Coors-tastic

There's nothing like a great rock and roll show to break up the monotony of the work-week.

The New Pornographers performed tonight at the Henry Fonda Music Box, and it was stellar. This band has enough pep and pizzaz in them to last through the apocalypse, I tell you. Check them out, their first two albums are killer (I'm just getting used to the new release, give me a break...).

I have to admit that this isn't the blog I wanted to write tonight. I wanted to sit down after some hot lovin' and verbally expand upon my adoration for quickies. But, damn the concert, the kids were on fire tonight and it ran too long for HellCat to be sated in ways other than aural.

Now I find myself texting frantically, eating some vegetable chips from Trader Joe's, and nervously eyeing the clock.

I am a wreck when my nights don't end like I think they should. We've touched on this before.

But we're all adults here, so instead I am going to admit that sometimes, Coors can really add to your evening. Color me shocked, kids, and sign me up for the Afternoon Delight this weekend (and hey-no worries, darling heart of mine).

Anyway, one warm day in early summer a couple years ago, my man friend at the time and I were in search of foodstuffs before our film. I knew I was running low on gas, so I was going to stop at the next gas station on the next block. Unfortunately, I had gone too long and the car sputtered and died...right on the corner of Fairfax and Santa Monica.

For those of you living in a goddamn cave, that is a hugely busy intersection with lots of people driving through it at any given moment during the day. So you know.

I sat, defeated, and eventually cast a helpless glance at my boy.

"I have to get some gas," said I.

"Wait, let me get it for you! I will abscond with gas and save the day, mylady!" He didn't actually say the last part, but he might as well have, since that's what the result would be.

I sat there, flashers a-flashing, waving people around me. I eventually just started laughing uncontrollably in the ole Jetta, because what the hell else could I do? I got sworn at, various hand gestures were made, and one woman made a voodoo doll in my likeness and stuck it in the face with a stray bobby pin she fished out from her ashtray. Everyone hated me at that moment. And I just sat there, listening to the Goo Goo Dolls on STAR 98.7 and giggled my little head off.

In the distance, I saw him. He was running towards me, even though running is against his nature as a human being and a screenwriter. I heard the Chariots of Fire themesong playing. Soon, he was at my passenger side, depositing the gas into the gas tank as though his life depended on it. As it turns out, it did, since a member of the Armenian mafia in his Lexus was nearing the intersection, and apparently he had some important drug deal to attend to.

Anyway, the car made it into gear and we rolled to the gas station. The first one we made it to was out of gas, and the pumps weren't accepting cards anyway. So, we said silent prayers as we bumbled to the next West Hollywood station, where my eagle-eyed ex spotted my back driver's side tire had a nail in it.

We picked up some Wendy's, got to the theater, and saw his insane ex-girlfriend's car in the parking garage. I readied myself for an ugly mark or two on the side of the VW as we barely made it into our film.

Now THAT was night I could have USED some Coors. But instead, I got it tonight, and had a lovely time. Thanks Hosscorn, and to all of you reading this, who thought there might actually be a point to my story.

Signed, Anxious in the Treehouse. g

The Best Kind

The earth that we walk on has a pulse. If you tread softly, you can almost feel it beneath the soles of your feet, throbbing. This large ball of rock with a gravitational pull is spinning because of an energy that exists that we feed on and in turn fuel, in one big neverending cycle. It is stronger than steel, and deep in your heart, you already know what it is.

Slut Magic.

Slut Magic makes all things possible. It is this kind of wizardry that allows the world's blood to keep flowing through its veins.

Slut Magic is the fairy dust that makes booty calls free of cell phone drop-out, thus enabling the driver to obtain the green light (and location) worry-free. It also aids in g-spot orgasm, finally screwing that one person you've had your eye on for years, and sex that makes satellites spontaneously combust in the atmosphere around your latitude and longitude.

Slut Magic is the reason that we can never completely abandon sex, no matter how much we think we can rise above it. It is an itch in your soul that can only be scratched one way. Slut Magic does not compromise. It knows no boundaries and sees no color. It is an equal opportunity affector.

The oldest kind of magic around makes your decisions for you. It lives within you. It is the mitochondria in your every cell, converting the food you eat into slutty energy. It is the powerhouse that makes you what you are right now, as you read this.

So go, young squire, and honor thy Slut Magic. Make eyes at some nice looking gal in your office. Bite your lip and raise an eyebrow at that dashing young man in the mailroom. Better yet, have sex with these people. And it will be then that Slut Magic is pleased, and then that the world can stay balanced.

use your glucose. g

Ollie Ollie Oxy-Free

My darlings, do you realize that we are biological creations with chemicals surging through our tissues, causing us to feel every single thing that we experience in a day? If you're feeling upset over your crappy job, or elated over your recent weight loss, or something inbetween, that is due in part to a chemical that is working its' way from your hypothalamus all the way southward to your toes.

I just found out about one particular hormone that's getting us in trouble, and we don't even know it exists.

Oxytocin is nicknamed the "bonding hormone." Male and female bodies release it during orgasm, and it causes one to bond to the person they're with. The only trick is that the presence of testosterone overwhelms oxytocin and makes it unaffecting to a (male) body. On the flip side, estrogen-run bodies are totally affected by it. So, this means, when ladies climax, we hang on to whoever caused it for dear life.

And the actual time limit of "dear life" is about 3 weeks--biologically, how long it takes to see if you're pregnant. Coincidence? I think not.

