Yesterday I left the house and walked to my usual corner. I waited on the corner for the bus, under the shade of an apartment complex. My back was tired so i leaned on a brick wall. A freshly painted brick wall. So I got white paint on my only work shirt. I was really angry about it until I started thinking about the mentos commercial where the same thing happens to the man on the way to a job interview.
I got to work and no one seemed to notice the paint. One of the aestheticians from next door saw the gnarled scar on my finger and feigned concern, (my finger is pretty much healed now so I decided yesterday to stop wearing my band-aid), she showed similar concern for my red peeling skin on my nose the day before. She must think I'm a wreck. That was really it for work. Started conversing in French with my euro manager. I spoke to a server in the break room while we were eating. She asked how old i was. She divulged that she thought I was 18. "Throw your shoulders back and project yourself", the delivery was equivalent to a plea to "get-yo'self-together" end.
I have Sunday off, I will most-likely go hiking. The weather has been interesting here lately, we've seen edge effects from the north american monsoon. Last weekend when my friends were in town it actually started to rain. I was on the bus and the driver even turned on the wipers. No one else on the bus seemed to care. Lawns are maintained by automated watering regimes and Mexicans. Water comes from pipes. I left the bus and the sidewalks were still pale. Sidewalk color to me is a sure litmus test to whether or not rainfall is significant in southern california. Tropical depression dalila was churning off the coast of baja but it has since died and will soon be to weak to operate under its own power. It will be carried by the prevailing westerlies and will likely bring showers here or more likely just make it really fucking muggy for a few days. August comes in a few days. The maximum average daily high temperature is on August 6th.
I am trying not to anticipate a dramatic transition into fall as i can remember 90+ days well into October. When rain comes I will be dancing and singing quietly in my mind. I will take-in the chemical slurry that fills the air after the first rainstorm. Chlorine and oil slick blacktop will fill my lungs. mmm.... That is a long way from now.
I haven't been reading my fluid dynamics book lately. I blame the ballet bar and the internet.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
mensiversary
As of tomorrow I will have been living in Los Angeles for a month. One month. This is great because it means I only have about a month and a half left of working at the cafe. The job has become more comfortable for me recently. Horrible things, (customers, accidents, managers, etc.) still happen but I expect them to occur more or less. I've accepted my situation for what it is for the time being. It helps that the past week has been filled with excitement. My good friends Jill and Kellie took the greyhound down from Oakland and we spent the weekend riding buses, laying out on the grass, eating at awesome vegan restaurants, going to museums and walking along the beach. I even finally got to see the La Brea tarpits. I can see why so many people seem to be disappointed by them, but if you really take the time to consider the unique nature of the site it becomes pretty interesting. The smell of tar, the giant pulses of methane bubbling to the surface. Its fenced off so that no one falls in, it is free and surprisingly not very crowded. I would consider taking the two buses over there just to sit on one of the benches overlooking the pits to write and make sketches of the mastodon statues. It is also just four blocks away from LACMA. LACMA is free everyday from 5 PM to 8 PM. Right now there is a huge installation from an artist who only works with colors and simple shapes, mostly tubes, of fluorescent lights.I am thinking about a trip to MOCA soon, but it is downtown which is a farther trek for me, still under an hour though.
It's has been an eye opener for me to remember all the opportunities there are so close to me here. I've decided that from now on I will make better use of my time off from work. I am thinking that next weekend I am going to go hiking at Topanga state park, apparently there is a weekend bus that will take you there from Santa Monica. Jill told me about it, there are red-rock formations, a lagoon, mountains, a 13 mile hiking trail and it is also where they filmed m*a*s*h.
Griffith park might be a possibility sometime soon. The huge observatory that has been closed since I was in high school is reopened and even though it was scarred by the worst brushfires in decades just months before I moved here, the park is also reopened. The angeles nat'l forest is also an option but the temperatures there will hover around one hundred degrees until the middle of fall.
I'm also really thinking about seeing if there is a way i can go to Catalina. For those of you who are unfamiliar it's a sizable island off the coast near Long Beach. There is only one town on the island and most of the rest of the land is recreational/wildlife areas. I'm guessing that there will either be an affordable bus or I will take my bike on the ferry. My ultimate goal is getting over to an area I scouted out on the map named Twin Harbors. Twin Harbor is located on the middle of the island where the land narrows considerably. The distance from shore to shore is small, hence the name. Twin harbors has an average August high of 71 degrees because of the extent of the marine influence. The metropolitan area is my oyster.
Having my friends visit me was great. I feel like I made a great decision coming out here, (instead of Kansas). Los Angeles is growing on me despite sunburns and near daily harassment. I feel like some examples are needed. A couple of days ago when I was with my visitors we were walking towards my house down Venice and two men passed the first was older, obviously drunk and started to mumble angrily about spare change the younger one told him to calm down from behind, he was his son. I walked around the younger one by walking on the grass. He took it as a slight against him and yelled something incoherent about how skinny I was and how he was a linebacker and how he could use me as a toothpick, (and here I was concerned about my recent weight gain). I was called a faggot on two separate occasions on the bus last week. I was talking on the phone both times, it's my guess that my voice, particularly when in the midst of an entheusiastic retelling of a ridiculous anecdote is a dead givaway.
