A Beautiful Thing

My Young Storyteller's session today at McKinley Elementary had just ended. I was hurrying out of the school, eager to make a phone call. As I rounded the corner and headed towards the front doors, I saw an older woman and a small girl exiting the building. I half smiled, because the woman had her hand on the little girl's head and was talking quietly to her. She was wearing a gorgeous orange dashiki and had wire-rimmed glasses on, and the little girl obviously adored her.

The woman was in the process of shutting the door behind her. I called out to her, "Excuse me! I'm headed out, too. Let me sneak through here with you." she laughed this warm laugh and said, "Oh my goodness! I almost shut you in here! I'm sorry about that!" and I laughed and responded "No problem. Have a great day."

I left them behind and walked briskly to my car. I plugged the cell phone charger in and was getting ready to dial the numbers when I saw the little girl barreling towards my passenger side door. I immediately thought something was wrong, so I turned the key in the ignition and rolled the window down as fast as I could.

This little girl had two cute ponytails and the biggest eyes I have ever seen on a child. She was kind of panting from all the exertion and she finally managed to say, "This is for you." She handed me a beautiful flower that she had picked off one of the nearby bushes.

I looked at her, totally amazed. "Thank you so much!" I managed to say. "This is the most beautiful flower I have ever seen."

This adorable little one said, "You're welcome" like she did this everyday.

"That is so sweet of you. Have a wonderful day!" I said.

"Thanks." and she turned and walked back towards the older woman standing on the sidewalk. I poked my head out of the window and waved at the woman, and she waved back.

Funny how one of the most beautiful things that I've ever been a part of happened in South Central LA. Beauty is everywhere, my darlings.

smile. g

Void

Oh-so-early this morn, I heard the quasi-pleasant sounds of "Low Chimes" ringing on my phone alarm and I became acutely aware of how cranky I was. I considered not getting up and going to the gym and sleeping in instead. The only problem with that plan was that "sleeping in" means waking up at 6 instead of 5. So, I rolled out of bed and grumbled my way through the sports bra-untangling and energy shake-making activities of Monday and Thursday mornings.

At the gym, my eyes hurt from the abundance of light and were frozen in a permanent squint. I was apparently hell-bent on hurting myself at every opportunity, perhaps as a punishment for getting out of bed. I hit my knees on equipment, scraped my elbow on a runaway stair climber, bruised my calf on the lower ab machine, and stuck a safety pin info my thumb knuckle so far that it bled for the next 20 minutes. I should probably get a tetanus shot, but I can't find my satchel that contains my insurance card, if it was even in there in the first place.

Work hasn't been much better. My eyes still hurt, the server is down, and I can't think straight. Why do you think I'm posting this so late in the day?? I couldn't possibly collect myself before this.

I don't drink coffee. I don't want sugar. As a result, I am forced to enjoy these little humps of energy afforded me by tangerines and other fruit within a 20 foot radius of my desk. I don't have any other hope, though. The thing keeping my little heart a'beating is the promise of a nap in an hour and a half.

I think my adrenal glands are acting up. They were supposedly doing better, but last week they were making me cranky and now they're making me tired. These little 5-gram wonders sit atop one's kidneys and are useful in coping with stress and regulating metabolism, etc. Sounds like me and my adrenals have a case of the Mondays.

Hmmph. Somebody get this girl a pillow.

snore. g

Turn it Off

My sister has this problem with letting go of things. Although much better than she used to be, she tends to let the hurt cycle over and over again within her, destroying her confidence. She is totally sensitive, which is what makes her great with animals and children. Unfortunately, it also makes her relive her pain constantly.

She oftentimes will ask me for advice. Usually, I don't have any for her, because I deal with my woe differently. With me, after a certain point, talking about the problem or trying to see the lesson transtitions into wheels spinning. The pain becomes so great and the situation gets so far out of my control that I have got to move on. The switch flips, and I become numb. I can no longer devote any energy or emotion to the situation. When it's over, it's over. It takes a long time to get to that point, but when it happens, it is absolute.

It turns out that I have a switch that won't flip. This hurt lives beneath my skin like a diseased tick. The pain surfaces, does its damage, and then dips down below, biding its time until another moment of insecurity presents itself. Then, it never hesitates to shoot a searing pain through my heart.

I like to pretend it doesn't bother me. I have tried to build a precarious shell of confidence up by accomplishing things that are important to me, but the facade is cracking today. Obviously I have not learned the lesson that I needed to. I haven't fixed the bigger issue. I've only patched it with a butterfly bandage and some peroxide, but I think this shit needs some stitches and some whiskey.

"Get to the point,"" you're saying. "What the hell is your problem?" It's simple. The button within me that causes extreme sadness when pushed was created in my childhood. I didn't start life out quite right. It was quite the opposite, in fact. The wee HellCat was not held enough, left alone, and was generally unsupervised. I had to fend for myself, more or less. I ended up with few skills that would allow me to function in the real world. I was a wallflower who didn't know how to act around people. I was silent (can you imagine?), barely spoke a word. And I decided at that very young age that since no one cared about me, than I certainly couldn't count on any of them to take care of me. I had to do it myself.

You might not think that's a horrible thing. Well, it certainly isn't a natural thing for a child to decide. I think human beings desire close relationships, and so my inherent need for closeness directly conflicts with this learned and forced indpendence.

So why do I feel so rotten today? There are people in this world who don't want to play with me. Independent Grae doesn't need them and will play by herself, but the Grae that wants to be close to the people she cares about is upset that this sentiment is not returned. I had my chance, and I blew it. I am no longer a part of the group.

Normally, being on the outside doesn't bug me. It allows me to watch people and rejoice in human nature, and no one hassles me. I can take a break. But this was a big one. These were people that I gave a shit about. And they decided that I wasn't worth it. What a bummer.

Everything is beyond repair, there's no going back. I can only write loving emails and give slaps on the back, but it doesn't mean what it used to. I am not accustomed to being banished unanimously. I thought that kind of thing was reserved for serial killers or people who smell really, incurably bad. Not me. I love to smile and hug and make people laugh. I thought I did a good job. But this time, I'm not even allowed to sit on the bench.

