there is clean and then there is really clean...

In an effort to be a well rounded person I try to expose myself (easy...) to many different cultures. In LA, this is easy. I am often availing myself of the Mexican culture. Hello taquito. I love you. Last weekend, the Korean culture and I got reaquainted. Korean??? Yes. Those Korean gals are clean. I mean really clean. I can attest to this as I have seen the private parts of at least 50 Korean women in one day. Bizarre. Yes. On purpose? Yes. I went to one of the Korean spa's (we use that term losely) in K town (not K-tel). Have you noticed how all other cultures are big on the communal bathing? We ugly Americans are too shy. Well, I am not shy. So lets have a go. At these Korean spas, you can steam, dip, sauna and scrub. Sounds like Burke Williams you say? Not so much...The steam is in a jade filled room (prized in the east). The sauna is in a room that has the ceiling covered with carbon logs (for oxygen promotion). And your dip is in Mugwort tea (good for your lady stuff). My pal and I each signed up for scrubs. We went in, disrobed and entered the bathing room. All shapes and sizes of bodies. It is actually a bit of a boost for the ego. Of course, you are comparing yourself to 50 year old Korean grandmas not Lindsay Lohan. You are whisked away by a little lady in black bra and undies. They (the scrubbers) are the only ones who get to wear clothes. You lay down on what looks like a narrow vinyl cot and she throws a bucket (really) of hot water on you and starts in. She scrubs for a half an hour. There is a lot of flipping back and forth. Limb lifting and gyrating. More buckets of water. Every now and then there she makes a tsk tsk sound, as though you are REALLY dirty. I give her an apologetic look. Like soap hasnt seen my skin in months. I am fearful that she is going in for the slightly OB/Gyn cleaning but she veers away each time. There was multiple dousing again and suddenly you are pushed off the cot and told "Go showwa". As if I needed it.

lying is, as lying does.....

So I was in Vegas with George. Hold that thought.
One of my favorite pastimes is lying. I am a pretty accomplished liar. I love it when people tell me that I don't lie well. I just look at them and think "Oh you poor dear." The first time I went to Vegas I went for 5 days. Overkill, you might say. But I didn't know what I was in for and I was following George's lead. The really odd thing being, I don't care for gambling. It seems like an outrageous waste of money. Yeah, lets play some game where I have to add really fast in my head and give away cash. Huh?? I find drinking to be much more worth my while. So there I was, day 3 of Vegas. I was getting the hang of it. In fact, I was experiencing all that Vegas had to offer. Rock climbing and dirt bike riding during the day (i.e. 5:00pm) and swingers clubs and strip bars at night. Cool!!! I might have mentioned my incredible ability to hold my liquor. This makes Vegas extra fun.
So George and I have been out for most of the night. It is about 3am. Things are really starting to roll. We started off the evening at Cheetas. We had a friend who "worked" there. And I mean worked!!! The key is to go to the strip clubs fairly early, 10pm. This way its not super packed and you can chat the girls up. I love that. Anyway, George and I roll into The Hard Rock Hotel. We scoot our way to the bar and managed to wrangle some seats. George and I had it down to a system. We would get about three cocktails in and then scope the adjacent drinkers. Do they look like a party??? Gullible?? So stupid that they have it coming?? The best is when a guy would hit on me....instant target.
So this guy starts chatting with me. We will call him Ron. I am responsive. He eyes George. George is talking to someone else on the other side of him. Ron and I quickly get to introductions. "My name is Tracy." Nudge to George. "This is my brother Todd." Rons eyes light up. Houston, we have a live one. Ron keeps talking about medical sales or something. He has moved his hand to just above my knee. I grab his fingers and say "Ouch". He is concerned. Are you hurt?? I pull up the edge of my skirt to reveal a huge bruise I acquired the day before while rock climbing. (Note Readers: Large amounts of alcohol consumed increase body's ability to bruise.) "Oh my god are you ok?" The nasty wheels in my head are crankin. I look at him with my best wounded bird imitation, "Todd, gets mad sometimes." He looks confused and then glances at George, who is completely oblivious. "But he is your brother??" Ron struggles. I look at him with slightly watery eyes (easy when you are hammered) and say "We love each other...but...". Ron is getting pissed. Ha Ha. He stands up and walks around to George, who wasn't really making much progress on his end. Ron practically shouts "How can you hit a girl...much less your sister?!". George looks at me. I look and nod. He slowly smiles and turns to Ron "She deserved it, she shut me down that night." Ron is totally sputtering and looks ready to swing. I hop up, grab George's hand and start making for the door. "Come on bro...they don't understand how we feel about one another" planting a wet kiss on him. George is laughing like a delirious monkey and taunting Ron as we push through the front door to the new morning....

There is bad judgment and then there is....