Here is a picture of me sitting in the grass in Echo Park, wearing kellie's glasses is also a dead givaway:
Buying a home fitness ballet bar is also a dead givaway. But I don't give a fuck. It came in the mail on Monday. My mom recommended it to me on account of all of my back trouble, It seems to have worked wonders for her. It came with a series of instructional DVDs that I follow along with on my computer because I don't have a tv. So far it is much more difficult than I had anticipated but it is also a lot of fun. Definitely worth the money if any of you have been considering the purchase.
It's has been an eye opener for me to remember all the opportunities there are so close to me here. I've decided that from now on I will make better use of my time off from work. I am thinking that next weekend I am going to go hiking at Topanga state park, apparently there is a weekend bus that will take you there from Santa Monica. Jill told me about it, there are red-rock formations, a lagoon, mountains, a 13 mile hiking trail and it is also where they filmed m*a*s*h.
Griffith park might be a possibility sometime soon. The huge observatory that has been closed since I was in high school is reopened and even though it was scarred by the worst brushfires in decades just months before I moved here, the park is also reopened. The angeles nat'l forest is also an option but the temperatures there will hover around one hundred degrees until the middle of fall.
I'm also really thinking about seeing if there is a way i can go to Catalina. For those of you who are unfamiliar it's a sizable island off the coast near Long Beach. There is only one town on the island and most of the rest of the land is recreational/wildlife areas. I'm guessing that there will either be an affordable bus or I will take my bike on the ferry. My ultimate goal is getting over to an area I scouted out on the map named Twin Harbors. Twin Harbor is located on the middle of the island where the land narrows considerably. The distance from shore to shore is small, hence the name. Twin harbors has an average August high of 71 degrees because of the extent of the marine influence. The metropolitan area is my oyster.
Having my friends visit me was great. I feel like I made a great decision coming out here, (instead of Kansas). Los Angeles is growing on me despite sunburns and near daily harassment. I feel like some examples are needed. A couple of days ago when I was with my visitors we were walking towards my house down Venice and two men passed the first was older, obviously drunk and started to mumble angrily about spare change the younger one told him to calm down from behind, he was his son. I walked around the younger one by walking on the grass. He took it as a slight against him and yelled something incoherent about how skinny I was and how he was a linebacker and how he could use me as a toothpick, (and here I was concerned about my recent weight gain). I was called a faggot on two separate occasions on the bus last week. I was talking on the phone both times, it's my guess that my voice, particularly when in the midst of an entheusiastic retelling of a ridiculous anecdote is a dead givaway.
Here is a picture of me sitting in the grass in Echo Park, wearing kellie's glasses is also a dead givaway:
Buying a home fitness ballet bar is also a dead givaway. But I don't give a fuck. It came in the mail on Monday. My mom recommended it to me on account of all of my back trouble, It seems to have worked wonders for her. It came with a series of instructional DVDs that I follow along with on my computer because I don't have a tv. So far it is much more difficult than I had anticipated but it is also a lot of fun. Definitely worth the money if any of you have been considering the purchase.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
LA Guns
I'm going to try to not let this turn into an outlet for me to vent about work, but it's hard.
With that said, I must inform you that people are mean. People are really mean. One customer in particular made my blood boil today. I was making drinks this morning while my manager was taking orders and the customer orders her, "extra dry iced cappuccino" -- impossible by the way -- and my manager shouted the drink order to me. The lady asks her, "can he do that?". The intonation is very important here however I can't find the words to convey the contempt for mankind she seems carry with her on an everyday basis. My manager defended me half-heartedly, but also walked away leaving me to charge her because the line had thinned out. I saunter over to the counter to ring her up and I charge her for a double.
She chides me.
She tells me she ordered a single.
She tells me that I shouldn't charge people without asking first.
She tells me that she caught me doing the same thing yesterday.
I apologize each time but it only makes her worse.
I thank her for pointing it out to me.
She repeats to me that she caught me doing the same thing yesterday.
I thank her for pointing it out to me twice.
She has an obvious face lift, huge sunglasses, coral lipstick, a slinky sleeveless black dress with white piping and pearls. She is indignant. Her brow gives clues to the expressions her eyes complete under her shades. I give her her drink. She lashes out "too much foam!".
I can tell she just wants to piss me off at this point -- it's obvious. But then it gets worse, she actually takes the lid off her cup and shakes the foam out onto the counter in front of me. I try to control the rush of blood i feel pulsing to my temples. with all goods received I thank her, I tell her goodbye, I tell her to have a nice day.
Her eyes narrow behind her shades to what I imagine now to be metallic spears, she extends her hand palm up, "didn't I give you a dime in that change."
"Here's your nickel ma'am, have a greeeat day!" -- I over annunciate in hopes she'd pick up on what to me is an obviously sarcastic statement. She storms out lidless with non-fat foam on her hand but she'll be back tomorrow. She's there everyday.
In the scheme of things I've had fairly little interaction with this woman but still the mind wandered at the bus stop. I daydream about leaning over the counter and slapping her upside the head. I wonder if anyone has ever called her out. I wonder if she could be shamed by a lesser. Even the transitory thought of the possibility of a scenario occurring is enough to run over my sensory system.... my mouth waters.