Our bodies are evolutionary machines, and we are operating on chemistry and instinct. We have little to no free will, people. Only for the past 100 years or so has sex become a recreational activity, and we're not built to handle that. Have you gents out there wondered why women can't really pull off casual sex? This is why. And as men's testosterone level decreases with age, they become more susceptible to the effects of the hormone, and as women age and estrogen decreases, they become free from this hormonally-charged link to their mate.

And so you know, Oxytocin is also responsible for uterine contractions in childbirth, lactation, and otherwise bonding mothers to babies.

I figure that we can learn a lot from knowing this hormone exists. It can help us make better choices in who we sleep with. Are you, as a woman, willing to bond yourself to the fucker that doesn't give you what you need to feel like a good person? And men: do you want to be the one this crazy skag bonds herself to for the better part of a month? If we know that biologically this is likely, we can make better choices! This knowledge could set us free!

Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. We are self-aware individuals (although that guy who cut me off today on the 5 was definetly NOT one of those) and we are able to act against our instinct and chemicals. It is my assertion, however, that most of the time we think we're acting intellectually, but things like oxytocin are silently guiding us.

My great affection for my Special Man Friend was always the obvious part. But this helps me understand why I love my vibrator so much, too.

bzzz. g

Rage Against the Machine

I have faith that all the crazy natural disasters in our world mean virtually nothing in the big picture. Some people say it's Armageddon, and my assertion is the opposite. I know the world isn't coming to an end. Would you like to know why I am so confident?

Once again, I have failed to receive a cell phone rebate.

Therefore, once I actually receive one, then I know that hell has frozen over, pigs are soaring through the skies, and we are all majorly screwed. Anything could happen at the point that my bank account is 50-ish dollars richer due to some goddamn cell phone company actually honoring my attempt to pry some money from their cold, dead hands.

Years ago, when I sent in my first rebate application, it was meticulously filled out with the recepit attached flawlessly. I even bought delivery confirmation for the envelope. I sent it away, giving it a gentle kiss, sighing happily because my new phone didn't cost nearly as much as I had originally paid for it.

And then, I was brutally rebuffed. No check ever came. Suddenly, the cost of the phone loomed over me, and I swear that I heard faint laughter coming from the direction of the processing plant in Nevada. Those fuckers were out snorting lines off hookers asses and shooting craps instead of processing MY rebate! They were living the good life, throwing people's dreams into the shredder so they could knock off work twenty minutes early. I just knew this was the way it was going down.

I tried to call them to figure out why they were trying to hurt my feelings. They had no answer. Like an abusive boyfriend, they weren't my partner, they were dictators, causing me pain. But like so many others, I couldn't leave. I signed a contract to be with that boyfriend, who spat on me, punched me in the face, and regularly charged overage fees.

I went through this process several more times. I figured, why switch boyfriends when this one basically got the job done, even though I had to put up with some shit? I knew it got a lot worse with others. So I stayed, and kept taking the hits. Over and over I experienced the same things--that unmistakeable distance in their voice, and a marked unwillingness to help when I needed it the most. I started to believe that I was unworthy of humane treatment. "It could still get a lot worse," I thought, "so just grin and bear it."

Then, I found an out. My boss wanted me to get a company phone, and they weren't going to use my current provider. I had to break my contract, and they were going to pay for it. My knight in shining armor convinced me that I was worth more than what I was getting, so I packed my bags and got the hell out.

At first, it was like heaven. Sure, my service dropped out once in a while, and people had trouble hearing me when I was on La Cienega and Santa Monica, but I figured nothing is perfect. I'll take zero reception in West Hollywood over a bruised soul anytime.

Eventually, it came time for me to get a new phone. I wanted to keep the same brand, as I had all the accessories. The only phone they had that would work with my needs was the step UP from my old model, and it was expensive. But...it had a rebate offer to lessen the pain.

Once you've been burned, you can never shake the sickness that comes from seeing it happen all over again. I got that feeling then, in that T-Mobile store. I braced myself to just pay full price and not expect anything in return. I set my sights on taking the high road, and avoiding another dissatisfying relationship.

I sent the form in anyway. And sure enough, I received my Rebate Rejection Letter in the mail yesterday. As I skimmed the courier font that held no love for me, I bit my lip. It was all happening again. My hands started to shake. My eyes welled up with fresh, salty tears, and I felt my knees go weak. "Why me?" I wondered. "Other people must get their rebates. This can't be a worldwide conspiracy. Why am I not smart enough to fill the form in right? Why couldn't I have taken that Rebate-Getting course in college? When am I going to see some money back from these sadistic fuckers?"

And my eyes fell on the last paragraph. I could dispute the rejection. All of a sudden, the skies cleared. I now was certain that I could make them understand, and that with one phone call, I could make them love me like Sprint never did. "At least they wrote me a letter," I thought. "So go get 'em, tiger!"

I wandered through endless menus. They have one of those automated voice recognition things, which I hate (I'm positive that I'm joined by all of the cell-phone using population on this one). The voice you speak to is some smug, bitchy woman who is obviously a failed voice-over actress and hates her life. Her tone is syrupy, but has a metallic aftertaste. I quickly decided to name the woman's voice Rachel, since throughout time, girls named Rachel always hate me.

I asked Rachel to send me to customer care. She ignored me and asked me my social security number. I said, "Customer care." She responded, "I didn't hear you." I repeated, louder and with ridiculous enunciation, "CUSTOMER CARE." Silence. Then, she repsonded in the only way women know how when they've lost. She said, "Okay." But the last syllable had a raised octave compared to the first, which is unmistakably the passive aggressive indication that you have won this round, but she is not having sex with you for four days.

For the next 45 minutes, I was put on hold, transferred, and even engaged in a three-way (call). Finally, after no one could come up with a good reason as to why I shouldn't have this rebate, the operator just credited my account.

