies, but it leads me to conclude that;

1. I am, in actuality, a gay man.

2. My Polish heritage is partially to blame.

3. I need Ritalin, beca---THAT THING THAT WENT BOOM LOOKS VERY PRETTY!

...

Happy 4th of July.

Disappointment of the Century

For much of last evening, I found myself gleefully prancing around the kitchen to the music of Shania Twain. One song, in particular - "Man, I Feel Like a Woman!" seems to have a calamitous effect on my basic style judgement. The second I hear that opening keyboard synth, five years of Low Country living come flooding back and I've just gotta put on a shitload of mascara and pink lipstick. I then scavenge my closet rabidly for the utmost appropriate attire, a la Southern Exposure Truckstop-Madonna. Then I pour myself a finger of whiskey, look in the mirror, and get all Shania. Or, I get all like the fat drunk girl with the crusty bangs, tongue piercing, and belly shirt who's gettin' all Shania. Hey. She's ladyfolk too. LET'S GO, girls!

Such is one of two moments in my life when I've openly lamented that my wardrobe seems to be missing a fuzzy cheetah-print cowboy hat. AND/OR something in a rawhide fringe/denim combo. The other moment was in 3rd grade; when I keenly observed all of the patrons at my aunt's (..dad's cousin's) bar owned one of these items - if not both. Though I was never able to obtain a style so acclaimed by these masses, I often sought their validation anyway. And you know what I learned? Husky old salts don't like 3rd-grader clarinet rehearsals in their watering hole. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I never stopped with the music, and it eventually morphed from an obsession with woodwind scale practice to a highly refined sensibility for good music. Which brings me back to Shania Twain, obviously.

I know Shania herself is a Canuck, but she does a damn fine job in motivating me to emulate some backwater hussy. I think it's because she's so purty, and yet she married that pug-faced troglodyte (who's apparently CHEATED on her?) Taking this into consideration, we're very much similar people, myself and Shania. Until today, I didn't think this was the only synonymous factor between us; until this very hour, I was almost completely sure that Shania Twain enjoyed dolling up her man in ladies clothing. I assumed this by interpreting the one line in I Feel Like a Woman! as:

"Men in shirts and short skirts....oh oh OH!"

And I always thought, holy SHIT! Shania knows what I'm talkin' 'bout!

This perverse fixation on cross-dressing began, for me, in elementary school. My best girl friends and I would often forcibly detain any neighborhood boy we could, and proceed to give him a makeover. I mean, he'd get EYESHADOW! LIPSTICK! BLUSH! GLITTER-PAINTED FINGERNAILS! The works. The more he squirmed and the louder he cried, the harder we'd laugh. And when it was all over, we'd chase him through neighbors' yards, hurling insults such as, "Girls just wanna have FUN, GAAAARY!" and, "Hey, Sean, big girls don't cry!"

Shania probably did the exact same thing. In her adult life, even - to her fug husband.

...But then flash forward to today; when I curiously Google'd Man, I Feel Like a Woman!, and found that my fav line is actually written as,

"Men's shirts - short skirts".

I've never felt such disappointment in all of my life.  I liked Shania better as a big freak.   However! Will I continue to live in abject denial and sing my delicious version? Pssha! Loud and proud, baby. You know I will.

Addendum, guys - Allowing me to make you into a very pretty woman is not necessarily a prerequisite to having relations with me; however, it does earn you super mega bonus points and nearly quadruples your chances of gettin' some.  Unless you had a "0" chance to begin with, because 0 times 4 still equals 0.  But don't blame me for that - blame math.  All I can say is, hey, you're a grown man now - you could have fought the makeover a little harder.  But you didn't, and I've got to assume it's because you like it that way...you naughty, sparkly thing you.

Workplace Scoring Points

...by giving away free lamps. I'M SO THERE!

My Happy Place - Palos Verdes, as Promised.

Sometimes Words Aren't Enough

I'm wise to the notion that my Eastern-European co-worker may have a better grasp on the English language than he lets on - he is just secretly charmed and delighted by American attempts at translation when words fail them. I can see him chuckle to himself as we begin to describe things with sign language, as if wild hand (or whatever body part we're utilizing in expression) motioning can assist us in more accurately explaining our point.