Aren't we all suffering from some version of this problem, really? No one likes to be left out. No one likes confirmation of that sickening idea that they aren't good enough. We're all insecure. We all want people to love us. I am not unique, but I am the only one writing this blog. I can't help but think this entry might be a mistake...maybe I should dress it up, or be more vague, or lessen the importance of it all. Ah, fuck it, my darlings. You know a lot about me by now. I guess it's time to confess that my feelings can get hurt, too.

I have to flip the switch. I have got to forget about this and grow up. I must take it in stride, accept the things I cannot change, and hold my head high. Some times are harder than others, like today. Just rest assured that if you ever thought that I have my shit more together than you, you are mistaken. Let's give each other a hug and eat the fresh pineapple I have in my fridge.

mend. g

The New Pope Looks Like Yoda

Scientists have figured out why some popcorn won't pop. A kernel is like a little pressure cooker--moisture contained inside the hull is heated up and it explodes. Kernels that don't pop have leaks in the hull and let the moisture out. Therefore, no pressure builds as heat increases--and there's no pop. Now they'll probably genetically engineer corn, so no moron eats a kernel and has to make an emergency trip to the dentist.

Also, love is blind. It's not just blind, though. It has an eye patch, and a burlap sack over its head. You wouldn't notice, because it usually keeps its head in the sand anyway, which also makes it kind of deaf. Isn't it funny how one overlooks things in their new love interests because their chemicals are so far out of whack that they can't think straight?

A friend of mine is seeing someone new. I smile to listen to his stories about how "perfect she is, well not perfect EXACTLY, but great, you know?" At the point in his sentence when he said "not perfect EXACTLY," I wonder what he was thinking of. Was it her annoying laugh or her proclivity for nose-picking when she thinks no one is looking? Or is it her overly-loud voice? Penchant for buggery? What things does he notice now that his surging libido won't allow him to fully acknowledge until later?

If a person were able to identify the things that make their significant other imperfect, then go back to being all smitten in the relationship, we would be set. Perhaps that would soften the blow once the magic has worn off. Or are we all doomed to allow the unseeing eyes of love to taint our observations? Are we really so desperate to be with other people that we'll bury our doubts and just "live with it?"

Some people don't like ANY people they meet. Like Jerry Seinfeld, they come up with stupid reasons to dislike their romantic interests. The result? We make sitcoms about how dysfunctional they are so we can silently judge them and get some cheap laughs. "Look at those losers," we say. "They will never allow themselves to find true happiness. How sad for them." Never mind that the person saying this has no idea what true happiness is anyway.

Speaking of true happiness, as I was getting ready to go to the gym at the crack of dawn, I was watching Muppets Take Manhattan. I got to see Gregory Hines scold Kermit, Brooke Shields engage in conversation with a rat, and see Gonzo in a jumpsuit. Those movies are gold. I had to leave during the baby sequence where Miss Piggy is singing some song about performing neurosurgery on Kermit because she loves him so much (?). Those puppets sure are cute. No wonder I loved the Muppet Babies cartoon when I was little.

I watched too many cartoons and not enough Kids in the Hall in my youth. I have not fully ackcnowledged their genius. To remedy this, I am going to purchase seasons 1 and 2 posthaste. Then I will giggle at Mark McKinney dressed as a woman, because it's one of the things on this planet that is totally and completely wrong.

It's about as wrong as pocorn not popping, in fact.

jiffy. g

Sew What?

You might not be aware that I have been sewing for the past six months. So far I have made pajama pants, a purse, and fabric bracelets (that all the hipsters adore). Currently I am piecing together an adorable A-line skirt that is both twirly and magical.

I take lessons over at the Sewing Arts Center on LaBrea and Melrose. Leave it to me to find the one rock and roll sewing center in the city...the people there, particularly Russel and Kay, are super cool. In the right company, they make jokes about oral while embroidering. They yell about politics while basting seams, and use colorful swear words while making chenille scarves. These are my kind of people.

I have realized that there are two kinds of people in this city who sew: one is the young hipster who wants to learn a craft or just wants to secure those Dead Kennedys patches to their hoodies. The other is an older seamstress. Maybe she's bored and needs a hobby, or is thinking of starting a business. In sewing class, it is endlessly interesting to see how the two mix together. The young hipster is quick to debate who sang "Blinded by the Light" in a loud voice, while the oldster sits quietly in the background and pins her fabric meticulously with a grin on her face.

After the first class, I realized that it's the oldsters who really make things interesting. If you get a little saucy with them and rile them up a little, they just let loose. I mentioned to no one in particular that I liked Vogue patterns the best, and that Butterick does little to nothing for me since I am so endlessly cool. My sewing teacher P-Rock was all, "Vogue would be great if it wasn't their fault that Butterick's vintage line was discontinued." I looked at her in shock, wondering where all that piss and vinegar came from. Could it be the cream-colored cardigan she was wearing? Or perhaps the floral jumper?

I decided to see where this was going. I mentioned that one of the "Summer Hats" patterns lying on a nearby table would look fabulous, although NOT in the fabric they chose to put on the cover. P-Rock suddenly seemed to screw up all her courage in the world and said, "You know what really Pisses me off? When there's a typo on the fabric requirements!" That was P-Rock's version of fire and brimstone, and WOW. She looked so proud of herself. I ended the conversation with a "Damn girl, I hear you."

Ever since, she's been a complete madwoman. Last night at class, she told one woman that her fabric was "really hot." And she said hell once. We are set to finish next week, and P-Rock mentioned that we should all bring high heels and get crazy for a picture on the website. This broadened the smiles on the older women's faces. It's funny how something that seems so commonplace in youth becomes a treasure later on.

There is something brilliant about hearing these conservative, demure women titter like schoolgirls. You can see the spark light up their eyes when you curse the invisible zipper you're trying to put in a seam or hold an impromptu contest to name the iron. Bringing out that quality has become even more interesting to me than making the skirt.

My goal for next week's class is to get P-Rock to use a really good cuss word, or perhaps to dance on top of the table. I figure that all I have to do is comment on a spicy two-way stretch knit, or talk about the use of French seams in lingerie. Maybe I could discuss the use of reversibles in winter jackets. Then shit will get really interesting.

stich bitch. g

Dessert Creativity

I have not been eating any kind of refined sugars. I have been known to occasionally dip into the old Raisinette box, or have a bite of french toast, but for the most part, the white devil ain't in my bloodstream. Recently, however, I have been taunted by a dessert. I can't get it out of my head.

Strawberry Shortcake.