I was stunned. After years of being ignored, all of a sudden I had WON! I was finally with someone who would listen to me and make some magic happen just BECAUSE! I hung up and was filled with a blessed light. This just might throw my rough streak. And I keep finding myself distracted by my love for my phone, which is sitting next to me, delivering sweet text messages from my Man and enlightening calls from friends. This is the life I have been waiting for.

*And to note, I still don't count this as actually receiving the rebate. I see it as more of a situation where someone finally felt bad for keeping me on the phone for the better part of an hour. Since I never lost my temper and always said Please and Thank You, I got what I wanted. So, don't worry about Armageddon just yet. This whole Hurricane Rita thing? And the war? Etc? Not the end of days. We still have a ways to go.*

dinner's on me. g

Out of Alignment

Usually, when I go see a jolly good double feature with the Mighty G, that makes everything right in the world. Somehow, as the credits roll, the planets realign and as I emerge from the theater, there is a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. I am ready to take some hits, have some triumphs, and start the whole process over again.

But this time, even though the company was top-notch and the movies were decent, my head still hurts. My eyes are dry. My underwear keeps riding up. I can't seem to clean my room, even though the right lighting is on and the Sirius is bumpin'. I just don't feel so good.

The week has been full of fuck-ups on my part. I am not getting anything done, and if there's anything that kills the HellCat, it's spinning wheels. Somehow, I feel less muscular and less talented and less anything. I feel lesser. Why is that? A sudden hormonal change? An adrenal crash, or perhaps some thyroidal woes might send this fragile one into a tailspin, maybe that's it.

I had a bad dream last night. I dreamt that my old friends from Denver were having a reunion party (which they actually are, in real life). My pal's Land Cruiser pulled up to the curb of my Denver house, as it has so many times before. I watched through the open blinds of my childhood bedroom as my friends fell out of the car, laughing and yelling. I answered the door, and everyone was drunk and crazy, which immediately turned me off. I hate playing catch-up to the rest of the already-pissed crowd; it never fails to make me turn on my heel and leave an event. When everyone is shitfaced but me? That's a lot to live up to, I'd rather watch a movie.

Anyway, I tell them to get into the car before my born-again Christian parents see them and forbid me to leave the house. They comply, and as I go to my room to give myself the once-over, I realize that I'm in my pajammy-jammers and I need to change. So, I throw on some jeans, but everything else I put on doesn't fit. Not in an "I've gotten fat" way--the clothes are missing armholes or my head won't fit through the neck of the shirt. Eventually, I find something that is free of defects. I turn around and look through my bedroom window again to see that the Land Cruiser is gone.

They left me behind.

And then I heard the tune of "The Entertainer" come from the sky, since my phone alarm went off. I woke up depressed.

That kind of describes my week. I feel like nothing is really working the way I want it to, and when I finally manage to make something happen, it's too late anyway.

bollocks. g

Naked in a Communist Flag

Continuing my recent fascination with the past, I opened The Toolbox tonight.

For over ten years now, I have owned a toolbox that had a lock on it, keeping all my most private items safe from prying eyes (with the wandering pupils mostly belonging to my father). It's been a couple of years since I've even thought about it. I figured with everything that's been happening recently, I might as well open it up.

The jewelry is on top.

None of it is worth anything to a pawn shop. But it's an invaluable link to the Old Me. There's my high school ring, the ring that my pal Whip gave me for Strength and Everlasting Protection (her parents were hippies), and the piece of jewelry I received from a boy that he slipped on my finger at a restaurant one balmy summer night. There are a couple pairs of earrings my mom bought me from France that make my ears hurt, too (which means they aren't made of a precious metal like those dirty frogs told her they were).

Right now, I'm wearing all of the rings, a necklace, one pair of earrings, and have the rest of the treasures balanced on my thighs. Having properly outfitted myself for the expedition, I am ready to dig further into my history.

The pictures are next. There aren't as many of them as I thought there would be. These are the ones that my parents would have locked me up for taking...among the most notable are me in a bikini armed with squirt guns and fierce sunglasses, a group photo of scantily clad youths on a pool table, and me wrapped in a communist flag.

Naked, that is. The photo is of me, sans even one stitch of clothing, wrapped in a bright red communist flag. I am sitting on the piano bench of the Kerr home, straddling it, and there is a look on my face that would make any respectable woman blush. The girl in the photo is daring someone to take the flag off and help themselves to what is theirs, hers, and everyone else's underneath the premise of communism. "Thank you, Karl Marx!" some young man would say in PhotoLand, "I shall fight for glory and a united world between this girl's milky white..." You get the idea. It's a slutty picture, mostly because it pretends to be so innocent. Those are the worst kind.

Some diary entries that I read are strikingly similar to the shit that I write on this blog everyday. Silly me, I thought that these ideas were fresh and new to this cranium, but I've been thinking them since I was 13. I told myself to remember that this life is worth living, and that there is so much wonder to behold. Whether it was in Mister Langner's eighth grade math class, or at Cherry Creek Mall when the boys were alternating between rollerblading and hugging us in attempts to snap our bras, the joy was there. That girl who was writing in the pink, flowery diary knew that something special is out there, everywhere. All you have to do is let it reveal itself.

It's nice to know I haven't changed that much.

It works the opposite way, too. The things that bothered me then are the same things that really get me today. I hated it when people were dishonest or just following the crowd. I also hated returning people's phone calls, which I still despise (getting me to check my voicemail is like pulling teeth). When I felt neglected or unloved, I withdrew and lost the ability to see the color in the picture. And the color was difficult to get back, as I recall.