I'm not letting it bother me though -- no really, it's true. Since I'm fairly sure that most people capable of these behaviors are dumb as fucking tacks, I'm going to try to let a silent but all encompassing air of superiority be my guide. I'm not pompous.
It's justified under the assumption that the particular ilk of customer in question has some sort of luxury fetish. They have become well off by inheritance, marriage or under some sort of venture capitalist boondoggle -- I'm not too well informed on the subject but two good guesses would be either Chinese strip mines, or investment in chain luxury themed shopping environments (like the one I work for). Finally, they decide to invest their piles of cash in some gaudy mansion in the hills, terrifying plastic surgery and a ridiculous car. So, its easy to see why I feel justified in my blanketed statements of condemnation.
Themed shopping environments like the one I work for are on the rise, (they apparently just opened one in Dubai). What is so insidious about places like these is their gratuitous claims on authenticity. People come expecting a very controlled environment -- much like Disneyland. The menu is bilingual, with French being dominant. People opt to order in ridiculously bad French. Ask me if the bread is French. Our tables are made from wood salvaged from 19th century Belgian box cars. The yeast is from a culture taken from the founder in Brussels.
In a way Beverly Hills itself is a themed environment. Tourists wander the streets taking pictures of elaborate window displays for Imported lines of thigh cream and tasteless couture for the modern well to do working woman. Passersby gawk at luxury sedans, if traffic is light they rush to point them out to their companions. It defies reasoning but it remains an everyday occurrence on the walk to my bus-stop.
Perhaps my two weeks here has intensified my class consciousness. Perhaps it has that effect on a lot of people. Maybe the fact that I see these tourist gawk, pose and strut down the street is solid evidence for the prevalence of this collective class conscious. It's blatant here but it's pervasive throughout other areas of Southern California as well. It stymies most efforts towards any real progress in civic, and regional matters. Everyone wants theirs. It acts out with minor regional variations on a national level, (is this why the Wheel of Fortune is still on the air?). Brown-outs, and droughts function are more reasons to expand, more reasons to build palaces with near Olympic sized pools on marginal land, to increase bus fare and pay increased attention to the more pressing issues of the day.
Like what you ask? -- White flight in Orange County, of course.
UCLA released a study based on the most recent census data that reveals that the state is increasingly Latino. That for the first time ever in California history more people left the state last year than came in, (what about after the gold-rush?). A lot of the people leaving are white, they're leaving for places like Idaho, Washington, Oregon and Arizona, where new sub-developments remain plentiful and homogeneous communities are more or less present. That is the American Dream I suppose.
Watching the news in L.A., while not particularly shocking still manages to make my skin crawl. A reminder that the media is inherently racist. It creates a depiction of the world that manages to maintain the marginalization of the regions majority ethnic groups. It is unbelievable. It would be conceivable under isolated enclave conditions however that is nowhere near reality, some twenty-odd million people. It's amazing and it will perpetuate itself indefinitely. This is familiar to me. I know this. I grew up with this. It reintroduces itself to me like an old friend. Experience draws me to remark on new particularities.
Something in me enjoys place; The feeling that one location is distinct from any other. Despite worsening conditions, homogenization is nowhere near complete. I decontextualize a location first by looking at a map. I see a field of blue. An ocean. I see some mountains nearby I will never go to. I see a basin and a desert. This is my home. I look at an irrational grid system of streets laid out with north-south and east-west running streets all running roughly at 45 degrees. I get lost on paper. I am seeking some sort of distinctive feature that doesn't seem prefabricated.
Los Angeles. Mini malls, hazy pale skies and graying asphalt. The original dream of everyday resort living that drew millions of White Midwesterners a half century ago in a gradual decay. That is the only truth I can really find. So I embrace it, I wallow in its filthiness, its littered streets and orange street lights. The would-be paradise. I love it. It remains distinctive despite it's better efforts. Buildings erected twenty years start to show signs of their use and the indistinct borders of neighborhoods take shape. City erected wrought iron gates isolate neighborhoods. A dying cactus. A giant handmade sign warning children not to play in the yard. A faded poster photograph of James Dean in the kitchen window. I am looking for small things.
I read the cryptic text forecasts from the local branch of the national weather service. Temperature inversions hold in the basins toxic out gassings, winds veer north one day and back the next. Temperatures fluctuate in a four degree range for weeks. It's the driest water year on record for nearly all of California.
In remote rugged areas of Ventura and Santa Barbara counties goats chew on the chaparral. The thinning effect of the grazing suffices for fire suppression where more formal means are impractical. This year the goats aren't eating, the shrubs too dry and brittle to be palatable.
The other day I mentioned that I dropped my cell phone into a stream running along the side of the road. That stream, that stream that i have grown to resent more and more with each use of the poorly designed menu options on my replacement cell phone, is inauthentic. Maintenance for the omnipresent verdant theme park some 25 million live in. Gardeners scramble for time, robots water front lawns and I take the morning bus down Santa Monica Boulevard. The few open hillsides are dessicated to a dull brown, they are mottled with short brittle trees. They exude authenticity.
In this spirit I embrace the oncoming fire season. This gesture, while both reactionary and short sighted, has helped me find my bearings.
