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!