Also, suitors take note: in '93, my dream date with my then-boyfriend was holing up in a video game with seats that allowed us to race cars in semi-privacy. It also allowed us to make out inbetween games rather inconspicuously. That hasn't really changed, either. Who wants to take me to the arcade?!

I just took a quick writing break to focus on a few letters from a friend I've known since before The Toolbox was created. I am suddenly overwhelmed with how closely I hold those dear to me. There are so many pieces of paper in that box that hold so many emotions, and the ones that have the most weight are from people who are still a part of my life today. Although my life is constantly rocked by my desire for upheaval, I know a good thing when I see it. Some people and things live inside the part of me that I will never leave behind.

It's nice to know that everybody else hasn't changed that much, either.

"All I want's some barbeque and a little revolution."

never let go. g

My Jacob Marleys

Life is a precarious balance between "Learning from your Past" and "Living in the Now." If you can do both, you're set. You've got experience behind you, but you can enjoy the moment you're in.

I've been thrown out of balance lately.

In a kind of happy accident kind of way, I have come into contact with tons of people from my past. At this point, I've got each level of school covered--some from elementary, some middle school, one from high school, and another from college. None of it would have been possible witout the internet...god bless it.

The funny thing that they all have in common is that when these cherished friends of old write, they are touting me as the "wild/crazy/cool" girl from Denver. Now, one of them knew me best when I was 12. Was I really wild and crazy then?

I could understand my college buddy making that call...Back in good ole Austin, it might have been the topless parties on the sundeck or constant wig-wearing sans irony that made me Wild. I'll buy that for a dollar. But back when I was a wee pre-teen, what did I do that made me Crazy? Was it the abundance of leg-warmers in my wardrobe or the fact that I watched a lot of Bewitched re-runs on TV? Was I just naturally less lame than the other kids, therefore making me the Mayor of Cooltown?

Whatever it is, I'll take it.

Some people have found me on everyone's fav networking site, Myspace. My profile image that you see above really makes those introductory emails more interesting. The common question of "What have you been up to?" becomes kind of difficult to answer, because "I'm a girl in Los Angeles trying to make a living as en editor," sounds like a filthy lie when you look at my photos.

The photo makes it seem more like..."I live in Berlin, and am a professional dominatrix. I spend alternating weeknights impersonating Annie Lennox and Nell from the Rocky Horror Picture Show (when I can borrow the gold sequined hot pants from my transvestite neighbor). Also, I enjoy fucking stand-up comics...and anyone else for that matter, occasionally at the same time--as long as the comic thinks the other one is funny enough to get naked with. If you're interested in illegal activities such as fencing stolen goods, writing communist manifestos on Big Chief tablets, golden showers, dying animal fur bright pink or piercing a baby's ears without parental consent, call me."

I figure that I should rejoice in the way I present myself to the general public, and cross my fingers that they're not fundamentalist Christians who have access to my home address.

It's kind of fun living in those memories for a bit. I'm dredging up all the things those folks would say about me. We shared afternoons at the skating rink, long talks about boys, concerts, school recitals, boredom, homework, and their suitemate seeing me without a shirt on when I went to use the restroom...

This has been a pretty wild life, so far. Is mine really that much more crazy than yours? I don't think so. The difference might just be that I take the time to notice. Say, for instance, that this is the second mention of golden showers in the blog in the last week.

Truly, truly, truly outrageous. g

Yarr.

My pirate name is:

Iron Prudentilla Bonney

A pirate's life isn't easy; it takes a tough person. That's okay with you, though, since you a tough person. You can be a little bit unpredictable, but a pirate's life is far from full of certainties, so that fits in pretty well. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from fidius.org.

Bird's Eye View

I was at Bird's, visiting a friend I hadn't seen in ages. He was working behind the bar pouring drinks, schmoozing, and winking at full speed, as it was a busy night. After he poured my whiskey, neat, he introduced me to the man sitting next to me.

As we talked, and I accepted this man's many compliments about my "radiating beauty" and gorgeous "angel kisses (aka freckles)." Although I was flattered and thanked him very much, I mentioned that I was meeting my Special Man Friend momentarily. After he got done groaning over "the one that got away" and all that, I asked him where he was from.

It turns out that this was one interesting dude.

His mother is from Cleveland, and his dad is Israeli. He grew up in Paris, and had just arrived in LA the day before after serving in the Israeli army.

At one point, we toasted to Los Angeles and the wonders it holds for everyone, and then he asked me how he was going to find a girlfriend in this town. He moaned over how lonely he was (which the waifs find super attractive). I told him that he seemed nice, so he was sure to have some luck (although money wouldn't hurt, I thought to myself).

I mentioned that his Israeli heritage was bound to reel in some foreign-loving hotties, and he shushed me frantically. He was like, "Don't announce that I'm Israeli!" in a yell loud enough for the valet across the street to hear.

I told him to relax, that my mom told me the Jews are God's people. Plus, as my My Pablo pointed out later, you can't throw an anti-semitic rock around this city without hitting one anyway.

He calmed down and mentioned that he was glad to be gone from that "horrible place, where they were fighting for nothing." I thought of how lucky he was, moving to a place where all of us are working towards intangible, fleeting goals. In other words, a town where we were fighting for nothing.

He air-kissed me on the cheek goodbye, and I told him to keep his chin up. He'd already been shot in the side, so it was really only up from there. Right?

It's funny how the only thing I really understand about the whole Israeli-Palestinian conflict is how everybody involved mostly just wants to stop fighting, drink some Heineken, and get laid.

glenlivet. g

Suspicious.