I am here.
With that said, I must inform you that people are mean. People are really mean. One customer in particular made my blood boil today. I was making drinks this morning while my manager was taking orders and the customer orders her, "extra dry iced cappuccino" -- impossible by the way -- and my manager shouted the drink order to me. The lady asks her, "can he do that?". The intonation is very important here however I can't find the words to convey the contempt for mankind she seems carry with her on an everyday basis. My manager defended me half-heartedly, but also walked away leaving me to charge her because the line had thinned out. I saunter over to the counter to ring her up and I charge her for a double.
She chides me.
She tells me she ordered a single.
She tells me that I shouldn't charge people without asking first.
She tells me that she caught me doing the same thing yesterday.
I apologize each time but it only makes her worse.
I thank her for pointing it out to me.
She repeats to me that she caught me doing the same thing yesterday.
I thank her for pointing it out to me twice.
She has an obvious face lift, huge sunglasses, coral lipstick, a slinky sleeveless black dress with white piping and pearls. She is indignant. Her brow gives clues to the expressions her eyes complete under her shades. I give her her drink. She lashes out "too much foam!".
I can tell she just wants to piss me off at this point -- it's obvious. But then it gets worse, she actually takes the lid off her cup and shakes the foam out onto the counter in front of me. I try to control the rush of blood i feel pulsing to my temples. with all goods received I thank her, I tell her goodbye, I tell her to have a nice day.
Her eyes narrow behind her shades to what I imagine now to be metallic spears, she extends her hand palm up, "didn't I give you a dime in that change."
"Here's your nickel ma'am, have a greeeat day!" -- I over annunciate in hopes she'd pick up on what to me is an obviously sarcastic statement. She storms out lidless with non-fat foam on her hand but she'll be back tomorrow. She's there everyday.
In the scheme of things I've had fairly little interaction with this woman but still the mind wandered at the bus stop. I daydream about leaning over the counter and slapping her upside the head. I wonder if anyone has ever called her out. I wonder if she could be shamed by a lesser. Even the transitory thought of the possibility of a scenario occurring is enough to run over my sensory system.... my mouth waters.
I'm not letting it bother me though -- no really, it's true. Since I'm fairly sure that most people capable of these behaviors are dumb as fucking tacks, I'm going to try to let a silent but all encompassing air of superiority be my guide. I'm not pompous.
It's justified under the assumption that the particular ilk of customer in question has some sort of luxury fetish. They have become well off by inheritance, marriage or under some sort of venture capitalist boondoggle -- I'm not too well informed on the subject but two good guesses would be either Chinese strip mines, or investment in chain luxury themed shopping environments (like the one I work for). Finally, they decide to invest their piles of cash in some gaudy mansion in the hills, terrifying plastic surgery and a ridiculous car. So, its easy to see why I feel justified in my blanketed statements of condemnation.
Themed shopping environments like the one I work for are on the rise, (they apparently just opened one in Dubai). What is so insidious about places like these is their gratuitous claims on authenticity. People come expecting a very controlled environment -- much like Disneyland. The menu is bilingual, with French being dominant. People opt to order in ridiculously bad French. Ask me if the bread is French. Our tables are made from wood salvaged from 19th century Belgian box cars. The yeast is from a culture taken from the founder in Brussels.
In a way Beverly Hills itself is a themed environment. Tourists wander the streets taking pictures of elaborate window displays for Imported lines of thigh cream and tasteless couture for the modern well to do working woman. Passersby gawk at luxury sedans, if traffic is light they rush to point them out to their companions. It defies reasoning but it remains an everyday occurrence on the walk to my bus-stop.
Perhaps my two weeks here has intensified my class consciousness. Perhaps it has that effect on a lot of people. Maybe the fact that I see these tourist gawk, pose and strut down the street is solid evidence for the prevalence of this collective class conscious. It's blatant here but it's pervasive throughout other areas of Southern California as well. It stymies most efforts towards any real progress in civic, and regional matters. Everyone wants theirs. It acts out with minor regional variations on a national level, (is this why the Wheel of Fortune is still on the air?). Brown-outs, and droughts function are more reasons to expand, more reasons to build palaces with near Olympic sized pools on marginal land, to increase bus fare and pay increased attention to the more pressing issues of the day.
Like what you ask? -- White flight in Orange County, of course.
UCLA released a study based on the most recent census data that reveals that the state is increasingly Latino. That for the first time ever in California history more people left the state last year than came in, (what about after the gold-rush?). A lot of the people leaving are white, they're leaving for places like Idaho, Washington, Oregon and Arizona, where new sub-developments remain plentiful and homogeneous communities are more or less present. That is the American Dream I suppose.
Watching the news in L.A., while not particularly shocking still manages to make my skin crawl. A reminder that the media is inherently racist. It creates a depiction of the world that manages to maintain the marginalization of the regions majority ethnic groups. It is unbelievable. It would be conceivable under isolated enclave conditions however that is nowhere near reality, some twenty-odd million people. It's amazing and it will perpetuate itself indefinitely. This is familiar to me. I know this. I grew up with this. It reintroduces itself to me like an old friend. Experience draws me to remark on new particularities.
