angel city
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
This was originally an emailed response to glorious Spike's query re: any exciting Los Angeles stories?
was once quasi-molested by Seymour Cassel (apparently some cultural icon that I am totally unfamiliar with but whose name impresses some). Here's what happened (gather 'round kiddies): I was taking a break from clearing the Starbucks post-morning-rush pile-up of non-fat berry muffin wrappers and paper cups lined with decaf mocha scum, lying with stomach and facial cheek on the counter (it was the end of my shift and I was feeling the typical 10-more-minutes-oh-my-god-i'm not going-to-make-it food service dismay). Suddenly Seymour (is that a song title? the name of a band straight outta the UK?), who was a terrifyingly regular regular, hung out ALL THE TIME for hours on end making lewd comments to all the young, hopped up on coffee cuties, lay down on top of me. Had I not been wearing my requisite tan trousers, white button down shirt and barista apron, and he not wearing his "did I mention I'm an actor" outfit, we would have been fucking like dogs. I froze, then screamed "ewwwechhh" and jumped up. He laughed, my back burned with revulsion (did I mention he's, like 1000 years old?), and that was that.
Let's see. That wasn't all that exciting. I am now tense over the three un-eventful years that I pissed away in the City of Angels.
I was in the big LA earthquake. As well as the SF one...the former being way worse--there's nothing like waking up from a dead sleep at 4:17am to find your entire house behaving like a loosie-goosy train screaming through a tunnel. Scared the crapshitfuck outta me. I ran around in circles, screaming "the power's out, I can't turn on the lights, go turn on the TV to see what's wrong"...my roommate had his millionaire heiress girlfriend out from New York, who was crazy like only those kind of over-monied types can be, and she actually fainted a la Gone With the Wind. So, he was running around looking for smelling salts or something while my other roommate decided, seconds after the quake, while we were surfing aftershock after aftershock and in the pitch black, that we needed to start cleaning up the broken bottles of honey, Grand Marnier, and Channel #5 (shattered all over the kitchen and bathroom). She ran around with a dustpan, screaming that she wasn't going to clean up the whole mess by herself, and I stood, dumbfounded, in front of the television, punching the "on" button over and over, uncertain what to do with my conduit to the world severed.
I was also around for those fires in Malibu. And the ones in Oakland. I am a disaster magnet, both personally and globally.
who is alex trebek, alex?
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
ou know how you're watching Jeopardy and you're feeling kinda ricky retardo
'cause you missed the last three in the "Sandra Bullock Movies" category. You start
thinking about how high-school was a joke, how education in the States is
debilitating--while all those non-americans were learning multiple languages,
memorizing Ulysses, and taking field trips to the Louvre, we were taking two breaks
and a lunch (plus one period of PE) and getting out at three (noon on the frequent
"minimum days"), taking three month summers, along with weeks here and there
for things like "ski week," off and generally doing everything we could to lodge
ourselves at an 8th grade reading level and doom ourselves to a life of being
outraged over the fact that Portland is not the capital of Oregon. Maybe it was the
teachers. Yeahokaychachi, I had a few good ones, but they were totally eclipsed by the
freakish and inept. American History (mandatory) was taught by this guy who's
main claim to fame was that he had been a regular on, but not actually one of, the
"Little Rascals." I think he had initially been hired as the track coach but had
somehow weaseled his way into an actual teaching position, perhaps dazzling the
school board with his star-studded childhood. At 60-something, he prided himself
on still being a swinging bachelor--definitely NOT gay (he was really into illustrating
this via an elaborate and insane limp-wristed on-fire routine that was supposed
to convince us on what side of the fence he rode--in fact, he would go on to talk
about how lesbians were also icky 'cause they presented him with unwanted
competition when it came to the ladies. As an added bonus, he very helpful when it
came to explaining how one didn't need to have "Negroid features" -- wide nose,
big lips, fast runner -- to be considered black because Egyptians, who shared none of
these attributes, were officially negroes. [INSERT PREGNANT PAUSE
HERE FOR CROWD TO EXPRESS THEIR AMAZEMENT OVER THIS
UNBELIEVABLE TURN OF EVENTS] This was 1988, folks. 1988. The only other
thing I retained from that semester de Hades was how rabidly he hated Hells Angels
and all forms of astrology. As he droned on about one prejudice or another,
everybody glazed at the clock, drew pictures on their shoes and binders, and cheated
on all the tests. It was really not altogether unlike serving time in the big house.)