So I was out one night with a friend. I don't remember where I was or who I was with. It is not crucial to the story. But we wrapped up our evening fairly early and went our separate ways. My way being the path straight to hell. I wasn't feeling totally finished with my evening (this is bad, see Tiki Ti) so I decided to stop off at one of my favorite watering holes, Tom Bergins. Please note it is a fav due to the close proximity to my home. Stumble stumble. So I play this little game with myself. I tell myself that if there is parking out front, I should go in (again Tiki Ti). This usually leads to disaster. There is parking, I go in. I order my usual. Bushmills neat with a water back. That's bartender talk for those of you who have never served the swill. I feel that this drink selection sets me apart as a person who knows their booze and can hold their liquor. Why I find these things important I have yet to understand.

I sit at the bar and quickly strike up a conversation with the drunks around me. Drunk people are so easy to talk to. It is starting to get pretty late and people are straggling out. That is with the exception of the drunks I was chatting with. Apparently, I learned that night, there is the after 2 crowd at Bergins. I am talking with these two guys who work together at a restaurant. One is the chef and the other is the manager. They mention the name of the restaurant. I had heard of it but never been there. It is one of those pricey hip spots. I only go to cheap hip spots. One guy, the manager guy, is starting to put the moves on me. Once I realize what is happening, I kinda take a personal inventory. "Am I drunk?" "How drunk am I?" "Can I maintain a vertical stance to at least 2 minutes without bobbing and weaving" Hmmmmmm. Houston...you know the rest. It is apparent to my would be suitor that I am what is typically called inebriated. But lets call a spade a spade, I was shit faced drunk. Mr Manager offered me a ride home. That would be great, I slurred. Before I proceed let me tell you that this is the Gods honest truth. I remember standing up. I remember walking to the door. Then......nothing.

There is bright light beating on my eyelids. I crack one open and survey the room around me. I have never seen this room before. I take note that I am lying on a couch. An ugly couch. I am naked. I have a condom stuck to my leg. There is some sort of smelly blanket covering me. I shut the eye and take inventory. What day is it? Do I need to be at work? No, I think its Saturday. I am in the clear on that one. Next, remove condom from leg. Gingerly. Trying not actually touch much of it. Do I have bruises or cuts? Nope. Do I feel as though my hoo-hoo has been abused? No. Okay. I have clearly done a bad thing and now is the time to cut and run. I am naked. I prop myself up and see that I am in some pseudo condo that some guy has made an attempt at furnishing, but got caught at Pottery Barn and never made it out. There are stairs. There are my clothes!!!! There is my purse!!! Hot dog!!! I roll off the couch and snake my way commando style through the condoms on the floor. Thank god there were condoms. I pull on my pants, socks and shoes but there is no top. Fuck! I glance up the stairs. HE is up there. I do NOT want to go up there. Fuck! I creep up the stairs. I am very good at this by the way. I have been sneaky since way back. There is one bedroom. I inch open the door and spy my top on the floor. He is sprawled on the bed. Sleeping. I am able to retrieve my shirt and scamper back down the stairs. Success!!!!!! I let myself out of the Pottery Barn Den of Doom. I am hightailing it down the hall when I think to look in my purse for my car keys. GONE! Holymotherfuckershitshitshit! There is only one place they can be. Back in the Den of Doom.

There is no option. I contemplate breaking in but this is a fairly new joint and pretty secure. I go to the door and ring the doorbell. Avon calling! I ring it a lot. Come on Mr. Dirty Manager! Wake up! He comes down and answers the door. Needless to say, he is confused by the sight of me at his front door. Not passed out on his ugly roll arm sofa. I pull myself together and with the very last shred of integrity I have I say "Hi, Sorry to wake you up but I think I left my keys here last night." He is clearly perplexed. Thinking to himself, "you never left"??? Uh hold on, he says. He returns with my keys. Lord knows where the hell they were. "Thanks a bunch. I gotta run. I see you later!" I practically sprint down the hall. When I go out the front door, I look back. He is still standing at his apartment door in his boxer shorts, scratching his head.

I am now on the sidewalk. I look at my cell phone, it is 7:23am. Ugh. That's nasty. I begin to look around for my car. I walk back and forth, up and down his block. It is 15 minutes before I remember. My car is at Bergins. I am not. I am far away. FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, cant a girl catch a break? Apparently not. I begin what will become the longest walk of shame I have ever had to tread. As I come around the corner many many many blocks later, I see Bergins. With my silly car parked out front. Safe and sound and ticket free!!!

I hop into my car and set my purse on the passenger seat. My bag falls over and out tumbles a men's watch. A really nice men's watch. I have a vague recollection of people showing off and trying on watches. I don't wear a watch. I hold it in my hand and consider returning it......for 16 seconds. Fuck that!!!! I may be a slut but I am not going back to that guys place. Enough humiliation for one day. (My sister later gave that watch to her boyfriend. He wears it to this day. She didn't ask where it came from.)

And that my friend is the story of Table 8.

yes Virginia, the rock opera does still exist but it might hurt you

So I had the strange and bizarre opportunity to experience an actual rock opera recently. And yes, it almost hurt me. But I have lived to tell the tale.