To me, the secret is in the shortcake. Strawberries are wild cards because the seasonal produce aspect really makes their quality swing wildly. Cool Whip, of course, remains unchanged in your local grocer's freezer. My family has a wicked shortcake recipe, and it really makes the stuff work because it's great even on its own. Now, most people don't make the shortcake, they just substitute with some angel food cake or those little pre-formed white cake thingies. Neither is better or worse, they just yield different results. Kind of the reason that you can't compare Independence Day to Citizen Kane, you know?

Anyway, I am thinking about desserts. I am also considering how useful they can be in everyday life. I was thinking that if I threw caution to the wind and made some shortcake, what could I use it for?

-A doorstop for a dollhouse
-A cushion for my precious jewelry
-Eau de Toilette-- one can rub it on oneself for a just-baked, spongy cake smell
-Device for luring ants into your ant farm
-Tripod/monopod/sandbag for those low-angle camera shots
-Company while watching bad films (like Bad Girls from Valley High)
-Crumbs can be used as an excuse to lick someone's torso
-Cushion for tiny people with hemorrhoids
-Edible pillow at a picnic
-Packing materials for fragile boxes

There is a practical reason for me to pull out those unhealthy-ish ingredients and make some magic happen. Think of all the things shortcake and I can accomplish! We can end world hunger for sure, that's an easy one. Together, shortcake and I can stop the war and regenerate the ozone. We can stop global warming easily.

I guess "Drake's Cakes" was really a hidden message meant to inspire me. Off off and AWAY!

easy as pie. g

You Were Born Today

For all of those magical people born on April 19, and you know who you are, you have some really interesting traits associated with your birth date. Read on...

*You like gambling and horses, but not to excess.
*You have a tedency to use popsicles and strawberry shortcake as sexual aids.
*You have beautiful, long locks of curly hair that make women with short, straight hair green with envy.
*The word "fierce" actually meant "timid and lame" until you put on high heels, and the definition was changed.
*The phrase "hot ticket" was coined for you.
*You have excellent taste in oven mitts.
*The Statue of Liberty was modeled after you. It was scrapped by the French and unloaded on "those American suckers" because it wasn't beautiful enough to bear your name.

Happy Birthday, baby. grae

Prepping for Christmas

Within a couple of months, In this holy year of 2005, the Drake family needs to begin planning Christmas. Why so early, you ask, you little cutie?

My whole family is coming home.

The Original Drake family is not that large. We don't really hang out with anyone from my parent's families except my super adorable Aunt Nancy. Occasionally, my Mom and Nancy's brother Frank slips into the mix. Side note on Unkie Frank: he was a sailor in the navy and has many large, imposing tattoos. He blames the tats for the lack of warm fuzziness from his fellow senior citizens in AZ. I personally believe that he gets no love from the oldies because he punctuates every thought with "okay" and is generally an insane person. Last year for Christmas, he signed my Christmas card "Love, Dad."

Even without extended family, half of the children in my family have families. So that makes 12 of us. Now, back in good ole Denver CO, our house is a large ranch-style with a sweet basement. Currently, the basement houses my Papa Bear's puzzles and some camping gear. In December it will house the Northern Cali branch of the Drakes--Stewart, Elaine, Joshua, and Sarah. According to my mom, my room will sleep me and my sister, the middle bedroom will sleep the Dallas Drake-Utleys, and my parents' bedroom will contain my parents as per usual. 12 people, my darlings.

I was on the phone with Moms today and told her that she was setting herself up for "a Very Special Christmas Disaster."

Moms likes us to make our beds, hide our suitcases, and wipe down the shower door when we're finished using the tub. Failure to complete these tasks makes her "nervous." I mentioned that with every roll-away bed she wheels into the family room, she is setting herself up for haphazard sheets, grimy bathrooms, and trampled carpets. I told her that no one would mind getting a hotel (I even volunteered, isn't that kind of me?). After dicsussing the options, she agreed.

The potential hitches in our get-along don't end at sleeping arrangements. Apparently the Denver Broncos are playing the Oakland Raiders on Christmas Eve at 2PM. As faithful season ticket holders, my family would be unable to pass up this chance to openly despise the opposing team. I said, "Great! Some of us can go to the game, others can relax at home." Easy, right?

Wrong. They want us to go to their Christmas Eve service at their church. We went to this Southern Baptist church for Christmas Eve one fateful year about 3 years ago, and let me assure you that the preacher's polo shirt and Dockers did little to inspire me. If it wasn't for a captivating little baby in the row ahead of me that wouldn't stop smiling and drooling on itself, I wouldn't have made it through alive. So this year's service is at 630PM. The men at the game would have to walk over, and we womens would have to meet them there. Jesus is really going to have to be watching over us to make it all work out.

Christmas dinner? I say, rent a tent and put some heaters in the backyard. It's 12 people, you guys. The guest list includes 3 big men, 2 growing men, and 7 adult women. Let's get the caterers on this one, don't you think?

And WHAT are we going to do for fun? Picture 11 more of me, and you can imagine what my family is like. They're not carbon copies, obviously, because one of them does this annoying whispering thing with other people standing two feet away, and another tells totally unfunny jokes non-stop, and another hates Jews (just kidding--it's the blacks that get under his skin). But we're mostly the same kind of fun-loving, outgoing personality of my Mom. I guess we won't have trouble entertaining each other with popcorn strings for the tree and baking the infamous Drake Cranberry Tea Cake...

I also suggested that we avoid any futher Christmas expenditures by doing Secret Santa. This would be great if my Dad or Johnny Utley (age 18) had completed ANY Christmas shopping in the past, well, ever. But the wives and moms will do their shopping for them at an exponentially higher stress rate. Lauren Utley is 17 and will buy something pink and fuzzy no matter who she's giving it to. I will probably end up with Joshua, who is studying in a Canadian Seminary to be a minister, and he probably won't think a cock ring is a funny gift at all.

But, in the end, the real gift is all of us being in one place together. My parents would really love to see that idea come to fruition. They have dedicated thier lives to their children and been there for every event--buying cars, job switches, injuries, meals, yelling, crying, weddings, births, graduations. So now it's time to do something THEY want to do, which is have all their loved ones in one place at one time. No whining, anti-social behavior, sex, or bad-mouthing the Lord.

