A Little Less Conversation...

Leaving work early.

Going to Vegas.

Will rob several casino vaults, make eyes at fine security managers, sink into an alcoholic despair, help Trishelle through a fake pregnancy ordeal, do lots of drugs and wake up in a bunny suit, whoop it up with Wayne Newton, trade a night with my wife for a million bucks, hang out with an Elvis impersonator or 2 or 50... that's what happens there, right? Right?

Have good weekends, bitches!

I Am Marla Frimmons

Marla Frimmons, with her gold-tone necklaces and Bayonne "I'm from Jersey and whaddya gon' do about it?" attitude, arrives at the exclusive Yuke University, ready to kick up a shitstorm.

The Frimmons family--Marla and her father--pulled their 1998 Ford Crown Victoria into Yuke's Ebrington Hall parking lot on its fine and swarthily Augustian moving day. Marla exited the vehicle, taking in the campus. The stone halls! This utopia--this--Mecca--of learning! Of knowledge! There for the plucking, if she would only reach out her hand! She did reach out her hand, and pushed a strand of hair, stiff with VO5 aerosol spray, off her forehead.

"I'm sweating fucking balls here Pops." She looked around more.

The grass! The absolute green of it! How ever did they keep it so bright, so verdant! The sidewalks of Bayonne had nothing on this, with their black spots of ground in gum, and glass shards glinting like mica.

Marla released a dainty pied from her three-and-a-half inch Candies wedge heel, and dragged a rhinestoned toenail through the succulent blades.

"This grass is gonna give me a fuckin' rash," she said.

A rash. A rash. A Yuke rash. A badge of honor, the Yuke Rash.

A well-built young man in a "Welcome to Yuke" t-shirt bumped her elbow with his dolly.

"Sorry," he said, looking at her a bit too long.

"Yeah, I bet," Marla snorted. "Look where you're fucking going."

The young man was confused. He pushed back his thatchy hair and stared at this, this... freshman! This nobody who dared use Fuck Padaloodie on him, a respected sophomore, an almost brother of DeltaOmiWhatticon!

He smiled at her, real easy.

"Yeah, yeah," Marla said. "Take a fucking picture."

And then Marla Frimmons kicked Yuke's dusty ass.




(Been reading too much Tom Wolfe. I know he invented New Journalism and all, but I Am Not Charlotte Simmons).

Drawbacks of Yuppiedom

"Meg," my friend G. says. "Meg, we have a problem."

It turns out G. had left her apartment in a tizzy that morning. She was in such a tizzy that she had forgotten about her cleaning lady. She had left the place a mess---"I mean, it was kind of shameful"---had forgotten to leave her money---"I forgot to leave her money!---and had left her sex toy out on the bed. Oopsie.

Was it still there when she got back? Had the cleaning lady moved it?

"It was in the drawer."

Was she planning to pay her extra?

"Um, yeah."

Was that the worst of it?

"No."

G. also realized that she'd left a recent bachelorette party Polaroid on her dresser. Within context, an amusing and clearly staged snapshot. Without context...

"I think Lupe thinks I'm a whore."



Wow. This makes me very relieved that I clean my own apartment.

Kind of.

Santa Monica: Cool As Cucumber

I wonder if Teb's tried this.


Oh, to be male and non-Northeastern.

Also, in Hollywood, a different way of working the corner:

Tasty

Freelance director to our swishing blonde videologger:

"Can I use your computer?"

SBV: Sure.

"Check out this website. Banging corpses. You're a little freak, aren'tcha? You're a little freak! I like that!"

SBV: Um...

"Man this shit is freaky. This shit is 1983."

SBV: I was born in 1983.

"You're just a little appetizer then, aren'tcha?"


Yes, I guess she is. An appetizer of deadly megu.

I Saw A Homeless Little Person On Wilshire

He was sunburned and shirtless and extremely hairy.

This came to mind first.



And then I felt like a bad person. I cleared my head. Searched for a more suitable image to link with little people, you know? Because I am trying to be open-minded and accepting. Trying to get my brain out of the 70s.



It's a little bit of progress. Maybe. Perhaps I should stop trying.