First, lets lay the blame on Summer shall we? Who, of course, will pass the buck to Jack her erstwhile co-worker and carpool bingo partner. Jacks pal was going to be playing with this band, the Kooks, at Mr T's Bowl and it was certain to be a hoot. Or at least this was how it was reported to me. Well, I am game for just about anything and Jack is a nut. Yipee!!

So we head out on a rain swept night to see what this was all about. For those of you who don't know, Mr' T's Bowl is an actual bowling alley although it is rarely used as such. But it comes equipped with a black lit bar that shows everyone's undergarments through their clothes. Good times! And to add interest to the setting, the bar seems to be staffed by this odd woman who looks like she came over on Ukrainian sex trade boat. But I will say she can sling the drinks. (Summer will contest this.) Once we entered, acquired Jack and some cocktails, we began to take a look around. We started to notice that the crowd was more varied than usual. You have a good grip of the swing vintagey types, the sorta indie rocker types (that are trying soooo hard to fly the freak flag) and then the requisite neighborhood winos who are in love with the Ukrainian bartender who is probably selling it out the back door. The odd part is the high percentage of people yammering away in German. German? Well, apparently the band opening for the Kooks is a German swing band. Hence the swing types. I have no idea what their name was but I can say in all honesty, they were good. Really good. And long winded. They played for what seemed like forever. Finally they wrapped it up and it became apparent that the majority of the patrons were going to be leaving. Oh dear.

Summer and I venture into the bar to replenish before the Kooks. It is around this time that I learn that they will be performing an original rock opera based on the book of Genesis. Huh? I will admit that my bible knowledge is rusty (read non-existent). I consider ordering a double to steel myself against what might be coming but Summer and I are rapidly running out of dough. Hmmph. We hold our drinks in a death grip and head towards the stage. The smallish stage is populated with a very strange group of people. The lead guitar, who is seriously wishing he were Sebastian Bach. A keyboard player who appears to have just finished administering a junior high algebra test to his students. A bass player who looks like a bloated Vince Vaughn. On drums was the person we knew, Coprock. There was another person tucked in the back by Coprock but for the life of me that is all I remember. And then there are the singers (ahem, vocalists). The male portraying Satan appears to be a down on his luck Rob Zombie who is clutching the lyrics for dear life. Lillith is embodied by a woman who seems to have been plucked from a Renaissance Faire (I hate that fuckin "e" on the end. And don't get me started on shoppe!!!!). Her corset is really tight and her boobs are trying to spill out the top. Satan is really hoping they do too. And so they sing. There is some narrative to try to hold things together and let the audience know what the hell is going on. Well, we don't care. It sucks and we are trapped. So what do you do in this situation???? Scope the room for wacky people, of course!!! After a cursory sweep of the room, one person came to all the girls attention. Indie Hot Guy. What the hell was he doing here? Seemingly alone?? Was he foreign? Lost? Really incredibly bored??? We speculated for quite a while but never came up with a satisfying explanation because we were immediately distracted by "the dancers". Somehow some people had managed to pour enough Heineken down their throats to think that this particular rock opera was danceable!!!! Holy Hats!!! Initially it was just a couple. They were sorta gyrating. Sorta wobbling. But they were soon joined by Really Drunk Scary Girl, who thought they needed company. I was sitting next to Paige and we were transfixed. This woman was defying all laws of gravity staying upright. She was less than three feet from us and we thought she was goin down for sure. I started to position myself to block the falling body, glancing nervously at Paige. Raised eyebrows. And then as quickly (or not) as it started, it ended. Lillith was spent and couldn't breathe in the corset. Satan needed to take his heart attack pills. We clapped enthusiastically. More out of surprise that it had been fairly brief (as far as rock operas go) than actual appreciation for their musicianship.

So, yes Virginia, there is still rock opera out there. Stay the hell away from it!!!

why tiki ti, why?

So I had dinner with Summer the other night. We met for drinks and dinner at Colombo's in Eagle Rock. It is a kooky old school steak house with paintings of naked ladies on the walls. You can see the appeal already. Summer was stuck in traffic so I was one up on her when she arrived. We sat down for dinner and began the usual dissection of how weird life is and our lives in particular. After a good girly dinner of salads and appetizer (and a 1/2 carafe of wine, nice hustle Summer) we wrapped it up and headed home to our individual estates to collapse into bed. OR NOT! By now I had a nice lube going and I wasnt feeling like heading home quite yet. (Summer is going to kill me). I took Sunset home for some site seeing. I saw the Tiki Ti!