I consider communication to be one of my best qualities. My friends, acquaintances, and cohorts are generally well-informed of my daily life situations. Then again, I've got an affinity for trashy gossip and I tend to babble at great length over subject matter that is relevant to nothing. Which I why I have a blog. Look, I'm doing it again!

Anyway.  As my nature would suggest, I often become impatient and frustrated when I am unable to convey myself with ease. What! You don't understand me? Well fuck this. You don't deserve an explanation.  This perspective, however, is usually disregarded when mingling with foreigners.  If I can't come up with a series of adjectives they recognize, I will resort to uncouth  gesticulation. Such were the circumstances today as I described to my co-worker the Lucha Va Voom.  For those who are unaware of this happening;

Sexo Y Violencia

...that should clear things up completely.

The first word to perplex him was "burlesque."   'I do not know this,' he insisted.  His blank stare mandated that I further clarify.  "Burlesque dancers are kind of like stripper girls..." I began; only to have my foreign friend excitably interject, 'SO, they take off ALL THEIR CLOTHES?!  They were...naked girls??' 

"No.  They still wear g-strings and pantyhose and pasties.  So they are somewhat covered."

More blank stare.  He shook his head as he envisioned the wardrobe he had deciphered, and then cautiously disputed me.

 '...Pastries!...??'

"No, not PASTRIES.  Payy-steeeeeeees.  Pasties."  I wasn't getting through.  And there he stood, in amused anticipation,  silently suggesting, "now you have to show me. These...what you call?  Pasties."

Okay fine.  I drew my fists to my chest, hovered over my boobs, and quickly flashed open palms at him.  Only after repeating this action three times did I realize I wasn't accurately getting the message across.  In fact, I seemed to be relating breasts to car headlights beaming on and off.  He was understandably confused.

My second approach was to pinch my thumb and forefinger together, creating a circular imitation.  I then made a half-twisting motion above my nipples.  Really, I was tweaking my nipples in sign, without the actual tweakage.  His eyes big as two suns and burning just as bright, I had to quickly revert back to language. "Pasties.  Like little cups!  To cover you!"  For a brief moment, I felt very dirty.

He smiled.  "Ahhhh."  Comprehension.  I achieved my goal.

"So.  Why did you not just Google 'pasties' for me to see?"

You fucking! Damn!! Son of a BITCH.  I couldn't image-search 'pasties', BECAUSE THAT IS TOO LOGICAL.  And in doing so, I don't have the opportunity to embarrass myself enough.  This is why I resorted to hand gestures.  My words alone were not terribly mortifying, and needed a little action in accompaniment.  That, and fuck you.  

You understand.

Still Awful and Fear-Inspiring, Yet Fun and Perky

The highlight of my day was undoubtedly the moment my iPod shuffled to The Macarena by Los del Rio during the bus ride home.  I could barely contain my excitement as I fumbled with the volume roller to pump that baby up FULL BLAST.  Little did I know that as I amplified the song, a faint leak of obnoxious dance tempo had penetrated the listening realm of the stinking, shabby, possibly homeless Hispanic woman sitting next to me.  I could feel her stare and noticed peripherally that her neck was craned and her face turned in my general direction.  I met her stare and cracked an uneasy smile -  and then the chorus hit me.

Heeeeeey Mac-arena!  Ayyy!   and then, something in Spanish.  Repeat, repeat.

I saw the woman's nostrils flare.  She got up and moved to a seat in the back...because I had inadvertently uttered the lyrics charging through my brain.  Including the Spanish part.  I don't know the Spanish part.  And I don't speak Spanish.  But I still tried to sing it, and I managed to cause a bum so much anxiety that she was all like, I NEED TO GET AWAY FROM YOU, CRAZY PERSON.

God knows what I actually said in Spanish, or if it was Spanish at all.  It might have been devil speak.  At any rate, the woman continued to stare at me for the next ten minutes.

On a vaguely related note, this event reminds me of the instant during 6th grade summer camp when the entire girls' cabin realized that one of the male camp counselors, named Oliver, could sing The Macarena in its entirety.  Including the Spanish part.  And since I grew up in Erie, PA, dear GOD was this ever momentous.  NOBODY speaks Spanish!  Holy fuck!  Sing it again, Oliver!  DO IT, or I will shoot you with this arrow; as you've just taught me the proper techniques of archery.  And might I remind you, I just got 5 bulls-eyes out of 7 shots.  IT IS MACARENA TIME, ONCE AGAIN.  HAHAHA!