I am a mid-twenties, spiky haired chick nicknamed HellCat who should be way cooler than this. But I'll tell you what...I can hardly wait.

jingle bells. g

Didn't the Tortoise Win That Race?

ERIC UPDATE: He is looking much better these days. The road has been rough, but he is still holed up in his Studio City Retreat and NOT the hospital, so he has that going for him. For those of you reading who know him, please go visit. He needs our support as he watches Bordo's television and kills people in Grand Theft Auto and stuff. I don't think any of us can really understand what he's going through during his recovery...the only thing we can do is show up and show our tits. You dig?

love. g

In Vin Veritas

The man of the morning is Vin effing Diesel. This site has been making me chuckle all morning.

http://www.4q.cc/vin/

rock me riddick. g

A Way with Words

I have more male friends than female friends. This is because I enjoy drinking beer and punching people on the shoulder more than I like talking about my feelings and hearing "like" and "you know" 400 times in a row. But strangely, according to PRhead, I am too much man for him...he determined this because in conversation I have revealed that I require minimal cuddling after sex and fall asleep quickly afterwards. I also refuse to ask my men the post-hitting-it-question of "What are you thinking?" (because I know the answer is Nothing), and I have been known to offer certain special men certain special benefits without trying to trick them into becoming my boyfriend (I call it the Golden Ticket) (and it don't come out of no candy bar, neither).

The thing PRhead said that surprised me came after a particularly spirited screening of Journey of Natty Gann. He and the Mighty G and I were discussing my large bay window right next to my bed. The G mentioned that she wasn't sure how much she would enjoy putting her romantic conquests on display like that (even though I have reliable shades). Paul scoffed and said something along the lines of: "Are you kidding? Grae is so forthcoming with her sexuality that I don't think she even notices there's a window there, much less worries about who's watching." Then he kind of did a "Whee, look at me, I am doing it and you are watching through a large bay window" kind of dance.

So this is what guys think of me, I guess. And I am okay with that, because that is the side of me that I choose to broadcast. I volunteer with a guy named Sugar Sean. He mentioned once when we were just getting to know each other that he liked my hair. I told him thanks, and he continued that he liked it because "it always looks like you just got done fucking someone." I took that as the greatest compliment anyone had ever paid my hair.

And sometimes, my darlings, it's true.

The fact that men say these things to me is a positive sign. I get to see the side of guys that most chicks miss. I find them overall endearing and wonderful creatures...and sometimes, they present you with real gems. For instance: I love the way that men refer to women they think are hot. Most guys I know are not gross or misogynist, but they're not made of stone either. So occasionally these wordsmiths will rock my world with a phrase or saying. I find myself hoping that when I'm not around, someone refers to me this way.

Example #1: Hot ticket. Use: "That girl, she sure is a hot ticket." This is so super cute. It sounds all old-timey and proper. Underneath that, though, lies the fire to fuel a thousand suns. It also reminds me of actual hot tickets that I would do anything to get, like for the U2 show.

Example #2: She is built for speed. Use: "Check out that girl on the treadmill over there...yeah. She's built for speed." My trainer Bill actually said this to me one day as I was on the elliptical. The woman he was talking about was totally hot: 5'9", long blonde hair, well-endowed, tan, killer bod. Bill was speaking the truth. She had that LifeCycle charged up to at least 6.0, and she was jogging in a serious way.

What euphemisms do you have for hotties? There are so many, but few stick. I hope you will add to my catalog...or you can just talk about my Fuck Me Hair.

moan. g

Hell Yeah!

I am listening to Gretchen Wilson's "Redneck Woman" song this morning. Yesterday on the treadmill, I watched a CNN profile on her and it got me thinking. She told that typical story: no record company wanted me, I didn't fit the mold, then someone took a chance and now I'm a superstar and have won a couple Grammys. You go, namesake.

I've heard this song before. She talks about how great WalMart is, how hot she is in sweatpants, and how she likes babies and stuff. At the time, I was in an Echo Park boutique buying some deconstructed skirt and a furry jacket, and the irony of that was not lost on me. I kind of scoffed at the song, because I was thinking "Victoria's Secrets bras CAN be really nice, much better than the ones in packages at Target," and "I kind of like swigging champagne." Luckily, the effort of pulling out my check card distracted me enough to ignore the rest of the tune.

The song is catchy. But after seeing that profile on her, I started thinking about how all these material things we obtain really do define us. Gretchen Wilson, without the name and song, might be considered white trash in some circles. Rita Wilson, on the other hand, would be a rich bitch. No relation, by the way.

Let me hear a big hell yeah for today's versatile woman, is what I'm thinking. When left to her own devices on a Saturday in the garden, she prefers her comfy Orioles net shorts and sneakers. The next Friday, she's gotten her hair done, is wearing something silky, and put some rose petals on the bed. For vacation? Sometimes it's camping in the desert, sometimes it's Milan. And for refreshment, she can enjoy Country Time Lemonade from the can or Cristal from P Diddy's fingers. It doesn't matter.

A woman like this would be a force to be reckoned with. She fits in anywhere, anytime. And luckily, I think that for the majority of youngsters, this is the rule rather than the exception. We have no choice but to go with the flow and live within our means, so if we are blessed enough to get to Europe, then great. But Indio will do. As long as we have someone around to cuddle.

Beware, ladies: if you are leaning towards being this versatile woman, it will be the first thing you lose once you find "stability." Right now, life is full of good friends in the same position as you: chasing a dream with very little funds to show for it. We know how to cherish our time spent together with friends and lovers. The things we do don't center around shelling out dough, and even a night of channel-surfing with crazy friends ends up producing the kinds of memories we need for the nursing home porch. At this point in our lives, everyone splits the bill. There is very little routine in our days. Weekdays are synonymous with weekends. And being able to buy our coffees in the AM and some shoes at DSL means we are comfortable.

Soon, though, this will disappear. Our pot-luck barbecues with all the superstars there will turn into a calm, resigned dinner for two couples at the Cheesecake Factory once every three years. Remember the time you brought a 40 oz. of High Life to a special friend's house at 11PM and spent the rest of the night eating Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream off each other's tummies? That will become flannel PJs and sex with your husband once a week when the kids have soccer practice.