http://www.tiki-ti.com/

If there is a parking spot out front, I am going in, I think to myself. I had my camera and decided this would be a great photo op. Of course the parking gods were on my side (or not). I went in and knew I was in trouble. It is a tiny place, 12 stools. And people were packed in. The air was thick with smoke. You can actually smoke there! I sidled up to the bar and tried to decide what to order. I asked the bartender (who looks like he just graduated from high school) what is the specialty? A "Rays steak" he says. It is loud in there mind you, but I nod and he begins the complicated process. A drink is placed in front of me and I pull out the card. Not so much. Cash only. I have to hustle to the Mexican joint next door and get cash. When I return, my drink is right were I left it. I look at my neighboring patrons suspiciously. Oh well. Sip. Delish! There is lots of shouting Toro Toro! I dont know why. I shout too. Everyone around me is talking to me at once and I am taking their pictures. There is another guy there with an ancient polaroid and he starts snapping away too. I finish my first drink. I learn that drink is not called "Rays steak" its called a "Mistake". Uh Huh. Next is the wheel of drinks where you spin the wheel and thats what you get. I ended up with a Brazilian culo, I think. Let me comment that all of the drinks taste pretty much the same. Rum Rum and more rum! But it was a party. Everyone loves a girl with a camera. It dawns on me that I need to pee. I head through the bamboo curtain into the bathroom. This is were we have the problem. The bathroom is narrow. I shut the door and set my purse on the floor (it looked clean). I do my business, wash my hands and decide to reapply gloss. I lean over into my purse, way over. I am wearing 4" platforms. I lose my balance and crack my head on the sink cabinet. I see stars. Little tiki stars with hula girls. DUDE! I straighten up and grip the sink. I am not going to barf. I reach back and check for blood. I am clear. I shake it off and head back out. My judgment might have been clouded before but now it was in a deep SF fog. Another drink. Lords knows why. There is lots of discussion about dirt bike riding (I have only been once), kicking heroin (never done it) and strangulation during sex (I take the 5th). I had to get out of there before it spiraled out of control. I said my goodbyes to all of my new best friends (again???)and dodged several offers for a ride to my car (we all know what THAT means) and headed home. I woke up the next day with a monster run hangover and the vague knowledge that I had given my number out to some Bulova salesman. Damn the rum!

The book thief

Whenever I think I am a good judge of character, I think about this experience and slap myself silly.

I do the internet dating. I am not wild about it but it is convenient and provides some sort of a filter for the multitudes out there. Not a very good filter but a filter none the less. Let me add that I have met several nice guys through the internet dating. I will expand on that another day. My profile is on the Nerve personals site. I choose Nerve because I thought that I would get someone who at least knows how to read.

So I get this email from someone called Hemingway Hero. My interest was peaked. Someone who actually knows who Hemingway is. Trust me, this is not a given with the general pool of males out there. He and I chat back and forth. His emails are charming. He quotes John Berryman to me. I am interested. Very interested. Back and forth all day (on the company dime, of course).

One thing about internet dating, I don't like a bunch of back and forth over weeks. I figure, lets get this show on the road. A couple of emails, a phone call or two (I often skip this step) and then meet somewhere. I always meet them in a public place and have my own escape vehicle. Now let me preface this story with this statement, I was coming off (6 months into singlehood) a 6 year relationship I had ended. My mental state was a little weird but I thought I was solid. Ooops!

So after a day or two of emailing sexy poems we make a plan to meet for drinks. Friday after work at Pinot Hollywood. A dark, well populated bar with multiple exits. Now I had seen his photo on his profile. Cute, not too cute, bookish with a good smile. Glasses. I love boys with glasses. So I walk into the bar. Late (always be late so they get to see you walking in) and I scan the room. All the way across the room I see him. We make eye contact and he stands up and watches me walk across the room to him. Very chivalrous and sweet. I sit down and immediately I have a positive vibe. Hmmm. We order drinks and start the chit chat. Mind you we are in the darkest corner of the bar next to the fireplace. Very romantic. We talk about our families and work etc etc. I learn that he is a literary agent at William Morris. He then turns around and hands me a book. "I brought this for you". Its the Berryman he had been quoting. He then proceeds to open the book and read to me. I shit you not. Mind you, we were 3 cocktails into it but I was floored. We keep drinking and talking about books when he leans over and kisses me. I love it when the dude makes the first move.

It gets late, the bar had practically emptied and all rational thought left with the last patrons. I suggest we get something from a liquor store and head to the beach. What the hell was I thinking? No one has ever figured that one out. He is all for it. We leave his car behind (Note: always stay with your car! You can throw the guy out and keep on driving if you have to.) and head to Santa Monica....from Hollywood! We stop at a liquor store and he grabs a bottle of champagne (my favorite!). We find a spot on the side of the road by the Chart House on PCH and climb down to the rocks. He finds a flat rock and clears a spot for me. He shoots the cork into the waves and pours into the cups I "happened" to have stashed in my car. He holds my hand and we sit and drink the bottle under the full moon(seriously). By the time the bottle is empty, I am so shocked that this guy exists that I cant stand it. I ask him to come home with me. We head back across town to my place. We are stumbling and peeling off clothes as we bump down my hallway. We fall into my bed and I am stoked. Yes! Sex! No. He wants to wait. He is so overwhelmed with my wonderfulness that he just wants to soak it up. You can imagine my confusion. Isn't that supposed to be my line? A line I rarely press into service, by the way. Sex is good for you and should happen as frequently as possible, practiced safely of course.