You know, I was never a big fan of raisins. I am more of a dried cranberry kind of gal, and sometimes prunes fit the bill when my iron levels are low. The other night, though, Jeffy was in charge of the salad and he brought over greens, heirloom tomatoes, Goddess dressing, and golden raisins.

Unlike golden showers, golden raisins taste great with dressing and greens.

But like golden showers, the mere thought of them makes me wrinkle my nose and ask "Why?"

First of all, what kind of god-forsaken, pasty grape do they come from? Once I figured out that raisins are just dehydrated grapes, my mind was at ease. But, fast forward a couple weeks to now, and I am baffled again. I pulled out the old INTRANET and did some typing.

Blog Montage:
CU-Grae adjusting her glasses and leaning into the screen inquisitively
INS-Pencil writing feverishly on lined notebook paper
MS-Grae at the computer, typing and biting her lip
INS-Computer screen that reads "Golden grapes are a myth and you just ate some moldy Trader Joe's remnant grapes..."
CU-Grae gasping indignantly
ECU-Same text as before. It reveals the closing word of the sentence, which is "SUCKER!!!"
WS-Grae shoving her chair back angrily and tipping the desk over in an angry rage
Title Card-Later that night...
MS-Grae finds a golden grape on the floor among the ruins. She sniffs it, blows off some lint that is on it, and eats it.

Turns out that some people call these things muscats. Wasn't that a song? Muscat Love? Anyway, they are "made of white muscat grapes which are seeded, specially oven-dried (rather than by sun), and treated to retain their light color. Some golden raisins are dried Thompson seedless raisins which have been kept light by the use of sulfur dioxide."

Mine are the sulfur dioxide kind. Maybe that's why they taste better when coated in creamy, garlicky dressing.

I have always loved trying new things, as long as it didn't involve clowns or disturbing my digestive tract (that's why my ex and I broke up). I am still wary of these little gold thingies sitting on my desk. They taunt me in their Glad snack-size bag. They sound like the nuns at my old Catholic school. "We're married to God, of course we don't masturbate!"

jesus. g

Quote-a-licious

I have been overwhelmed by the brilliant things that have been thrown at me in the past couple days (monkey feces NOT included).

--"Filipinos are a warm, gentle, caring, giving people, which is a good thing since so many of them carry concealed weapons." -N.Stephenson

--"When called upon to act, your garden-variety nice guy will do the thing that is the best balance of Fair and Easy." -from a convo with Jeffy

--Advice from Brody Stevens after Monday's power-outage:

"The bad driving, soft and selfish types (peoples’ mindset), speeding and aggressive maneuvers don’t magically disappear - it’s ingrained, young and middle-aged alike.

This is why you sweat the small stuff - it builds character and properly prepares a society for the unexpected.

Maybe that unexpected will be a meal with me and a famous baseball player? - Could you handle yourself at a personal buffet with Pete Rose or Gabe Kapler?

And that’s just part of the world I’d prepare you for.

Also, be extra nice to kids and old folk.

And bus your table, even at Taco Bell."

The magic never stops in this town.

kazaam. g

Tut Love

The Mighty G and I kicked off our week by playing hooky. There were so many things we should have been doing to further ourselves as people. We could have been writing sketches for our new show, cleaning our apartments, searching for places to live or jobs to acquire, but no. We decided that today was the day we were going to venture into Beverly Hills and go see the remnants of an ancient civilization. On this Monday, the 12th of September, the Two Gs were going to fog up some museum glass with our awed breath. We were going to crash the King Tut exhibit at the LACMA.

Well, we weren't exactly going to crash it. We bought tickets and waited in line and stuff. But we did establish ourselves as a majorly subversive element right off the bat.

The power went out and delayed our entrance to the exhibit. Later, I learned that the outage was caused by some electrician named Bennie or something that cut the wrong wire while installing an electrical monitoring station in Toluca Lake. While everyone in line was whispering things like "Al-Qaeda threat" and "terrorist from Orange County," the G and I were lugging a bench out to the line so we could sit down and wait comfortably for our turn to go inside the exhibit. Thank God the cool breeze was blowing, or else she would have blown a gasket and I would have had to fork over more money for the audio tour just to drown her out.

Once we got in there, I was truly impressed with all the educational merriment I found in all the artifacts. I oohed over the fact that pretty necklaces were referred to as "pectorals" and oftentimes had the spooky scarab beetle on them. I aahed when I discovered that essential oils were precious, and to protect them, they were kept in stone containers so they wouldn't get too hot.

King Tut was never alone down there, as he had nearly 30 representations of his own likeness with him, as well as numerous statues of servants and items that he would need in the afterlife to help him survive. It's nice to know that he was well cared for.

The funniest thing that I noticed was that lots of the artifacts they got from his tomb weren't orginally made for him. The viscera, which many people are using as a symbol of the exhibit due to its stunningly beautiful nature, was not Tut's. In fact, they crossed out the original name and put his on it. I guess when someone is dead, they can't complain about sloppy seconds. I'll bet that whichever wise-cracking recycler made the name change is super unhappy in the afterlife. In fact, he was probably reincarnated into a fat person's chair or something.

There was a sarcophagus there. It belonged to Tut's grandma, and it was hypnotizing. I got lost staring into all the gold, turquoise, and brown detailing on the lid. It made me think about modern-day funerals and how it's in our nature to put someone to rest in something pretty, hence the hefty fees for coffins. If I had the option of being buried in something as spectacular as that sarcophagus, you'd bet your ass I'd do it.