So I sit and fume over my misspent youth, feeling threatened and awestruck by those answer-in-the-form-of-a-question competitors. Jesus. What are they doing, injecting steroids into their noggin?
And then it comes time for Alex to meet his guests. Invariably, there's this smug and awkward pause-ridden delivery of this totally mundane tale. Lots of unwarranted and self-congratulatory laughter. I feel superior. Hehe. Look at the intellectual fortress crumble! They may be mensa-geniuses, but they are also socially retarded. Hehe. I am then able to go forward unthreatened into the double jeopardy round, surrounded by the force-fielding knowledge that, though I can't touch them smarts-wise, they are people both boring and alone, perhaps even worthy of a touch of pity.
But then someone once asked me what story, exactly, would I choose to share if I happened to find myself at the jeopardy podium, if it were MY head and torso floating above the monitor featuring "Evany" written corner-to-corner in fluffy cursive.
And sweet-jesus, I couldn't and can't think of one thing exciting or righteous to tell America that would set me apart/above the mental jeopardy-giants. It was a humbling moment, one that I hark back to often. Especially during my lowest moments--usually in traffic or when I'm lying in bed, awake, at 7am on a Sunday, trying to pretend I'm still asleep and not an android permanently programmed to arise for my 9to5.
When the inevitable sets in, and I'm feeling totally at the bottom of the belly of the whale, blue beyond belief over my aggressive mediocrity, I comfort myself with a fantasy based loosely on that okay movie "Quiz Show," but relying heavily on a suspicion I have about Alex. I'm fairly sure he's recruited an army of Canadians that he has trained and briefed to play Jeopardy contestants displaying a perfect balance of uber-brilliance and pedestrian get-ta-know-ya stories. Alex has fiendishly crafted this balance to strike a chord and permanently dishearten all of the United States. Or just me, depending on how paranoid I'm feeling.
the pox upon me
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
ack in 1990 I was spending my junior year of college in Oxford. I was in the midst of this REALLY HEAVY long distance affair d'heart with this boy in LA. At that point, we were about 6 months into the whole lengthy love letters and brief-yet-meaningful phone calls deal (all very fromage, but I was twenty and sure I was nurturing a bond with my one true love).
Anyhoo, at this point I had been calling him for days during an assortment of odd hours and he was never ever at his dorm (god...remember DORMS?), so I was fairly sure that he had been stepping out on me. I was totally freaked out, feeling nauseated, feverish, boohoo-ey, even itchy. I called and called him, on the hour, off the hour. Finally, he came to his dorm's pay phone. As I watched my $40 worth of phone card tick away (on MY dorm's pay phone), he confessed that he had fallen, hard, for another. My heart BREAKING, I stumbled to my bed, sure I wouldn't make it through the night.
I spent hours writhing, hallucinating, the whole 10 yards. It was really romantic/Madame Bovary. If I wasn't so deeply depressed, I would have been impressed with the depths to which I could sink. But then, oh woe, morning light revealed that I was covered, head to toe, in a gnarly rash. A stumble to the infirmary revealed I wasn't the emotional heavyweight I had imagined but rather an adult sufferer of THE POX. The next day, my gnarly rash had turned into hundreds of these amazing horns--they were multi-colored, like ghoulish candy corn. Murder red at the base, pus yellow at the top. From the neck up, I counted 67 (not included the ones in my mouth or under my mop). I had them on the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet. I also (turn you head if you are queased easily) had them in, over, and around my nether region. And, delightfully, I got my visit from "mr. monthly" that very day, and was informed by the nurse that I couldn't use a tampon because it would burst the pods/horns and cause icky scars or something. I had to resort to a pad, which made me feel like I was re-living my early teen years--so eighties!