That was unequivocally the most romantic night of my life. And this took place a few years back. We wake up the next morning. There is none of that next day weirdness. We didn't have sex so there is nothing to be really ashamed of. Except maybe all of the silly gushing at each other. I drive him back to his car and we make plans to get together that night. He comes over that same night under the pretense of watching Hitchcock movies. Once he is there it is evident that we wont be watching anything other than my undies flying through the air. He walked into my apartment, took my hand and led me straight to the bedroom. We never even turned the TV on. Yes! Sex! He stays over. The next morning he says all the right stuff. I am amazed at my luck. He walks down the apartment building hallway, stops and looks over his shoulder and gives me the strangest look. It was a look of confusion. I gaze back not really noticing.

Monday is the next day. I go to work and I do something I typically do before ever going on any date. I Google him. I am attaching what came up.

http://www.lapdonline.org/releases/1999/99_09/fcd2.htm

Holy shit!! He is wanted!! He is a rare book thief!!! The attached report does not show the mugshot that was originally included in the information. Which is too bad because it has the numbers under his head and everything. I am freaking out!! My whole family is in law enforcement! Why would he steal books? I pace around the balcony of my office and mentally prepare myself for the call. The call to find out what the fuck! I call him and get his voicemail. I leave a message that sort of goes like this, "Hey Zeke, I know this will sound weird but I Googled you and I have learned that you are a rare book thief. I don't know what to make of this. I thought you might have mentioned going to jail or being arrested or something. Anyway, if you could call me back and we could talk about it, I would love to hear about it." BARF!!!! I completely wheezed out but I liked the guy.

One entire day goes by, it feels like a month. Finally he calls me the following evening. He is like a stranger (perhaps because he is a STRANGER!!!!!) on the phone. In this weird monotone voice he tells me about how the cops (his word) broke down his door and found his stash of stolen books. How many stolen books did you have I ask? Oh, 5 or 6 HUNDRED!!!!!!!! What the fuck???? He gets sent to a halfway house for addicts. He is there for 6 months. The court decided that he had an addition to stealing. Whatever! There is a GIANT pause in our conversation. "Were ya gonna share this with me?" It is in the past, he says. I didn't think it would matter. Huh??? The fact that he was a convicted felon was not the issue here. That fact that it wasn't that "big a deal" was the sticking point. The conversation kinda dwindled. He said he needed to go and he would call me the next day. I never heard from him again. I had NEVER been rejected. I didn't quite know what to make of it. Shouldn't I have been dumping him cuz he's a felon? I wrote a letter to help with purging him from my system. I sent it to McSweeneys (thankfully they rejected it). I am attaching that at the bottom. Its pretty dramatic but it was in keeping with the overall experience. I have had therapy since then.

The moral of this story girls and boys is you may think you know something but you don't know shit.
And always Google prospective suitors (before the date).

An Open Letter to the Man who swiped my heart and is walking around with it in his Kenneth Cole loafer.

I should have noticed it right away. I should have known. But excitement and adrenaline conspired to cloud my judgment. The lack of nervousness. The willingness to talk about difficult things with a complete stranger. This one should have been a red flag. I have been here before (Cliff). Why do you tell a relative stranger about the most difficult experience of your adult life, over Absolut and tonics at Pinot Hollywood? I am sorry your mom died. Man, I hope that wasn't some type of ploy to suck me in. But apparently this is how things are done. You reel them in, and then kill someone off. Yes? Who else would recite poetry to a girl (yep, that's me) on a first date? A blind date no less. And in keeping with this theme, who buys champagne and woos a girl in the moonlight on the beach in Malibu. Never mind that this was my suggestion. Don't listen to me. I am crazy! Clearly, it is a girl that has left her brain in the jar, that falls for all of this. It didn't help that you are nothing like my ex-boyfriend. So completely unlike him, it is as if you patterned yourself after everything opposite. I am weak. Admittedly, you had the advantage of the literary background. I am a sucker for readers, especially ones with glasses. You were chock full of amorous quotes like a twenty dollar whore with condoms. If I could just erase you from my memory. Just whiteout the excitement of kissing you. Completely eliminate how "just right" you were. When did I become Goldilocks? Of course next comes the kicker. You didn't want to sleep together the first date! WHAT? "Can I hold you for 24 hours and then ravish you for 24 days?" Promises, Promises. Did you really say that? I think so. The things that came out of your mouth. God, I should have known. Even the next morning, as I blinked at you over the pillows, I was melting inside. You knew it too. Somehow, I thought the same thing was happening to you. We had breakfast and made plans to see each other that night. Yipee!! The girl who is full of glitter and vinegar had suddenly donned rose tinted Oliver Peoples wraparounds. I bought it. All of it. At full retail none the less! I spent the rest of the day in a minor panic that you might not come back. Why was I so concerned? Why couldn't I keep you at an arms length like the rest? But you came back. Amazing and charming again. This time there was sex. And it was great! Was this some sort of cruel joke? More promises of "never leaving" and "not being able to hold me close enough". No one has stared at me for so long that I couldn't stop smiling with the pleasure of it. No one has ever said that I was remarkable or amazing. The funny thing is, when you left on Sunday and I watched you walk down the hallway I had a feeling I wouldn't see you again. Why? You had done nothing to make me think anything was wrong. Just hours before you had told me that we "felt so right". Then the next day came. Monday. The day that I learned that you were a convicted felon. A serial rare book thief. Would you have disappeared if I hadn't found out? Are you embarrassed or ashamed because I know? I was willing to accept it as being part of you and your past and move on. It was a shock initially. Now I hate that feeling of the blood draining from my fingers. I spoke with you that night. You told me about being in jail and meeting Henry Hill in addicts rehab. You said, "I will call you". I have been told that the experience of you/ the lesson of you is good for me. Laugh. But I know now that I have the capacity to love unreservedly again. That was in question before. But why did this happen and why with you? Where did you go? One minute I was lying next to you with the soles of your feet spooning my calves. The next minute you are gone and it hurts so much that I have to blink a few times. I am certain now that I will never know. I find that incredibly frustrating, almost infuriating. But I would appreciate it if you would take the little piece of my heart that you have claimed and give the rest back. Just take your left shoe off and hand it over. I was thinking of making a hat out of the remains. Something with ribbon and a little veil.