It also led me to question my own tendency towards racism. As much as I wish things were different, I came to understand something today. I have seen the Tut exhibit as well as the Ramses one years ago, and I consider myself to be sort of a junior archaeologist when it comes to Egypt. I have always loved hieroglyphics, Nefertiti, and the Sphinx and shit. But having said that, I still think that all Egyptians look alike. If they truly look like their sarcophagi, then I can't tell the difference between any fucking one of them. Luya looks like Tut who looks like Amenhotep II. Egypt must have been a city full of cat-loving clones.

We managed to get through the exhibit without offending anyone. We resisted the urge to try on the "Pharoah hats" in the gift shop, and some cashier apparently checked my ass out on our way out the door. We survived it all with flying colors. As we hopped in the car, with "Heart of Rock and Roll" playing on the stereo, I was proud of us. We had made an entire morning a learning experience. We had seen something few people will ever see, and it changed our lives and my decorating sensibilities. We were forever changed.

My serenity was quickly shattered when I realized that the fragile scaffolding of learning we had constructed around our lives was coming crashing down around our ears. We started off the day with grace and dignity, and now the G had rolled the window down, and for some reason, was hanging out of it yelling "HUEY LEWIS AND THE NEWS!" at homeless people on Fairfax.

Sometimes, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

lucky lotus blossom. g

When Life Meets Video On Demand

It's almost 10PM. So far on this lovely Saturday, after taking care of much business and errands, I find myself sitting in the Treehouse wondering what to do with myself. I am thinking that something along the lines of watching my favorite TV shows on DVD, reading a book I borrowed from my special man, or perhaps ICE CREAM would be just the ticket. Or should it be all three? Or should it be scrapbooking and fruit? Sewing? Scratching myself?

It's been quite some time since I have found myself alone on a weekend night. I know that I'm supposed to enjoy it. I should focus on doing facial masks, pumicing my feet, applying lotion oh-so-thoroughly, and rejoicing in my aloneness. But I find myself instead pondering the nature of my own persona. What is Solo Grae like? How is she different from Accompanied Grae?

As I was painstakingly preparing jambalaya and saying a prayer for everyone down south, I had Sex in the City playing on the TV. They just refreshed my Video on Demand, so there are a whole bunch of episodes from season 2 ready for my viewing pleasure. And, as though in answer to the thoughts buzzing in the back of my head, the episode was about Faking It.

As is customary on the show, they take the idea of Faking It past just sex stuff and apply it to more existential areas (because it is SO DEEP). Sure, Miranda was faking orgasms, but Carrie wraps up the show by sitting by herself at a cafe. She tells the server that she isn't waiting for anyone, she's there on her own, and then she drinks her wine. Her narration is telling us that she had no books or projects to distract her. She was just going to be on her own, with nothing to stop her from being herself. "No faking it," she said.

It got me thinking about meditation and how badly I suck at it. Meditation requires that the person empty their mind, put the world on hold, and kind of find peace in being by themselves. This is not how I am wired. I love people, and consider them (in the abstract) as being the only thing I really care about or am good at engaging with. So much of who I am comes from interacting with other people and thriving off the energy that comes from having them around. So Accompanied Grae lights up when she has folks she loves around. They help her be the things she likes being.

Solo Grae has to dredge up that energy herself. I'm not so super at filling up my own tanks. Time by myself results in becoming inert. Does this mean that I am unhappy with myself? I don't know. Right now I feel pretty okay, although some melancholy is lingering on the edges of my consciousness. Right now, the Sirius Love channel is doing its part to battle that malaise and soothe my soul.

I think this is just like everything else. It's all about perspective.

What I do know is that the mood lighting is on, the temperature is just the way I like it, and my belly is full. I like the color of my toenails right now, and this tee shirt is super soft. I guess I need to breathe deeply and take it easy on myself. There will be no desperate text messages to people who might have something fun to do tonight. Instead, I'm going to fix my favorite tea and just say fuck it. No more writing, either. It's weirding me out that I don't have the answers.

ehh. g

El Fin.

I woke up today feeling refreshed and revitalized. Thanks to a late-night rendezvous and a wide array of Scarface merchandise filed in my closet under "F" for fabulous, the week had melted away and I was ready for this lovely Friday. But now, as I sit here in front of the computer, the smallest amount of wind has been taken out of my sails.

Only one movie opened this weekend that I am interested in.

This has been brewing for awhile, my darlings. We're no longer allowed to wear white shoes, thanks to last weekend's wild Labor Day celebration (the fashion police took our rights away, since we had so much fun). It's getting dark just a smidgeon earlier than it was before. I have to keep my hoodie handy for the chilly nights in the treehouse...and now this. No movies. You know what this means.

Summer is over.

My blessed summer vaca has officially ended, and this was the deadline I gave myself to buckle down and get working. I was going to get my head back in the game, simmer down, and grin and bear it. This was the deadline for fewer beers on patios, weekdays spent at the movies, and sleeping in. Time to be an adult again.

Now that I am staring it in the face, I have come to realize that the above lifestyle, as you can imagine, is bullshit and my original plan sucked. Time for Plan B. I am now looking for work that won't make me give up my jet-setting lifestyle. It's not that I mind working, now. I just have so much to do that work really gets in the way of it all.

I'm thinking that modeling, freelance editing, and the occasional commercial will be just the ticket. Don't you think?

Why should I stop living this life? I'm having so much fun! In freeing myself from the evil corporate machine, I became able to design my own life. It receives beautiful embellishments and tender loving care. Now, I can either work on my editing reel or pumice my feet. I can watch a couple episodes of the Shield and then go help children write screenplays during their lunch hour. I get to go out on school nights and enjoy birthdays, weddings, and bat mitzvahs unhindered. Yup, I do believe that I will never go back to the strict confines of day jobs.