Look out. Youth is meant to be lost. Get out there and further your own Manifest Destiny before it's too late! Don't worry so much about your job or your credit cards. Go to the park. Roll around in the grass. Jump in a fountain somewhere. Eat a picnic in your living room. Lick someone's fingers. Turn the stereo up really loud and dance like no one is watching. Call in sick and spend the day at the museum. Go to the picture show. Seize this moment, versatile women and men. Figure out what this life is about before you get too decrepid to enjoy it.

run. g

I Pale In Comparison

So, my darlings, you might be under the impression that I am an interesting person. I would be grateful if that were the case, but I must be forthcoming with you. There is one person out there who has a lot more going on in the Intriguing Others with Their Antics Department.

This woman popped up at my old haunt, the ArLight Cinema. At first glance, she looked angelic, with a little round face and big brown eyes. She is a woman of no great height and stands at 5'4"...and that's right about where any normal description ends. When she wasn't at work, she started popping up around town and making us all take pause.

Once, I was walking down Sunset, and I passed her. I had to do a double take because this doppleganger was wearing a pleated jean skirt (complete with 80s acid wash), a black leather belt that was no less than 5 inches thick, and a white cotton off the shoulder top that was shredded within an inch of its life. I saw nip, my darlings. I think.

She topped the outfit off with round white sunglasses that would have made Elton John say "That's a little much." And I also caught sight of her birth control method. Her tummy was exposed, and peeking out from the torn scraps of fabric hanging down her torso was the birth control patch. Right next to her belly button. With lint around the edges.

I immediately liked her a whole lot more than I had originally. I knew that once she started hanging out with the ARC crew, she would send all the more uptight girls into a frenzy. Some actors that attend the Academy of Dramatic Arts generally can't comprehend advertising your goods in an HONEST way.

As time went on, we started to see cracks in her Normal Veneer. She would ask to be sent home because her pants were too tight and her kidneys hurt (when we said no, she walked around for the rest of her shift with her back arched, complaining to all the guests). She would lament over a lost dog and interrupt herself to steal a sausage and eat it in front of customers. When we asked her to continue her story about the dog she would say "What dog?"

She drank us all under the table at gatherings. One New Years, she cornered The Mighty G and the oh-so-Emo PD and demanded that they let her show them her new tattoo. When they stood there, frozen in fear, with splashes of her beer occasionally hitting them in the face, she continued: "I'll have to take my dress off, though." They slowly backed away and she got distracted by something shiny.

She stole people's cell phones to call up people in the address book and offer them oral. Now, that IS a very kind gesture, but the recipient of said phone call was listening to the message on his machine and he could barely understand her because of all the slurring. He figured out what she was talking about because of her repeated use of the term "pee pee," I guess, and eventually the owner of the missing cell phone walked in the room. What follows is an actual transcript of the conversation (because she didn't hang up the phone):

P: What are you doing?
A: Making a call.
P: To who?
A: ...just talking to my friend...
P: Are you leaving messages on my friend's answering machine again? Hang up the phone.
A: Okay.
(silence)
P: You haven't hung up the phone yet!
A: Oh. I forgot. (into the phone) I LOVE YOU BABY, LET ME SUCK YOUR...

She hangs up. Just another night in Los Angeles.

Eventually, she began announcing her plans to become a spy. Yes, our little wild child was leaving us and was getting a government-issued firearm. She disappeared for awhile, only to return at a bithday party one March a few months later. When asked what happened to the whole spy thing, she told us that the military had certified her 5150 (clinically insane), which documents that you are officially UNFIT to carry that aforementioned firearm. With no government-sanctioned espionage on the horizion, she left and came back to us.

I just received word that she moved to Oregon and has an opportunity to work either in a gas station or a cookie factory (which she's more excited about, but she's worried about falling into the cookie dough vat and losing limbs). She says it is "hard to find people who have the same interests" there. I'm sure plenty of people in Portland are excited by large fashion accesories, shaving words into patches of hair, and sexual favors. You just have to look in the right places. Like Eugene.

She wants to change her name to Fifika Camlo. Why? BECAUSE THAT'S HER GYPSY NAME. Turns out that our little girl is a scarf-wearing, gold-coin-having baby thief. That explains so much. In fact, I bet she was the source of the lonely violin music I would hear in the ARC catacombs after the last show...

So, my darlings, there are some people in this world that I can't hold a candle to. And they inspire me everyday to be just a little wackier.

take your mama out. g

Vignettes

Hi, my darlings. This weekend was full of fun and sun and short skirts and floppy hats. I love this goddamn town. You walk out of your home, fresh from a night of crazy jungle love, and the sky couldn't be bluer. The air couldn't be...airier. And life just seems to make sense, you know? The 2004 Winter was truly one of Discontent. However, the theme for Spring 2005 is all Fucking and Terry Cloth. Seriously, Theirry Mugler is all over this on the runways.

**Congress is going to pass a bill that would extend daylight savings time by two months. They hope to save energy and some oil...and I find myself disturbed. Can they do this? I am imbibed with blind trust that Daylight Savings is an old timey custom put into action by the Lord himself...not just some construct by society to futz with our heads and make us late one Sunday in the Spring and early for something another Sunday in the fall.

What's next? Congress changes the space-time continuum so Reagan gets back in office?

**I volunteer in this phenomenal organization called the Young Storytellers Program (youngstorytellers.com). 10 mentors go to a school and help 10 elementary school kids write a play. At the end of 6 weeks, actors come in and perform their plays for them. The program really enriches the lives of everyone inolved--not only do we get to hang out with amazing kids and encourage their creative abilities, but the volunteers themselves are incredible too. Everyone wins.

Anyway, we just started one in Watts. These kids are so sharp, I can tell it's going to be a great group. We were talking about the BIG SHOW, and how much fun it was going to be. We're getting them all psyched up about cake, pizza, balloons, and all that fun stuff, and this one kid casually raises his hand and waits for someone to acknowledge him.

This kid was wearing snazzy snakeskin loafers, black slacks, and a button-down shirt with a dragon in the lower corner. He has about 5 inches on all the other kids...and is basically a total bad ass.

When we finally ask him what he wants to say, he looks around and says, "May we please also have some fruit cocktail?"

And that was, hands-down, the funniest thing I have ever heard a child say in person.

I will be bringing Qua'Monte the biggest damn can of fruit cocktail he has ever seen. It will be larger than his head.

**I have decided that Asian people, particularly Koreans and the Japanese, are culinary geniuses. They make The Man cook food at his own table and then get him to pay them WITH a gratuity added on. And The Man loves it. I have been on a Shabu-Shabu and Korean barbecue rampage lately, and I can't get enough.