PS I love you!

So I spent the weekend in Palm Springs with my friends Summer and Fernando (Note: this is what happens when your friends get to pick their own alias.) The thing that is funny about Palm Springs is that it is a weird amalgamation of gap toothed desert rats, prissy moneyed gays, and silver backs in velour jog suits, that the possibilities for bizarre cross-over are endless. The trip was A Total Blast as usual but our time in PS brought up several "food for thought" items and I would like to share them with you.

1) How did the term "toss your salad" become a sexual euphemism for uh, you know? (if you don't know, advance to #2)

2) Why doesn't someone make women's high heeled shoes where the heel is an ergonomic grip? This is Fernando's contribution, as he was holding the Prada stilettos on either side of his head (think about it for a moment, you get the picture).

3) Why are there so many rich queens in Palm Springs?

4) The question, "How big is too big?" when applied to a Crazy Coyote Chicken burrito?

5) Is the grande margarita at Las Casuelas really as big as my head or does it just look that way?

6) Is it possible to actually cook yourself in a hot tub?

7) If drinking alcohol in a hot tub makes you more drunk, why doesn't drinking Rockstar in the hot tub make you more awake?

8) Why isn't the word flaccid used more often in regular conversation?

9) Why does Melvyn's seem to be staffed entirely by men from the witness relocation program?

And last but not least....

10) Why aren't there more restaurants like Melvyn's in Los Angeles?

I am your new best friend!

So, I went out the other night with my friend Ryan. Ryan is gay and a blast. We always manage squeeze a good time out of any situation. The extra plus is that Ryan doesn't drink, so he is available help me keep my shit together should things go horribly awry and drive me home.

Ryan has a couple of friends that were participating in this Slideshow thing. People bring in their own tray of personal slides and reveal funny stuff about themselves (sometimes very intense stuff). So our plan was to grab dinner and then attend said Slideshow. I am headed over to Ryans to pick him up (he drives the funniest Saturn, it is an obsessive compulsive spaceship) because his car is always ailing in some way. I get a call. Ryan is in Northridge at 5:30 on a Friday. WHAT? Dinner is out. I tell him to pick me up at my little corner cafe when he makes it back over the hill. Crazy boy. He actually thought that he would get back over the hill in 30 minutes.

I turn around and head home. Park my car (not an easy feat in my neighborhood) and walk over to the cafe. Now, let me preface this with the fact that I love this place but they must think I am insane. Because it is around the corner from my house, I treat it like its my kitchen. I have walked over there in my jammies or in various states of undress. Typically I cruise over there wearing a big hat and toting a book. I eat alone and read my book, looking probably very suspicious. They are used to me now and when it is slow the staff sit with me to chat and drink. The great thing about the walking distance thing is that I can stumble home without worry of vehicular nonsense. So on this night Kate was working and she always flows with the wine. I have a lovely dinner and a lot of wine. Ryan calls intermittently with traffic reports. After starting the 3rd glass of wine, I decide I can sit and wait all night. This is where the train starts to come off the tracks. Ryan is going to pick me up. I will not be driving!!! I then decide that I have had a really hard week and I need to treat myself to a proper drunk. I was already well on my way!

Finally Ryan arrives and off we go. The extra bonus aspect of the Slideshow thing is that the $10 ticket includes (YES includes) free booze!!!! I am not driving!!! Genius!!! We get to the gallery, I buffalo my way through the crowd to the folding table in the back with the wine bottles. People are looking at the bottles and discussing what to have. I glare at them, grab the closest one and pour.....pour....pour to the rim. Nice! We find our seats and begin critiquing the rest of the audience, sotto voce. The Slideshow is funny. Really funny at times. These people have balls to get up and show pictures of themselves at age 11. No one looked good at 11. There are about 6 people presenting. After the 3rd finishes, I crane my neck to see what the situation is with the wine. I see bottles on the table and they appear to still have liquid in them. I tell Ryan that I am going to get more wine. He looks at me, slightly askance and says "Right now?" We are sitting in the middle of the totally packed audience in the dark. "You go get me some then." He looks at me like I am crazy and turns away. Ah, the plight of the non drinker. They don't now how much effort it takes to maintain a steady drunk. I drained the last of my Cab and hunkered down. The show ends and there is alot of milling around, double cheek kissing etc. Ryan looks at me and says "The Bar?". Is that a question??? Duh!!!! There are more insincere compliments and I am looking at the wine table again. Finally, after telling everyone where we are going so they can meet us, we leave.