I'm only speculating, but I may have somehow conveyed the same sense of wild-eyed urgency today as I insisted, "Parala pa lady elegria Macarena" or whatever, to that woman on the bus.  But at least I was not in possession of any obvious form of weaponry, or making flagrant threats for that matter.  I hate to think that my personal killing-spree theme song could one day be The Macarena.

The Only Time I Welcome an Emotional Beating

...when astonishingly good advice is the succession of the act(s) and/or state of things.

"Never make someone a priority who only considers you an option." - Augustine Mandino

Enough said.

Warning Signs

Eight months ago, I moved to the second-most populated metropolis in America - Los Angeles.  Since then, I've been plagued and threatened incessantly by the very thing I thought I'd escape by relocating here -  Nature.  Inauspicious nature.  WILDERNESS WANTS TO KILL ME, even in the big city.  Some examples include:

Shark's tooth found at Redondo Beach.  This didn't initially seem ominous - but then I blithely revealed my discovery to some locals.  They all seemed uneasy, and all claimed, "WOW.  I've lived here - 10 /15/ 20 - years, and I've never found one of those at any beach in SoCal!"  Oh great.  Do I go in the water?  Or do I float a sacrificial dummy with my likeness out there first? 

Snake in Palos Verdes - thankfully, this fellow was not of the poisonous / deadly variety, but again, associate reaction to this photo has ranged from, "I would fucking shit myself if I saw that," to, "RATTLESNAKES LIVE THERE TOO AND THEY HAVE THE ABILITY TO VAULT THEMSELVES AT YOU FROM 12 FEET AWAY.  You don't want a flying snake hitting you like an Amazonian blow dart, do you?!!?"

And, the kicker -

RIGHT IN MY OWN BACKYARD.  I think we can all agree - this squirrel has a ravenous, compulsory longing for human blood.  It just kept staring at me like that. What the...??  Squirrels are supposed to be hypersonic spazz rats with a volcanic glee for tree nuts and bird feed houses.  And when they do get mad or territorial for a brief moment, it always ends up on YouTube.  Because there is no fight in the entire animal kingdom more comical than a boxing squirrel death match.  Unless it includes the squirrel pictured above.  I don't think I could win a fight against that thing if you armed me with a sledgehammer and a can of mace.  

Take a Look at Perfection

...And by "perfection," I don't mean the questionable days'-old stain on my countertop.  Meet my Mango-Orange-Tangerine Margarita. 

 

No umbrellas or plastic mermaids here, cuzzz'n. Like every professional, I kill my tequila using the same cup as my morning coffee, and, if I'm lucky, with my morning coffee.

Palos Verdes Peninsula

This past weekend I made my way to the Palos Verdes Peninsula.
























More pictures to come, but notice the very upwards angle of this cliff. Naturally, I refused to venture too close to this rocky crag. Reasoning - I grew up in Pennsylvania. In PA, it is implicitly known that you've got a 32% chance of dying by way of A.) deer majestically leaping into your windshield, or B.) a giant slab of Appalachia coming loose and decimating you and your vehicle.

At least Pennsylvania warns its residents of this hazard with yellow reflective "FALLING ROCK" signs every 15 feet. California will caution you relentlessly over the perils of rollerblading, skateboarding, and amalgam dental fillings, but somehow menacingly large cliffs pose no imaginable threat.

People in Los Angeles are Modest, Subtle

You Are What You Eat

I never fully understood this phrase, considering I will eat just about anything that is deemed edible by an adult human when I am hungry enough. So what in the hell does that make me? The Gastro-Hulk?

This afternoon, I'll have to assume the moniker of 'Cat Shit.' Not because I ate cat shit today, (and I assure you I have never done so), but because I noticed the Power Bar given to me looked suspiciously like the thing that came out of my cat's butt this morning. And although my protein-infused chocolate delight was processed in resemblence of feline scat, I still consumed it without hesitation.

So, HELLO WORLD! I am Cat Shit.