Something in me enjoys place; The feeling that one location is distinct from any other. Despite worsening conditions, homogenization is nowhere near complete. I decontextualize a location first by looking at a map. I see a field of blue. An ocean. I see some mountains nearby I will never go to. I see a basin and a desert. This is my home. I look at an irrational grid system of streets laid out with north-south and east-west running streets all running roughly at 45 degrees. I get lost on paper. I am seeking some sort of distinctive feature that doesn't seem prefabricated.
Los Angeles. Mini malls, hazy pale skies and graying asphalt. The original dream of everyday resort living that drew millions of White Midwesterners a half century ago in a gradual decay. That is the only truth I can really find. So I embrace it, I wallow in its filthiness, its littered streets and orange street lights. The would-be paradise. I love it. It remains distinctive despite it's better efforts. Buildings erected twenty years start to show signs of their use and the indistinct borders of neighborhoods take shape. City erected wrought iron gates isolate neighborhoods. A dying cactus. A giant handmade sign warning children not to play in the yard. A faded poster photograph of James Dean in the kitchen window. I am looking for small things.
I read the cryptic text forecasts from the local branch of the national weather service. Temperature inversions hold in the basins toxic out gassings, winds veer north one day and back the next. Temperatures fluctuate in a four degree range for weeks. It's the driest water year on record for nearly all of California.
In remote rugged areas of Ventura and Santa Barbara counties goats chew on the chaparral. The thinning effect of the grazing suffices for fire suppression where more formal means are impractical. This year the goats aren't eating, the shrubs too dry and brittle to be palatable.
The other day I mentioned that I dropped my cell phone into a stream running along the side of the road. That stream, that stream that i have grown to resent more and more with each use of the poorly designed menu options on my replacement cell phone, is inauthentic. Maintenance for the omnipresent verdant theme park some 25 million live in. Gardeners scramble for time, robots water front lawns and I take the morning bus down Santa Monica Boulevard. The few open hillsides are dessicated to a dull brown, they are mottled with short brittle trees. They exude authenticity.
In this spirit I embrace the oncoming fire season. This gesture, while both reactionary and short sighted, has helped me find my bearings.
I am here.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Tropical Depression
I hear a sound that I strain to decipher. I wonder if it a dog or a flock of geese, terribly lost over Venice Boulevard.
Yesterday == sunburn;
today == judge judy at my work;
tomorrow == work later;
endl;
endl;
endl;
I spent the afternoon clipping coupons, binging on fresh strawberries and looking at cryptic text forecast discussions on the national weather service pages. The marine layer doesn't want to give in today. I still couldn't help but think my fifteen minute wait at the bus stop wasn't helping my condition. I had a pounding head-ache and my throat felt as if I might be catching something. I took a walk to the grocery store past the stucco sea foam green hubbles that line venice boulevard to the market to buy cat food. Obscenely cute guys both wearing YMCA polos in front of me at the check out buying tons of frozen lean cuisine entrees, and a representative of every member of the Kashi product line. I couldn't understand if they were related or if it was some sort of gay analog to the pets-looking-like-their-owners thing.
I've decided that I want to learn spanish. It seems like a lot of the nicest people I encounter, at bus stops and co-workers, people I ask for directions half the time, don't speak english very well... It's frustrating, so I want to remedy it. Maybe It'll be my summer project until school kicks in.
The customers at my work, while predominantly english speaking, are very snotty. A lot of people on the west-side are snotty. People at bus stops and people walking are generally a better lot, but you know what they say, "One bad apple...", right? I could give a single example but my mind boggles at the sheer enormity of cases I could choose from. These people are sick wastes of human flesh. Parasites that suck off the blood of anything accessible to their position in the social fabric. People who take courtesy for granted while not extending even the most basic consideration to the feelings of others. sick. sick. sick.
My work is next to a plastic surgeon. Every day I've walked home, through tinted windows I see some old rich lady in huge designer sun glasses bandaged and bruised up six ways to sunday barreling out of the alley in some tacky fancy car. Depending on my mood I extend my hand to feign a signal that expresses my right of way, somedays I take the side of caution and stand there and wait for a break in the alley traffic. I pray for sudden engine failure followed by an engine leak that precipitates a series of sudden punctuated fiery explosions, but to no success.
Well maybe that might be going a little too far but I do hate these people. These people who request a bag for there bread, a box for their bag and a bigger bag for their box. Their snotty kids with their tiny dogs. The overpriced cupcake boutique across the street, (choke choke choke. choke on it!). Ahhh....
Work can be nice sometimes too though. There are moments of unexpected kindness and ease. Nurses from the clinic down the alley who deign to attempt simple conversation. tips. cloudy days and a random man named Dion who introduced himself as follows: " Hey hey! (loud and short, punctuated) my names Dion and I'm one coooool cat." He introduces himself to the matronly blonde lady in a pantsuit, Dior sunglasses and pearls similarly. He manages to get a limp hand-shake after three attempts. He walks to the door and stops to pour some cream in his coffee. The blonde woman orders some order with too many special instructions, most of which make no sense and pays... The drink is made with all obnoxious requests ignored. She takes the drink and steps aside and waits there with pursed lips and a blank face. The man behind her starts to order and congenially asks her why shes still standing there. She responds in a low hiss, "I'm waiting for him to leave".