The funny thing about going to the Bar with Ryan is that he doesn't drink. Yet, we go fairly frequently and he likes it. Cute boys, cool space etc etc. I don't question it, I just enjoy. We get there and it is packed. People exploding out the door. Uh Oh! I do not do the"stand around and hold my drink thing". Especially one bottle of pinot noir into an evening. We wedge through to the bar and begin the process of the ocular yoo-hoo to get drinks (bourbon for me, coke for Ryan). I have high praise for the staff at the Bar. They are always nice and accommodating. Drew, our favorite, sees us and says "You guys want to share a table with some people?" Sure, we don't care. Ryan and I can talk to just about anyone. We are ushered over to a table where an attractive couple is sitting. We confirm that they are accepting strangers and then basically take over. There is lots of "who are you? what do you do?" blah blah blah. Bourbon. The thing that was funny is what they were drinking. Drew came over and the guy, Laurence, orders a "surfer on acid". Are you kidding me? Are we at Live Bait in Long Beach circa 1994? Somehow, the girl, Christina, and I keep a straight face. Ryan, the non drinker, does not know that this is highly unusual and downright weird. Christina then orders a single malt Scotch. Yeah for serious drinks. I keep the bourbon flowing. The night continues on and at some point all of the people from the Slideshow show up. I am sure that Ryan and I seemed very "People about town" for 10 minutes. More drinks. This is when we learn that Laurence and Christina are on their first date and Drew plopped us down about 5 minutes into "getting to know you". Holy Shit, are you kidding? Bring another round!!! I feel compelled at this point to tell everyone around me that I am not driving. They all look very relieved. The fog rolls in at this point. I recall drink spillage. There was some cheesecake, I think. Stumbling through the kitchen to the bathroom and almost getting locked in the walk-in freezer. Hmmmm. At some point Ryan manages to pull me together and begin the extraction process. There is stumbling to the car, dropping things etc. At some point I force Ryan to take pictures of me. He is such a good sport. I am carefully and soberly transported back to my home. I wake up 3 hours later, in bed with the lights on, fully clothed. Hmmmm. I remedy the situation and pass out...again.

The next morning I wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed at 9am. Its weird I know. I meet friends for lunch. Margaritas ahhhhhh. I am headed home when my phone rings. I don't know the number so I don't answer. I get home and check the messages. "Hey H, its Christina from last night at the Bar. Your new best friend!!!! I don't know if it will work out with Laurence but know that you and I will be great friends..........!!!!! Dum Da Dum Dum." I immediately call Ryan. Did I do anything weird last night? Well, your shirt was hanging open for a good portion of the evening and your were slurring to beat the band. I have never seen you so drunk. Keep in mind, I have known Ryan for 10 years. That's pretty drunk. I tell him about the call and he thinks its interesting. He says that I should call her back. But something in the back of my mind says no. I think there might have been something that happened in the bathroom........
Damn the Bourbon!

Reasons to Love the Rolled Taco aka the Taquito

My favorite food on the planet are taquitos. The lovely taquito has many things going for it and I thought I would take a moment and share them with you. Now wipe that incredulous look off your face. I am not the only one with a love of the rolled taco. Take note:
http://www.taquitos.net/snacks.php?page_code=54

Lets start with the obvious.

The taquito has no lettuce or tomato attached to it. Early on in my taquito eating days I was not a big fan of the lettuce and tomato. This made the taco consumption a little dodgey. The waiter would roll his eyes each time I ordered a taco with meat and cheese only. Don't judge me man!!!! I want the food the way I want it and that's final! The superb taquito, meat only, people. No extraneous vegetables to deal with or chuck out the window while driving on the freeway. Motorists on the 10 FWY are very pleased with this.

Next, the taquito holds its shit together. I have a dear friend who loves the taco. Each time we dine out for Mexican (often, I might add) she orders the taco and I demand my taquito. Each time her taco falls apart at a crucial point in the taco consumption. On the other hand, my taquito holds steady and is in for the long haul. She mutters "Fuck" and attempts to shovel the last of the taco in. While I gaze at her with a sympathetic smile and continue to munch my intact rolled taco. Delish!

The taquito is also a handy tool for dipping or scooping various taquito accessories. Such as sour cream, salsa, guacamole (if you must) or one of my at home favorites, cottage cheese. I know that sounds gross but it is actually quite good.