The best part is when they barely speak English, because that adds an element of mystery to it all. What will you get next? No one knows. Could be prime rib, could be Kobe beef. Might be pork. Just use some hand gesture that you think resembles "food please," Mister White Devil, then sit back, and let the magic happen.

**At the neighborhood poker game last week, my favorite Jewish hip-hop artist brought his Dad. The Mighty G was telling me that she was messing around, making jokes about coke and hookers to see how cool he was. He was with her the whole time, apparently, inspiring witty banter and making some killer bluffs.

Turns out Larry had a line. And, not surprisingly, the Mighty G crossed it. As the G so nonchalantly puts it:

"Yeah. Apparently the line was drawn at Gay Pornography. Who knew?"

Now we do, I guess. Sorry, Larry.

sproing. g

Sing a Song

I happen to live in one of the most tricky traffic areas in the city. Things can get really congested really fast in my 'hood. One day it's clear as a bell, the next I sit in my car for 50 minutes to go 1 block. You never know. Thankfully, I have several choice mix CDs at hand, as well as the beloved satellite radio to keep me company.

I am a car singer, to the utmost degree. I know the words to a song after about the third time I hear it, so I am left with many choices to exhibit my vocal stylings.

When I am in the car, I open those windows and push back the moonroof (because I'm afraid if I turn on the A/C my car will explode). Then, I belt out the latest worthy tune. Once, while driving down University Blvd. in Denver, I was singing "Circle in the Sand," by Belinda Carlisle. As the song faded out, the family of four in the car next to me began applauding. I bowed and drove away.

My gal pal Chelse was driving around town with the ever-so-presh Miss Debs. Debs was upset about something, and as they headed north on Highland, she was really revved up over this issue. When they hit Franklin, Chelse interrupted the slew of angry words to say "Is that Grae coming towards us?" Debs squinted her eyes.
"You mean that girl singing her ass off in that Jetta?" she replied. They looked at each other and said in unison, "Yeah. That's Grae."

I didn't notice them (because of the rockin'), but when Chelse told me the story later, she added that it was the perfect thing for Debs to see, because it helped her get perspective. See? The rock brings people together.

I don't think that my singing is super de-duper, I think the spirit behind it is. I pick up one of the 5 water bottles in my car and pretend it's a mic. I make rock star faces that involve closed eyes, snarling, and an air of indifference. I sing loudly and unapologetically. And sometimes I even sneak in the back-up vocals, if I'm feeling sassy. I figure that if you're going to make an ass of yourself in public, you have to commit to it and make no excuses for yourself.

So yesterday was a bad traffic day for my 'hood. I got trapped in the left lane, needed to be one over to the right, and no one would let me in. I looked one old woman in the eye, smiled, and yelled, "Can I come in?" and she shook her head solemnly "no." So I laughed, and said, "Allright sweetheart, I'll do it without you," and I scooted in a couple of cars ahead.

It was at this point that I realized that I was in control of my own Traffic Fun Level. Was I going to let Grams piss me off and ruin my evening? Sure, I was late to dinner and I was sweaty from the gym, but why should it matter? So I turned on the Song to End all Traffic Songs.

This is the song that began the Mighty G's and my trip to Vegas this fall. Also, I recently chose it to sing at my pal DS's birthday gathering. And should I mention the joy it brought me in my youth?..."Nothin' But A Good Time," by Poison. Oh yes, my darlings. Oh yes.

I had my windows down and my system up, just like Eminem says. And I sang the hell out of that song. During the very long instrumental break, I looked around at my brothers and sisters on the front line of the Traffic War, and they were tapping on their steering wheels, headbanging, laughing, and humming along. I think I had backup from an entire air-instrument band as well. Drums, base, guitar--they were all there.

For a brief moment on the service road of the 101, there was joy in the commuter's faces.

We had shared a rock moment. And then traffic started to move. We discovered that sure enough, they had blocked off a lane on Barham, and that was the cause of this debacle. Even though we sped up and continued our journies, the spirit of that moment lingered on for me all through the night.

here's to ya. g

Peaches and Sweat

You know, I could listen to this song forever. I am listening to Mazzy Star's Fade Into You--hey, wait a second. I have estrogen coursing through my veins, you jerks. I know that this song is old news, and that is has been used and abused and exploited in countless films (professional AND student).

It was cool about five years ago, and I am losing points with all you music snobs right now who are busy saying things like "Kaiser Chiefs" and "The Kills." I know that I am openly saying that 2000 must have been one helluva makeout year for all the crazy kids listening to this song, and therefore indicating that I was not one of those kids.

My life is not about appearances, despite my love of floppy hats and large sunglasses. I do not own bling. I am all about the truth. And I guess the truth is, I am behind on my makeout music.

There is hope for me yet--I have finally caught up, and I am enjoying this lovely song right now, along with some acoustic Dave Matthews and Todd Rundgren.

It is reminding me of being with someone that beings you peace. By looking in their eyes as they open them for the first time that morning, you feel like it's going to be a great day. And every time they brush your skin with their lips, it's electric.

Look at me. Listening to a cliche song, carelessly hurling overused imagery at you. You deserve better than this, my darlings.

These days, I am feeling like the steam is running out. I have very little to write about, very little to say. One of the few things I look forward to are the moments I mentioned above. So this song is bringing me those memories in a morning where all that lies ahead of me is work and pushing buttons.

Just kidding about the Rundgren. g

No Place Like Home

Today I am thinking about how I do not live in a normal place. We are surrounded by the bubble that is LA County, and I am forgetting what it's like to live anywhere else. My reality is no longer valid anywhere but here.

Since I'm nearing my 3rd year of life in LA, this stuff is becoming a part of me and I don't even see it in my day-to-day life. Only when I email my friends in different states answering the question "What is it like in LA?" does the madness emerge. For example:

I work out 6 days a week. I take supplements to improve my digestion, and buy organic food every chance I get.

When I see someone oncreen that looks familiar, it takes me a minute to figure out if they're my friend, or if they're a celebrity...or both.

I receive acupuncture to balance my hormones.

An average Sunday night involves a screening of a movie that doesn't come out for another month in the rest of the country, and then I get to endure the director yammering on about it afterwards as though he's Fassbinder or something. The audience believes this, until they get outside and start talking shit about him.