The itching was totally off the charts. I was told messing with the pox would lead to herds of scars, so I mime itched: frantic, digging, claw scratching centimeters above my skin, accompanied by intense visualization exercises. When I just couldn't stand it anymore, I indulged on the pox located in my hair, figuring I would probably never be rebel enough to go totally Sinead. Depression and mouth horns prevented all eating for about four days.
It was bad to the bone, manfred man. Wicked.
In addition to the heartache and menstrual bit, it was finals week. In between phantom itching sessions and crying and fasting, I'd have to walk to campus, yelling at people to stay away from me if they were pregnant or never been poxed, then take these bizarre quarantined finals in the nurse's office. All things considered, I felt proud of my barely passing marks.
It took about three months to look even vaguely normal again. And, for a girl firmly on the rebound, having a case of what appeared to be chronic acne really put a cramp in the typical post agonizing break-up spell of wanton living. Feeling ugly, alone, and un-hearted was almost worse than the actual pox. Almost.
not so rockin
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
t Red Robin, the cheesy chain burger/texmex/theme bar, not only did we have to wear a "we card anyone who looks under 30--be flattered!" pin, a red bow-tie, and an "anything else" smile, but we had to push drinks like the "Blurry-eyed Robin" and the "Nuclear Iced Tea" (Red Robinese for a bloody mary and long island iced tea, respectively) and sing a special birthday song for any patron who claimed to be celebrating such an occasion. Sung to the tune of an army march, it was a call and response thing that involved a lot of clapping and having to assemble the entire wait staff, who were all really busy and totally unwilling to help (fellow robineers were amazingly cut-throat; it was not uncommon for co-workers to steal your food as it came up and bring it to their tables...I'd be ready to go with fajitas steaming 'n'sizzling (just like the picture on the menu!), yet suddenly shy a nachos, so I'd bring all but one plate to a table, leaving one sorry eater sans grub and looking forlornly at their scarfing table mates, and then keep checking back with the table and reporting, sing-songingly, "your nachos will be here in a HEARTbeat, I PROMise! [smile!] Then I'd dash back and SCREAM at the kitchen (at RR the people that made the "food" didn't have names, you just called them "the kitchen") "I need some nachos 'on the fly,'" which is kitchenese for "stat," but, sensing my desperation, they'd totally ignore me and take double long to make the fucking 'chos, and the whole experience would end with me gazing tearfully at a tip that jingled rather than folded). So, I'd be sitting there with the complimentary birthday scoop of vanilla ice-cream (w/dollop of whip!) melting like crazy and begging, literally BEGGING, my co-workers to come on a birthday run. I'd end up with one hostess and maybe a waitress (who I bribed by agreeing to take her "camper" table (which is waitress-ese for a table that's never going to leave...they're usually in AA, order nothing but coffee (black 'n' hot!) and sit there, talking animatedly and chain-smoking, for seven hours...you can vacuum under their feet, take away their catsup/sugar/S & P, turn out the lights, put the chairs up on every other table, and they still won't leave)) and three of us would all sing the stupid song superduper loud, hoping to make up in volume what we lacked in numbers. And once I had one birthday, suddenly all of my customers would magically be celebrating their birthday (LIARS!) so I'd have to do the "bring it on down, one..two...three...four, hap-py birth-day...TO YOU!" like three times a night. So, by the time 1am finally rolled around and I was finally free, I'd stumble to my car, slick with waitress sweat, reeking of french fries, and with maybe $10 shivering in my pockets. And that's how I payed for my junior year abroad.