The multi-faceted taquito is extremely portable. I would put it up there with the corn dog on the portability scale and you don't need to put a giant paper stick down your throat. I have issues with that.

Need an "on the go" snack? Two taquitos at 3:30 on a Saturday afternoon will hold you perfectly until dinner. Stumbling home at 2:30 am after a night of libations? Two taquitos will take the edge off the potential hang over the next day. If this is your plan, I recommend "Benitos! Home of the Rolled Taco". They are open 24 hours. They pile a bunch of greasy cheese on top of your taquitos (always a plus). And if you hit the Benitos on Santa Monica and Highland after 1:00am, you are assured a tranny hooker floor show. Good Times!

One last reason to love the taquito. They can be purchased frozen and eaten at home! In the privacy of your own living room, you can consume as many as you want without anyone judging you. And, you can do it in your underwear while watching Empire Strikes Back for the 63rd time!

So next time you are perusing the menu at your local Mexican joint give the rolled taco a second thought. You will become a convert.....I promise.

Footnote: I eat lettuce and tomato now.

10 Reasons why I am an idiot (when it comes to my ex-boyfriend)

Let's qualify that statement. Things about my ex-boyfriend that I am an idiot to have put up with.

1) No loud talking in the morning. He is apparently a very fragile individual and cannot tolerate any loud noises in the morning until he has had a least one cup of coffee and two cigarettes. Now, it is okay to listen to George Jones at top volume but no loud talking or banging around.

2) Sex only in the bed. That's right. Sex only in the bed and usually on Saturday. No nookie on the couch. No sex on the kitchen counter. Nope Nope. In the year we were together I think we had "non-bed sex" maybe 3 times.

3) No man should take longer to get ready than his girlfriend. Admittedly, I get ready pretty quick. We can chalk that up to being decisive. He, on the other hand, was a constant parade of this shirt or that sweater. Don't get me started on the tie selection process. Then once the wardrobe has been selected, then there is the hair. My god!!! He actually asked me once "how is the hair?" It took everything I had to not double over laughing.

4) This is sensitive but true. Prior to engaging in sex, in the bed (see above) there was the question "Did you poo?" "Have you taken a shower?". Now, lets preface this with the fact that I am a very well groomed girl. Waxing/dyeing/plucking/exfoliating etc. All of these things are covered. Not to mention it was 6 months before I could poo at his house anyway. I felt like he was always listening at the door. What's with the poo????? Plus that really douses any va va voom that might have been happening.

5) No picnics. I love picnics. I could not get this dude outside to save my life. Even as a small concession to me??? Nope.

6) His sleep habits. He is a tortured guy, this has been established. And I didn't make him that way. But the leg flailing, lip smacking, pillow punching, teeth grinding and shouting his ex-wife's name really got to me after a while. I lost a lot of fucking sleep over those 12 months and now I have wrinkles from it, dammit.

7) He never came to my apartment. I have a lovely little place and it didn't reek of cigarette smoke like his. But no, I was at his place 4 nights a week and at home alone the other 3(thank god for that, it was the only time I slept). Again no compromise.

8) He would stare at girls. Now, I don't have any issue with that (half the time, I was staring first) but when he would then talk about how "fuckable" they were to me!!!!! That is were the train came off the tracks. Geez dude, have a little respect.

9) He didn't go anywhere. Like trips. There was always the big talk about going to Big Sur or San Francisco. But when the actual planning or date setting came around, there was always some sort of strife in his life that prohibited him from leaving his 15 mile radius. That's ridiculous!!!

10) He was a bad kisser. He had sorta to Roto-Rooter approach to kissing and that gets old right quick. I even tried talking him down a bit, but to no avail. I guess its a good thing that he didn't kiss much after all.

There should be a Costco for single people!

I am sick of hearing about how couples and families save so much money shopping at Costco, and I cant. I suppose I could save if I wanted to gang up with another single person. But I don't want to. I want to be able to get discounted stuff in quantities that will not take over my one bedroom apartment. I don't want to have to buy something and then have to squirrel away 50 rolls of toilet paper in every nook of my apartment. I think there is merit to this singles only bulk shopping. OR have singles only shopping day at Costco! It could be sort of like the whole speed dating (which I am totally against) thing, kinda. It would work like this: Twice a month, singles nite (note the "casual" night spelling, draws out the singles) shopping. Lower the fluorescent lights, perhaps some aromatherapy and of course cocktails. The cocktails will work two ways. Singles will be more inclined to mingle and eventually get drunk enough to buy more than they normally would. Or buy things they normally wouldn't. HELLO Costco! You wont have to worry when Sally wonders why she bought a Weber grill for her tiny patio-less apartment. She might even remember talking to the cute guy in the grill area. Hmmmm. Also, singles will be able to employ the "what does he/she have in her cart" method of potential date selection. In my world, a guy with a pile of CD's and books, a couple of bottles of wine and various booze, perhaps some food (no clothes! Do not shop for clothes at Costco! Ever!)...this would be a potential guy worth talking to. So there you have it people. Are you listening Costco??? Do you feel me???