A sunburned old man walks in (possibly french but the accent seemed suspicious), asks me if the baguettes are french. I want to to make some smart ass comment but I resist. I say yes and he orders two. He tells me to save two everyday for him from now on, and there are easily 50 behind me. "surrre thing sir".
Yesterday == sunburn;
today == judge judy at my work;
tomorrow == work later;
endl;
endl;
endl;
I spent the afternoon clipping coupons, binging on fresh strawberries and looking at cryptic text forecast discussions on the national weather service pages. The marine layer doesn't want to give in today. I still couldn't help but think my fifteen minute wait at the bus stop wasn't helping my condition. I had a pounding head-ache and my throat felt as if I might be catching something. I took a walk to the grocery store past the stucco sea foam green hubbles that line venice boulevard to the market to buy cat food. Obscenely cute guys both wearing YMCA polos in front of me at the check out buying tons of frozen lean cuisine entrees, and a representative of every member of the Kashi product line. I couldn't understand if they were related or if it was some sort of gay analog to the pets-looking-like-their-owners thing.
I've decided that I want to learn spanish. It seems like a lot of the nicest people I encounter, at bus stops and co-workers, people I ask for directions half the time, don't speak english very well... It's frustrating, so I want to remedy it. Maybe It'll be my summer project until school kicks in.
The customers at my work, while predominantly english speaking, are very snotty. A lot of people on the west-side are snotty. People at bus stops and people walking are generally a better lot, but you know what they say, "One bad apple...", right? I could give a single example but my mind boggles at the sheer enormity of cases I could choose from. These people are sick wastes of human flesh. Parasites that suck off the blood of anything accessible to their position in the social fabric. People who take courtesy for granted while not extending even the most basic consideration to the feelings of others. sick. sick. sick.
My work is next to a plastic surgeon. Every day I've walked home, through tinted windows I see some old rich lady in huge designer sun glasses bandaged and bruised up six ways to sunday barreling out of the alley in some tacky fancy car. Depending on my mood I extend my hand to feign a signal that expresses my right of way, somedays I take the side of caution and stand there and wait for a break in the alley traffic. I pray for sudden engine failure followed by an engine leak that precipitates a series of sudden punctuated fiery explosions, but to no success.
Well maybe that might be going a little too far but I do hate these people. These people who request a bag for there bread, a box for their bag and a bigger bag for their box. Their snotty kids with their tiny dogs. The overpriced cupcake boutique across the street, (choke choke choke. choke on it!). Ahhh....
Work can be nice sometimes too though. There are moments of unexpected kindness and ease. Nurses from the clinic down the alley who deign to attempt simple conversation. tips. cloudy days and a random man named Dion who introduced himself as follows: " Hey hey! (loud and short, punctuated) my names Dion and I'm one coooool cat." He introduces himself to the matronly blonde lady in a pantsuit, Dior sunglasses and pearls similarly. He manages to get a limp hand-shake after three attempts. He walks to the door and stops to pour some cream in his coffee. The blonde woman orders some order with too many special instructions, most of which make no sense and pays... The drink is made with all obnoxious requests ignored. She takes the drink and steps aside and waits there with pursed lips and a blank face. The man behind her starts to order and congenially asks her why shes still standing there. She responds in a low hiss, "I'm waiting for him to leave".
A sunburned old man walks in (possibly french but the accent seemed suspicious), asks me if the baguettes are french. I want to to make some smart ass comment but I resist. I say yes and he orders two. He tells me to save two everyday for him from now on, and there are easily 50 behind me. "surrre thing sir".
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Windows
A couple of weeks ago while moving all of my possessions from the basement where I had slept for the past two years up a narrow staircase to the living room where I had lived with room mates, a television, and multiple animals I managed to break a window. The window was small and most likely original to the hundred year old house. The window did not open, and only looked out to the dank underside of my upstairs neighbor's staircase. A mint plant had managed to forge a few of its branches into the house along its top. I broke it, and the panes just sat in place - busted - like a large scale model of a clean bullet hole. I had been trying to fit a box spring upstairs through the steep and narrow staircase with no success. I had the box spring angled half way up the stairs with the weight rested on a washer which was in front of the drab grey stuccoed utility sink which was in front of the window. I tried a lot of different angles to get the bed up the stairs, one of them had one of the corners of the bed against the window. I hear the ephemeral crinkle of glass and I feel defeated. I continued to move my things but did so through the back door and around the garden on the side of the house and up the porch steps, through the front door and back to the living room. Eventually my room had few clues left of my time there and I felt accomplished. I decided to walk up the stairs and confess to one of my room mates.
I had never broken a window before. It's a unique feeling, very permanent, very consequential. So I made it up the steep and narrow staircase, with its steps covered in brown shag carpet, cat hair, dust and tracked in kitty litter. I bent over the last steep step to form a posture similar to being on all fours. I walked into the living room and casually inserted the broken window into conversation. It barely elicited a reaction. I felt relieved.
Windows were always being broken in the house I grew up in. One time one of my brothers threw one of my sisters out a bedroom window out onto a thorny dwarfed lemon tree, (it was a ranch style house, so it was only a 1/2 story drop), but I guess I was too young to take note of how involved the replacement was.