In spite of myself, I am learning to love Juicy Couture.

My morning news team spends a considerable amount of time analyzing American Idol performances and talking about skirts they found at Loehmann's.

Faye Dunaway has physically accosted me.

I have a hands-free headset and an extra phone battery on my person 98% of the time.

My romantic interests here have included comedians, directors, screenwriters, actors, cops, and actors who play cops.

A screening of the Passion of the Christ that I went to looked like a Strokes concert, there were so many hipsters there. I barely noticed.

I work out with Jennifer Aniston's personal assistant and don't envy her for a second when I see that her hair is falling out and she has permanent Crazy Eyes.

I was in a gas station parking lot, and got cut off by Ric Ocasek of The Cars. I made an angry gesture and yelled, "Come on, Ric Ocasek!"

When I go to my sewing class, I am often accompanied by drag queens who don't fit into normal-sized ball gowns and they get exasperated when they learn that their first project is pajama pants...until they realize they can make them out of UltraSuede.

I have neon green fingerless gloves and wear them without an air of irony about me.

I am used to seeing people dressed up as Batman and Superman punch each other in the face on a public street.

I know Los Angeles' entire community of Jewish Hip Hop rappers...all two of them.

At Halloween, I dressed seven people in full costume using wigs, clothes, and makeup from my own closets.

I like to give myself fake bruises with makeup while I'm letting an editing project render.


You know, my darlings...I don't think many other US cities would enable me like LA does. Anywhere else I might be considered odd. Here, though, there are plenty of homeless people that are way weirder than me.

Bless this mess. g

Back from the Dark Side

...or at least from Cedar Sinai.

Eric is OUT OF THE HOSPITAL and is on his way to our pal's house, where he will enjoy coconut milk served by small Filipino boys and bubble baths in large Eric-sized champagne glasses.

Just don't look in the pantry closet, Eric. Trust me.

So, what a relief, huh?! Thanks, my darlings, for following the story so closely and for sending Eric your good vibes. He made it, thanks to lots of family and friends giving their constant support. And no thanks to whatever fucking nurse carried pneumonia into his room by way of dirty hands...or whatever...

His website is www.hollywoodphony.com. If you wanna give him a shout, read his blog, or buy him something, you have my blessing. Don't give him dumbbells, though. Or fried foods.

turn on your heartlight. g

Dim

One afternoon, my pal DSoll and I decided to skip out of work early to catch a flick. We decided on the flick, and were out in a flash. Our bosses had left town, and we had only one task to complete: buy a lightbulb for their lighting equipment and FedEx it to them at their Vegas hotelroom.

We jumped in my Jetta and hauled ass. The place we were going only sold lightbulbs, apparently. Specialization in retail fascinates me, and I was looking forward to meeting these entrepreneurs. I pictured myself firing tough questions at them, having them returned effortlessly and thoroughly. I was imagining them all being the Martina Navratilovas of LightBulbs.

Was there a bad year for bulbs? Is there a time of year where lights blow fewer bulbs and sales sag? Do people go there to replace Christmas bulbs at Christmastime? How much is a bulb for a 10K HMI? These questions rattled in my head as we charged toward the store. These people were sure to be down home and helpful. They were, technically, the Givers of Light, and were that much closer to holiness than the rest of us.

We entered through the doors, burned out bulb in hand. There was no one in the store. I looked at their dusty shelves and saw some colored gaff tape, some safety chains, and an Itty BItty Book Light. Still no people.

When I rounded the corner, I saw them. There were about six of them, all sitting at desks. They were intensely focused on their computer screens (which looked like Commodore 64s) and ignoring the bells that signaled our arrival. DSoll and I looked at each other.

"Hello!" DSoll said, trying to be brave.

Their heads turned towards us, one by one. We breathed a sigh of relief, because they snapped out of their haze and appeared to be docile and housebroken. One even stopped masticating his Laffy Taffy to say "Hi."

DSoll continued. "Nice day out, huh?" They continued to stare. "Little cloudy, though. Okay. We're looking for this lightbulb."

Taffy Man looked confused, because the bulb we said we were looking for was right in DSoll's hand. A blonde woman of a ghostly pallor took a big breath inward. We readied ourselves for a stream of light-centered information. Perhaps she would produce the bulb, even.

"A lightbulb?" she said.

This was not the reaction we were hoping for, as we stood within the walls of an establishment dedicated entirely to selling...lightbulbs.

"Yup. Can we have one of these?" the sales staff held their gaze, and I wondered how it was possible that these Givers of Light could so closely resemble cattle. I was standing off to the side of this spectacle, observing in silence. My palm rested on the counter, making an imprint in the dust.

"What kind is it?" Ghostie said.

"We were hoping you could tell us that." DSoll was getting impatient. And when he gets impatient, his voice takes on a sharper sense of intellectual superiority than usual and he gets this slightly wide-eyed look about him, as if to say "Well? Are you living on this planet with the rest of us?" He keeps it all inside, though, which almost makes it more upsetting.

"Let me see." Ghostie stood up, although I strongly believed that Taffy Man, with his tree-trunk legs and barrel chest was better prepared to do some leg work. The other four people, thawing from the initial surprise, let their eyes slide slowly back towards their computer screens.

When she reached us, which was about three minutes later, she examined the bulb. She turned it upside down, sideways, and far away from her face. When she finally determined that it was in fact a lightbulb, she shuffled over to an old man's desk. He was obviously the Alpha male of the group, because Taffy and the other men in the room lacked the chutzpah to dethrone him, even though they're 25 years younger.

"What kind of bulb is this?" she inquired with an air of lackadaisicality that comes only from years of asking the same question.

"Oh, that's a good one. Don't see many of those come through here. Let me create the order." After taking DSoll's name, his company's name, phone number, social security number, and blood type, he tossed the form casually on the desk and requested payment.

"Do you have the bulb?" DSoll asked, trying to sound innocent.

"Sure, I'll have Ramon figure out if it's back there." Ramon, exhibiting his addiction to speed in his Nike sandals, sauntered behind some plastic hanging beads in the shape of alien heads. He proceeded to crash into something and bring down what sounded like the entire stockroom. No one in the office flinched.

DSoll walked over to Alpha Males' desk, as he showed no signs of getting up himself. DSoll sighed and made a huge show of pulling out his wallet to delay paying for a bulb that Speedy might have just broken in the recent fray.