dying young
Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
Dancing, bands, bars. Whatever I do to act out my sad and petite social life these days is a damp cardboard match to the bic lighter of the Junior High Dance. There is no other time in your life that can duplicate the excitement, sexual promise, and full-throttle gamble of a DJ, mirror ball, and every kid you know rubbing together under one roof. Lives are made and broken within three chaperoned hours. But at the end of everything, all that you're left with are some unidentifiable signatures in a yearbook and a everlasting gag reflex to the smell of cloves.
or weeks I planned the perfect outfit: Izod, camouflage laces, knickers. I readied at a friend's house, where we did our hair and tried out new makeup maneuvers. It was a special night, so I drew eyeliner from one corner of my eye to the other, over my nose dot-to-dot fashion. Totally punk. Then eight of us shared the traditional thermos of curdling suicide-a shot of everything in our parents' liquor cabinet. Smoked cloves. Then trotted to the dance, held at the local grade school. There we waited in line, lots of shoving and Vice Principal power-wielding. Once in, I pounded a Cragmont and waited for the first slow song.
When the magical time arrived, I put as much distance between myself and the albino freak known since fifth grade for snacking on his boogers. Simultaneously, I tracked dream-boy and prayed that I wasn't the female equivalent of the albino. I had to jockey for a good position since there were only a few cute boys, and I always liked the same guy as all my friends. So by the time the music began, there was quite a throng around him. Like sperm to egg.
You could tell how much a guy liked you by what songs he danced with you to. He could dance with you like half the night, but if he saved his slow songs for another lass, it was over. There were a variety of slow songs and who you danced with depended on the song. Passionate crushes were expressed via short songs with fleeting popularity, like Journey's Open Arms. Just friends danced to almost-fast songs like It Must Be Love by Madness. True love was expressed during Stairway to Heaven. Unequivocally. For a full twenty minutes you rotated in the hug position, his thing pressed to yours. And if he was bold, had parents going through a rough divorce and was dealing with a lot of displaced anger and needed love, or he just kind of liked you, he rubbed and squeezed your butt.
It was super cool if you knew all the words to the songs. More cool if you could time your gyrations perfectly with the beats and riffs. But most important, you needed to jump up at the right moment during Rock Lobster. Dancing to the B-52's biggest hit required a slow crumble to the floor which coincided with the "down...down...down" portion of the song. Once on the ground, you waited until the song started rocking out again before you jumped up. Those uninterested in flirting with danger just waited until the brave jumped first and then sort of staggered up a few beats later. But the killer, awesome, righteous jumped at exactly the correct moment. Burdened with a weird haircut, clothes from the Goodwill and parents who drove the wrong car, I had few opportunities to really shine. I needed bonus points wherever I could get them. I needed a perfect jump.
Of course I jumped too early and had to spend an unbearable three seconds looking down at a sea of unforgiving, cannibal faces. I tried to recover, but my confidence had vaporized, my rhythm forsaken me. The whole dance was shot. I spend the rest of the night in the bathroom, mapping out my life as a drop-out (since there was NO fucking WAY that I was going back to school EVER AGAIN), then went outside early to wait for my mom. Monday rolled around, and the parentals made me go. Duh. At school, no one really said anything, and soon the whole event slopped back into perspective, eclipsed by someone else's mega embarrassment. Everyone found out Tammy had lice. Kirsten's period leaked through. The usual.
And I chalked the whole event up as one of those things you think of as shattering, but in reality, no one even remembers the grim moment--they're all too busy with their own tragedies. But it wasn't. Years later, I told this tale to a group of fellow 7th Grade survivors, and they all remembered it. They remembered what I was wearing, the song, the slo-mo quality of the event. Everything. They even, ohmyGOD, remembered laughing about it afterwards.
Now I can pinpoint the beginning of my life's downward spiral. That ill-timed jump robbed me of my upbeat spontaneity. Since then I've led a cursed existence, never sure of the right time to jump, the right time to lay still. Opportunities denied to me. Doors shut. I will never succeed. Never be loved.