Then there's the story of how I ended up renting a room in the house to begin with. I had been living a couple of blocks around the corner on the other side of Alberta street with a few people who put an ad on craigslist but people were moving out of town and the whole thing fell apart. So I repeat myself and answer ads off craigslist. I get a response to show a place on the 30th of December with only two days left before the end of my rental agreement. I took the five minute walk over to the other side of Alberta and walk up the porch steps. I knock after drilling my thumb into the derelict doorbell with no success. A woman I met at a craft fair some months back answers the door. We're both a little surprised and I had a good feeling that it could work. Another woman and a man introduce themselves, a couple, and the craft fair woman shows me around the house. A few minutes in the coupled woman yells to the craft fair woman from the basement, she asks her to bring a baseball bat (on this point i'm not completely clear). The craft fair woman excuses herself politely and runs down the steep and narrow stair case without bringing down any sort of improvised weapon. I just stood at the top of the stairs awkwardly for some sort of indication for me to walk downstairs. It came a few minutes later and I walked down the stairs and met them halfway. We walked down to a doorway into a converted basement bedroom. The coupled woman laughed nervously as she opened the door to reveal a frigidly cold room, (it snowed the next day), with fire engine red shag carpeting, a wall comprised of cork strips and artificial wood paneling, an absent closet and a broken window. They stood there awkwardly and asked, "so, what do you think?". I look around pretending to take stock of its few amenities and responded, "i'll take it." The next day I moved in. The window remained broken for about a week. I had some friends from out of town come in on the greyhound and we put up a black hefty bag over the window but snow still managed to drift in overnight.
It turned out the guy who lived in the room before had broken the window while trying to move a giant keyboard out of the room. So my act of breaking a window in the basement could be viewed as an act of continuity I guess.
I had anxious dreams the night before reenacting the window breaking, each one having slight variations from the one it proceeded. I woke up knowing that it was not a dream and I had indeed broken the window. I told my other roomate, (the craft fair woman mentioned earlier), over the phone about the window. She told me that we fixed the window ourselves last time and that it wasn't very difficult.
The next day I loaded up of my things stacked in boxes on the living room floor onto an old primer grey toyota pick-up my room mate had borrowed from a friend and we headed off to the train station in old town to freight my things down to Los Angeles. The service was prompt and it only cost me a little over one hundred dollars to send just about everything i own down the coast.
The following day, a sunday, two weeks ago. I went down the steep and narrow staircase and picked up a measuring tape and set out measuring the window pane I had broken so that I could set everything right before I left town. First I measured the pane horizontal, I did so with some difficulty as I had to lean my body over the utility sink to get near enough to the window, which threw off my center of gravity somewhat. I managed to get a close reading, and continued to measure horizontally without too much effort. I then tried to measure diagonally as an extra control to make sure the measurements were correct. As I was measuring my I placed my weight a little on the hand that was measuring the upper limit of the glass. All at once my hand went through and the shards which had previously been assembled like a delicate jigsaw puzzle fell apart. I yanked my hand back and it was covered in blood, I shouted nervously and walked briskly up the steep and narrow steps up to the main floor and walked into the kitchen and turned the sink on and placed my left hand underneath the water. The blood washed away and a 1/2 inch thick v shaped flap of flesh wriggled underneath the stream of water revealing what looked like, (and actually turned out to be), bone. I went into the bathroom and my room mate and room mate's friends from out of town crowded in to see. I sat on the toilet with my arm in the air laughing nervously. One of the friends turned out to be a med student and told me to go to the ER. After a few minutes of resisting on financial grounds I decided to give in.
My room mate that didn't have friends in town drove me to the ER and we sat there for a hour until they saw me. I ended up going into another room where a middle aged woman dressed in a white lab coat with curly red hair and glasses came in to see me. She gave me four shots along the base of my pinky finger, which made it swell up to the size of a small pale purple hotdog. She put seven stitches in and dressed the wound and I was on my way. The next couple of days I couldn't stop replaying the cut in my mind. Stewing over the permanence of the reaction.
A couple of days later I took a flight down with my cat aboard. My parents picked me up and we spent the day getting lost, in traffic and at the Target in Culver City. I moved into an apartment that was tiny and barren and I slept in a towel on the carpet for a couple of days until the freight came down, (it was delayed due to a derailment).
I went on a couple of job interviews barely able to write and managed to find a job. The day before my first day I took a pair of manicure scissors and tweezers I had purchased from the Long's up the street and took out the stitches on my living room floor. Although the hanging lip of flesh managed to adhere itself back onto my finger while it was stitched, it still looks as if a small gale could have it detached. Even after I will continue to buy bandaids from the Beverly Hills Rite Aid down the street from my work because the scar would doubtlessly disgust the patrons.
My new apartment doesn't really have windows, instead it has fiberglass shudders that operate like venetian blinds.
I had never broken a window before. It's a unique feeling, very permanent, very consequential. So I made it up the steep and narrow staircase, with its steps covered in brown shag carpet, cat hair, dust and tracked in kitty litter. I bent over the last steep step to form a posture similar to being on all fours. I walked into the living room and casually inserted the broken window into conversation. It barely elicited a reaction. I felt relieved.