So there.

And when I begin panhandling full-time, I'll thank you for not saying "I told you so."

spare change? g

Goin' To The Chapel

I was lounging by the pool, basking in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by good friends. I had a Corona in hand and a burger in my belly, and I was happy. It was a lovely day and I was relaxed. Not once did I anticipate being faced with an unshakable, undeniable aspect of my own femininity that would turn my world topsy turvy.

I was talking with the ferociously attractive Mizz JenBear, and we were remarking on how cool her boyfriend's last name is. Then, with a giggle, she threw me for a loop. She admitted that she put her special man friend's last name with her first just to see how it sounded. I thought I was the only one who did that! In secret!

Hello, my name is Grae, and I'm a Last-Name-Replacer.

I do this all the time. I do this with men I have crushes on, men I want to have crushes on but don't, and men I fantasize about marrying (not always the same dudes, by the way). This is all within the confines of my own head, though, where rules don't apply. In that space, it doesn't even matter that I am not immediately keen on the idea of marriage. It doesn't matter that I've only been seeing someone a little while, or that I know we're just bootie-call pals. I do it anyway, and I keep it to myself. If I mentioned my dirty little secret to my special man friend, I figure that he'd most likely spring to some action just at the thought of it, whether it's buying a ring or running like hell. Yessiree, I keep this tendency to myself, only for the purpose of seeing what my name sounds like with a different surname following it up. That's it. No unrealistic expectations, no pressure. Just for kicks.

Oftentimes, I think about marriage in the hypothetical just to see if something sparks within me. I think about what kind of dress would look best on me, but that yields the same excitement that normal shopping does. I imagine where the wedding would be held, and it only makes me want to go there to recreate. I was never one of those girls that dreamed of her wedding when she wasn't even out of braces...but I think that someday the idea just might seem right. So I try.

I mentioned this to the Mighty G last night as we were letting Zankou settle in our tummies. She freaked out because she does NOT do this, and hasn't "since the ninth grade." She claimed that if even I, her partner in feminine masculinity and empowerment, did this thing, then the Repo Man was surely headed to her house at that exact moment to reclaim her uterus and take away her Girl Card.

So needless to say, JenBear made me feel incredulous that my habit was shared. Then the Mighty G swooped in and reassured me that I was in fact a freak. A perpetually barefoot-and-pregnant, sappy, dish-washing, "Ricky, please let me be in the show"-ing freak.

The worst part is that no other last name really does my first name justice. Is this an omen? Or am I just so used to hearing MY name that a new one seems like unexplored, rocky terrain? I think there are some requirements for a new last name. I think it needs to start with a consonant dissimilar to any in the end of my first name. Two syllables or more works best, although one is acceptable. Nothing too whitebread, either. Italian names sound particularly good, although French ones work well too.

And a quick question to all of you, my darlings. Do I curse myself by playing this little game? Am I destined to grow old with nothing but cats to keep me company because I jinx my chances of getting hitched? Have I been setting myself up to fail? No one I've been with has asked me to marry them. That's not terribly depressing unless I think about it too much. So I'm going to move on to my next point.

Too late.

Maybe I should stop playing the Name Game and instead open myself up to this idea of marriage. Maybe I need to just surrender. Or maybe I should just wipe the slate clean and change my name for fun. Or, maybe I should eat some pineapple and watch I Love Lucy...

...or dr. phil. don't judge. g

Bus Riders in the Sky

You might recall, my darlings, that Thursday morning I was cranky. I had shared my fear of spiderwebs and that had brought me some respite, but in the end, I was still making the Frowny Face. So I decided to continue on in the task of spring cleaning The Treehouse. Earlier in the week, I managed to get the kitchen and bathroom going, but the living room was still filled to the brim with stuff that needed to be taken care of.

I started with the entertainment center by dusting off my DVDs, the shelves that cradle them so lovingly, and the TV. It was at this moment I turned on the satellite radio. Then, I pulled out the couch, removed everything that I shoved behind and underneath it, and vaccuumed. I arranged, organized, and replaced. I put on my ear flap hat, Mr. Longbottom, to bring me strength.

For those of you who don't know, Mr. Longbottom is a tweed hat with furry ear flaps that sit either perched atop the hat or down, protecting my ears. You've seen it before on different heads (usually Lumberjacks), and it's always genius. Particularly in LA where nothing like that is needed EVER.

Suddenly, my body lurched to the left, then to the right. It was moving independent of my will. What caused this? Kenny Loggins singing "Footloose" on the Sirius player. I was singing, doing the running man, and spanking my own bottom. I was truly working it, as the kids say. My windows were open and I was not wearing an appropriate amount of clothes. And I was still wearing Mr. Longbottom. It was a sight.

As the room became more and more suitable for public consumption, I became bold. The Mighty G had called after my dance-a-thon and planted an idea in my head. I had to pick up my car at the dealership that is super far away...what better excuse to take a nice, leisurely bus ride to go get it?! It would be an adventure.

I love talking to the Mighty G. She makes me less upper-middle class, and more down to earth. She's the one who told me I should be collecting unemployment when I got canned, for crying out loud! If it weren't for her, I'd actually NEED a job! Thank Goodness for my little Mexican friend showing me how to stick it to the man.

Anyway, I planned my trip out online and discovered that I would only have to connect once, and the whole thing would take me an hour. Who cares?! The $2.25 it would take from my pocket was way less than I was going to give LeezyB for taking me. Although I would miss my partner-in-crime's sparkling conversation and rapier wit, just think of all the rich characters I would meet on public transportation! I would be one of the people! Finally, I could live life like a regular, average, downtrodden, filthy person! Hoorah!

