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.