Windows were always being broken in the house I grew up in. One time one of my brothers threw one of my sisters out a bedroom window out onto a thorny dwarfed lemon tree, (it was a ranch style house, so it was only a 1/2 story drop), but I guess I was too young to take note of how involved the replacement was.
Then there's the story of how I ended up renting a room in the house to begin with. I had been living a couple of blocks around the corner on the other side of Alberta street with a few people who put an ad on craigslist but people were moving out of town and the whole thing fell apart. So I repeat myself and answer ads off craigslist. I get a response to show a place on the 30th of December with only two days left before the end of my rental agreement. I took the five minute walk over to the other side of Alberta and walk up the porch steps. I knock after drilling my thumb into the derelict doorbell with no success. A woman I met at a craft fair some months back answers the door. We're both a little surprised and I had a good feeling that it could work. Another woman and a man introduce themselves, a couple, and the craft fair woman shows me around the house. A few minutes in the coupled woman yells to the craft fair woman from the basement, she asks her to bring a baseball bat (on this point i'm not completely clear). The craft fair woman excuses herself politely and runs down the steep and narrow stair case without bringing down any sort of improvised weapon. I just stood at the top of the stairs awkwardly for some sort of indication for me to walk downstairs. It came a few minutes later and I walked down the stairs and met them halfway. We walked down to a doorway into a converted basement bedroom. The coupled woman laughed nervously as she opened the door to reveal a frigidly cold room, (it snowed the next day), with fire engine red shag carpeting, a wall comprised of cork strips and artificial wood paneling, an absent closet and a broken window. They stood there awkwardly and asked, "so, what do you think?". I look around pretending to take stock of its few amenities and responded, "i'll take it." The next day I moved in. The window remained broken for about a week. I had some friends from out of town come in on the greyhound and we put up a black hefty bag over the window but snow still managed to drift in overnight.
It turned out the guy who lived in the room before had broken the window while trying to move a giant keyboard out of the room. So my act of breaking a window in the basement could be viewed as an act of continuity I guess.
I had anxious dreams the night before reenacting the window breaking, each one having slight variations from the one it proceeded. I woke up knowing that it was not a dream and I had indeed broken the window. I told my other roomate, (the craft fair woman mentioned earlier), over the phone about the window. She told me that we fixed the window ourselves last time and that it wasn't very difficult.
The next day I loaded up of my things stacked in boxes on the living room floor onto an old primer grey toyota pick-up my room mate had borrowed from a friend and we headed off to the train station in old town to freight my things down to Los Angeles. The service was prompt and it only cost me a little over one hundred dollars to send just about everything i own down the coast.
The following day, a sunday, two weeks ago. I went down the steep and narrow staircase and picked up a measuring tape and set out measuring the window pane I had broken so that I could set everything right before I left town. First I measured the pane horizontal, I did so with some difficulty as I had to lean my body over the utility sink to get near enough to the window, which threw off my center of gravity somewhat. I managed to get a close reading, and continued to measure horizontally without too much effort. I then tried to measure diagonally as an extra control to make sure the measurements were correct. As I was measuring my I placed my weight a little on the hand that was measuring the upper limit of the glass. All at once my hand went through and the shards which had previously been assembled like a delicate jigsaw puzzle fell apart. I yanked my hand back and it was covered in blood, I shouted nervously and walked briskly up the steep and narrow steps up to the main floor and walked into the kitchen and turned the sink on and placed my left hand underneath the water. The blood washed away and a 1/2 inch thick v shaped flap of flesh wriggled underneath the stream of water revealing what looked like, (and actually turned out to be), bone. I went into the bathroom and my room mate and room mate's friends from out of town crowded in to see. I sat on the toilet with my arm in the air laughing nervously. One of the friends turned out to be a med student and told me to go to the ER. After a few minutes of resisting on financial grounds I decided to give in.
My room mate that didn't have friends in town drove me to the ER and we sat there for a hour until they saw me. I ended up going into another room where a middle aged woman dressed in a white lab coat with curly red hair and glasses came in to see me. She gave me four shots along the base of my pinky finger, which made it swell up to the size of a small pale purple hotdog. She put seven stitches in and dressed the wound and I was on my way. The next couple of days I couldn't stop replaying the cut in my mind. Stewing over the permanence of the reaction.
A couple of days later I took a flight down with my cat aboard. My parents picked me up and we spent the day getting lost, in traffic and at the Target in Culver City. I moved into an apartment that was tiny and barren and I slept in a towel on the carpet for a couple of days until the freight came down, (it was delayed due to a derailment).
I went on a couple of job interviews barely able to write and managed to find a job. The day before my first day I took a pair of manicure scissors and tweezers I had purchased from the Long's up the street and took out the stitches on my living room floor. Although the hanging lip of flesh managed to adhere itself back onto my finger while it was stitched, it still looks as if a small gale could have it detached. Even after I will continue to buy bandaids from the Beverly Hills Rite Aid down the street from my work because the scar would doubtlessly disgust the patrons.
My new apartment doesn't really have windows, instead it has fiberglass shudders that operate like venetian blinds.
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