I walked to the first bus stop. Already, this was an a-typical experience, because the weather was lovely. I wouldn't even be sweating if I was waiting in the sunlight (which I wasn't, thanks to a perfect tree right over the bus stop). Even though I was mildly disappointed, I jangled the exact change in my pocket and paced around the bus stop. People driving past slowed, riasing their eyebrows. More than one mouthed, "Are you okay?" I was confused and kept feeling ym face to make sure Iwasn't bleeding or anything when I realized that to some, I didn't really look like a Los Angeles Metro Rider.

I was wearing a teal tank top and my gaucho pants, complete with bright green clogs and huge sunglasses. There was also a blue and green scarf around my waist that tied the whole outfit together. I guess the commuters in Hollywood Hills aren't used to seeing such skillful accessorizing for a ride on a nasty bus.

When I got on the first bus, there was an abundance of seats. No one looked crazy or violent. The ride passed uneventfully, with me listening to a very large man postulating that speed reading can change one's life for the better as his young female riding companion listened with her eyes wide.

I made my connection effortlessly, and began the long leg of the trip. I made the mistake of sitting in the front seats that are reserved for seniors and the disabled, and when we got into the Russian/Armenian part of town, some old people gave me filthy looks even when I offered one gentleman my seat. They talked about me in their language for several blocks, and so I just sat really close to the old woman of the group and giggled in her ear a lot. The smile never left my face. This was fun! Being accosted by people from other countries is what living is all about! God Bless America!

Here's what I want to know: what if you offer someone your seat who looks elderly to you, then they get all offended because they're not that old? I was only confident offering my seat to that one man because he was obviously older than Methuselah. The rest of them weren't even sighing heavily when they walked up the steps. They had a glimmer of hope left in their eyes, and were sometimes even carrying things. How am I to judge when someone is truly old enough to need to sit down right away?

This is why I don't ride the bus, I think. After my ride, I am also convinced that this is the reason one of my friends hates old people. Even after I offered the man my seat, he was judging me in a foreign language. Glad I had my shades on. I looked stylish AND unaffected!

The trip took exactly as long as the webbernet said it would. I retrieved my freshly washed car, turned on the AC, and sighed happily. However, I am inclined to take the bus to work this morning.

Nahhh. g

My Cranky Pants have spiders in them.

I woke up super cranky. I had HellCat Frowny Face happening, and I was complaining in my head the second I was conscious. I am doing everything with a tinge of anger. I checked my cell phone for messages, as it was charging right next to my head. I noticed that it wasn't done charging just yet, and I gave an exasperated sigh. I threw the covers off with a little too much force, and moped over to the bathroom. I noticed that it was nice and clean, and thought "Whatever. I have more cleaning to do today."

My thoughts turned to my cobweb-filled bank account and my inoperative Jetta. I bit my lower lip. Then, my thoughts went to the fact that my sister can't take me to pick up my car this morning from the shop, making me lose another day of work. Now I have to inconvenience a friend to take me all the way to Santa Monica...

I also have a major bug bite on my left side just below my waist that is KILLING me. I think it must be a black widow bite...and this will be my last entry.

I have noticed lately that I've been running into a lot of spiderwebs at night. I hate that feeling, because they linger and you never can quite get them off. You have to wait for that certain shift in the air around you to somehow magically lift the web off your face.

I do not love spiders enough to own one and let it crawl on me. However, I am not scared enough that the sight of them makes me call my dad in another state and beg him to kill it, either. I believe that spiders and I can co-exist peacefully. I don't kill them on purpose, and they generally don't bite me. But I suppose you could say that spiders and I are dancing a delicate, fragile ballet and at any moment, one of us could fall and rip our toe shoes.

What?

Anyway, webs creep the shit out of me. I still don't trust spiders. I think the ones who wander into the Treehouse are merely misguided arachnids who need some direction and compassion. The ones outside of it, though, are bloodthirsty killers. They are not dancing a dance. They are mowing over prey with steamrollers. And the web is how they catch them.

Every time I pass through one of those milky white traps, I am convinced that a huge spider the size of Abe Vigoda is going to scuttle out of the darkness, just past my sightline, and put his pincer-mouth-thing on my head and suck. So, as a result, I squeal like I did when I was seven.

Here is an exerpt from a recent conversation I had with my Man.

Me: Oh, you. How I love walking through this wooded forest with you at midnight. It's so beautiful.
Him: Oh, and me as well, my buttercup. Hark! An owl, my darling!
Me: Oh, it is lovely. Let us walk through this thick patch of trees to examine it further, pookie pie.
Him: Certainly! I will lead, in a masculine display of masculinity. Let's go!
Me: My, it certainly is dark.
Him: Yeah, perfect for fucking.
Me: What did you say?
Him: Nothing, my sweet.

Somehow, even though I am following my Knight, I am the one who ends up entangled in a web.

Me: EEEEEKK! I am going to die a virgin!
Him: What?
Me: Nothing. Get me out before the spiders come to kill us all!

Or something like that.

I know the fear is unrealistic, but I can't shake it. I am always convinced that the sequence of events is #1: Get caught in web and #2: Die. I believe that I have cheated this truism for over two decades, but it can't last forever. And unfortunately, I live smack in the middle of a Hollywood Hills Jungle. We have raccoons, skunks, rats, coyotes, rabbits (gasp!), and spiders.

So if this site somehow goes untouched for a couple weeks, you know what's happened.

ocho piernas, OLE! g