It's not necessary to probe me regarding the emotional pitfalls of assigning oneself the Cat Shit nickname. It is glaringly obvious that I don't intend to damage myself for life, but probably already have since I've willingly posted this analysis on the internet. And let me tell you. If I'm taking myself down, somebody is going down with me.

That would be you, mom.

Yes! Mom! Remember that one time at the Long John Silver's in Pittsburgh when you, desperate to experience the voracity of a local, completely saturated your fries with malt vinegar? Only after the first bite did you proclaim loudly, "This tastes like DOUCHE! No, really it does. JUST LIKE DOUCHE, or something." Then you proceeded to eat the entire douchey basket of dripping wet douchey fries.

YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, MOM. And I will never let you forget that.

What I Learned From My Father

As I was going through my daily routine this morning, I happened upon the Father's Day special section of msn.com, entitled, "What I Learned From My Dad: Sons Share Stories About Their Famous Fathers."

Most notably, there was an entry by Juan F. Thompson - the son of Hunter S.

I am not ashamed to reveal that I experienced a slight pang of jealousy.  I mean, how cool would it be, as a child, to attempt an explanation of your father's ether-fueled, incoherent ramblings to your schoolyard friends?  Okay, maybe not, but something inside of me still fumed, "I wish my dad taught me how to detonate home-made explosives.  How come I had to learn that sort of thing through Abbie Hoffman, and that kid from the alternative high school who always hung around our neighborhood?"   

Anyway, the article caused me to reminisce.  My dad, thankfully, did not suffer from the same emotional or physical excessive absenteeism that many of my friends' fathers had.  He was, for a time, a formidable presence (or had seemed that way during my earliest stages of pubescent SPAZZ OUT), but he was always there.  He still is.  

I recollect spending much of my youth on activities such as: illustrating and narrating all things purposeful to a kindergartner, and consequently, annoying the bejesus out of anyone who had been foolishly lured by my beguiling presence. I also remember accumulating and stashing money in abstruse hiding spots, maintaining an enviable aggregation of rocks and precious stones, and creating booby traps undetectable only to my mother.  All of these pursuits were strongly encouraged by my dad.  

I also recall devoting a good deal of my adolescence to the Valu Home Center, or, the po' man's Home Depot.  Obviously, this was not of my own volition.  I have my dad to thank for that.  

It was only today that I realized this monstrous time-suck to be advantageous.  For fuck's sake, I can tell you that epoxy grout is the most effective form of adhesion money can buy.  You're a pansy if you go for poorly-mixed Portland-cement for a serious project.  That is for home-makers who love to create crappy decorative glass mosaics for use in their tomato gardens.  !!ALSO! Epoxy is completely resistant to humidity and any other inclement or oppressive weather conditions you can name.  Possibly volcano lava as well.

At any rate, my father's eternal joy over all-things-hardware, kitchenware, and appliance suddenly came flooding back into my life when I obtained my first real, hard-core blender.  (I did not purchase this blender, per say, and I cannot divulge exactly how I acquired it.  All you need to know is that I have it now).  This is a small victory on my part, as I'm still in the process of furnishing my very first unshared apartment.  

Accordingly, I celebrated with Margaritas.  Finally, I've got a blender and I have a reason - though very much ambiguous - to kill that bottle of tequila on my kitchen counter that's been mocking me for over three months now.  Not only that, but I can kill it with some flavor.  Thanks to my new blender.  And, in a round-about way, my dad.

Thank you dad, for insisting, "this shit will be interesting one day," as I accompanied you throughout the aisles of Valu Home Center, often on the verge of emotional collapse as you, once again, scrupulously analyzed every centimeter of that adjustable springlatch.  Though I can honestly state that the springlatch craze never did hit me, I can say I'm much more appreciative of the fact that I have a blender with 800 watts of destructive shred force.  Feel the burn!

If he were here now, I would offer my first Margarita.  He would probably pass on that, excusing himself without much clarification other than, "not after the Marine Corps."  It would then be a choice of grapefruit juice or Pepsi.  And after much consideration of the dietary ramifications of the latter, he would choose the grapefruit juice.  And then my mom would offer up some of her infamous salmonella-infested ham sandwiches.  Just like the good old days.  Just like that one time in Virginia.  But we'll save that story for some other post.