All of a sudden, there was a plastic vampire troll on his shoulder that was screaming "Rawwr!" in a weird electronic child's voice. The troll was in the hand of a chubby white man with coke bottle glasses who was giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Funny, huh?" DSoll seemed more perplexed than amused. I, however, had lost my mind giggling. DSoll threw me a dirty look from across the room and pulled out 2 twenty dollar bills from the wallet. "That's quite the little troll you've got there," he managed to say with straight face.

"Scary, huh?" Coke Bottle said, and retreated to his desk. "Doesn't seem right to just take it out for Halloween." Taffy nodded in agreement.

Ramon stumbled out of the back, bulb in hand, and Alpha Male began counting out change. I was wondering if any of them would react to someone coming in with a sledgehammer in hand and a taste for blood in their mouths, but I quickly silenced the train of thought--I didn't want the Lord to strike me down just in case these really were his peeps.

DSoll declined a bag, collected his change, and scooped the prized bulb up in his hands. We backed away slowly, and when we reached the door, he shouted, "Thanks!"

No one looked up or returned the sentiment.

When we reached my car, we let out a long breath and started to laugh. DSoll mentioned that as he was staring into the red, glowing eyes of that little troll, he felt that he understood the limits of his own mortality.

And then he pulled out the Itty Bitty Book Light from underneath his coat. We laughed and laughed.

filaments, coils, and glass, oh my. g

Unrest

Something just isn't quite right today, my darlings. No food tastes like it should, no tasks quiet my mind down, and no thoughts can put me at ease.

There's something in the air.

My head swims with unanswered questions and unprovable theories. I know that my time can be spent better than this, but I can't seem to shake this cyclical thought process.

Even writing isn't helping.

I read a quote today that I have been saying aloud ever since: Waiting is the rust of the soul.

And if that's not a true statement, then I don't know what is. So I am trying not to wait. I am trying to keep the wheels of life in motion, refusing to slow them for anything. But I still have that air of reluctance hovering around me, inhibiting my breath. It's not wise to waste time on things that will happen when they are meant. But I just can't help it.

unease. g

I Can't Believe This

I Cannot Believe, in an office where my schedule is decided by me, that I am up this early and sitting in my chair. Okay, slumped in my chair.

Caught the midnight of Sin City last night. Won't say any more, except "Go see it," and "I wish Clive Owen were interested in being my love slave." Thought the man was hot. Give him a gun and some blood on his face, he becomes a God. Mother Mary.

Today I find myself reminiscing about middle school...and one fateful day that changed my life...

In 7th grade, I wore Tevas a lot (I don't really enjoy my foot being entirely covered by a shoe). One day in--where else?--the locker room, I was changing in the same vicinty as Crystal Roberts. Crystal's middle name was actually "Gayle," which I think her mom thought was synonymous with "Classy." Anyway, that one day, Crystal let out a loud "AWP!" noise. We didn't have time to ask her what she was so excited about, because she launched into a diatribe about how long my toes were and how freakish that was.

Okay, now everyone gets teased in middle school. But I was a Chubby McChubster who was trying to fly under the Shame Radar by being everyone's friend and having a sharp sense of humor. I felt like if I could play Middle School Cop and keep the kids playing nice, no one would turn on me and start poking fun. It worked, until that day. Then that ignorant bean-pole of a white trash skag had to go and say something about my poor, defenseless feet. What a bitch.

The body is meant to be mostly in proportion. Your arms are as long as a certain part of your legs, your head is in scale to something or other, and your foot is as long as your forearm. I happen to have a very long forearm, and I figure that with my bone structure, I needed extra grip to help me walk, so I have a more equal toe-to-foot ratio than most.

After that initial embarassment, I realized that I still didn't like wearing normal shoes. I didn't want to give up sandals, so I had to show the world that I loved my footies and that I was proud of their accomplishments, like picking things up off the floor, peeling bananas, etc. I came to love my feet and treat them well with pedicures and lotion and massages. These days, I even draw attention to them with nail polish. And when someone in my adult life comments lovingly on my long toes, I say, "I know. Aren't they great?" and my toes wiggle with joy and know they are loved.

In the back of my mind, I fear that one day a man in my life will turn on me like Crystal Gayle did. This fear was brought on by Eddie Murphy in "Boomerang" (or Distinguished Gentleman?) where he won't sleep with a woman because she has funky feet. I shake my head and tell myself, "That's ridiculous. Do you really want to be with a man who would be involved in five hundred Nutty Professor moves AND Pluto Nash?" Of course not.

So, last night. I was wearing some sandals and some wicked hot capri pants. My buds DS and RW glanced downward and laughed. "Open toes," they said. I felt a pang of that same kind of fear I felt 13 years ago.

"What?" I said, trying hard to be brave.

"It's just that our friend can't stop talking about your feet."

Turns out that a friend of ours, who I haven't seen for a long time, loves my "sexy feet." I was wearing sandals the last time we met and he hasn't shut up since. Apparently when they mentioned they had seen me last Friday, he even asked them if I was wearing open-toed sandals. When they said Yes, he went all a-quiver with joy.

I am so endlessly flattered that I can't even tell you. I never get compliments on my actual feet. Since no one has ever exhibited the tackiness of Crystal in my adult years, I just sort of count my blessings and am glad people appreciate my pedicures. I didn't think someone would actually ENJOY looking at my foot, though. FUCK YOU, EDDIE MURPHY! Somebody, in their quiet moments, thinks about MY FEET! Hah!

So I have a perma-grin on my face that won't budge. I am glad that I wised up so fast and learned to embrace something that I cannot change about my body. Look at me now, Crystal Gayle! I live in a fun city, with amazing people surrounding me. I have a full social calendar, enough money for dinners out and DVDs when I want them, I get laid pretty regularly, and I fit in Miss Sixty capris. Where are you? Huh?! Where are you?!

*Editor's Note: Crystal Gayle Roberts was arrested in the late 90s for drug possession. After time in juvenile hall, she chose not to attend college. She embarked on a lucrative career working the mid-shift in a 16th Street Mall kiosk in Denver, CO selling funny snowboarding hats and model airplanes made out of beer cans. She has a boyfriend with a meth lab in his basement and a 4 year old child named Espen, after the cable channel ESPN.*

my dogs are a barkin'. howlin' even. g