Brad Pitt Was At POP Sound And I Didn't See Him

I had to stay at the office; my operative only caught a glimpse, anyway. I could feel him, though. Santa Monica positively buzzed with his energy. You could feel it, vaguely pinging around the air molecules, images of him bouncing on the motel bed in Thelma and Louise, lines of "Welcome to Fight Club" buzzing through the atmosphere... does he have other zingy lines? Let me think about this... yeah, there's... wait...

...hrm. I guess he's more of a visual star.

Maybe Dennis Was Right

He told me not to call the cat Weezy. He said it was like naming her sickly.

My little Weezer has taken several backwards steps in her battle against snotfacedness and goopy-eye syndrome.

Woooooo another evening at the vet.

If a cat is this much trouble, honestly, I don't see how people have children.

--------
LATER
--------

Kitty Kitty is doing much better. She's even eating; I'm glad her dropping 10% of her body weight in a week was just because of a cold, rather than my relentless pressure, type-A browbeating perfectionism, and unrealistically high expectations of her academic, athletic, and social performance manifesting themselves in a feline need for her to seize control of her life through discipline over food. It turns out that she just likes her meals the way mommy likes her sunglasses: esoterically procured and far overpriced.

Judge John G. Roberts

I mean, I knew the White House would nominate a young 'un, but this is taking it a little far. What, he'll just throw on last Halloween's Harry Potter robe and start talking torts?



Oh wait, zoom out--Judge John is on the left. I was confused.



He still looks pretty young--no gray hair, even. Maybe he uses Just For Men. His Fembot there could do a better job controlling the kid, no? Oh wait, that's his wife. I take back the Harry Potter comment--they look too Christian for that. I should stop now. Haven't had my morning Doubleshot. I strongly dislike the Republican party.

On The Mocha

Have you ever had a good iced mocha from Starbucks?

I doubt it; even the good ones are mediocre.

BUT.

This mediocrity does not apply to mochas specified as "Black & White." Made properly, the iced Black & White mocha is possibly the best mass-produced iced mocha recipe available, trouncing its main competitor, the pale imitation over at Coffee Bean. The race seems closer than it is, because Coffee Bean's use of powder over syrup gives its beverage an immediate rich, uniformly creamy texture--even with nonfat milk! This is very fine. But then they add ice cubes the size of peas, which melt in <3 minutes. Much like the buzz the beverage provides, Coffee Bean's mocha pleasure is temporal, and your plastic bucket of delicious, semi-sludgy empty calorie goodness quickly becomes a watery waste of caffeine. The Black & White mocha, while lacking that smoothness so reminiscent of concentrated Swiss Miss, plays tortoise to the Coffee Bean's hare, and stands up to the march of time. Should one nicely ask the barista to go light on the ice, the pleasure is two--nay, three--fold.

Anyway, our runner was a bit frazzled today, and I didn't want to burden him with remembering "iced grande half-caf skim Zebra, no whip light on the ice." This was a mistake. I am now drinking the worst mocha I have ever tasted.

Hee-Hawing Our Way Through the Rose Garden

Check out this webcast from the White House (jump to about 10 minutes in). The press corps blatantly laughs at the President. His response is to lean on the podium and join in the giggles, as if to say, "yeah, you got me."

I think our entire government is symbolic, a la Britain's monarchy, and that President Bush is the first executive leader to realize it while still in office, and just, you know, "have fun with it."

Frontrunner for O'Connor's seat: Edith Clements (will announce today). She goes by "Joy."

This can't be good.

Name Game

Cat's name is Ouisa. I named her after the delightful Stockard Channing character in Six Degrees of Separation and I don't really care that you don't like it, because she's my pet. You may call her Weeza, Weezy, or Weezer for short. Or "Kitty Kitty," which is what I generally use. Actually, you can call her anything. Appropriate.

Six Degrees of Separation, besides inspiring the endlessly diverting Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game (I am 2 degrees, natch), is a rather fantastic John Guare play and somewhat mediocre 1993 movie about a patrician Upper East Side couple and the young black-n-gay hustler who changes their lives. The couple has a notably tricked out art collection. I wouldn't mind one of those.

I mostly like that it opens and ends with a revolving Kandinsky in the middle of the stage. I could see that completely making some poor assistant stage manager its complete bitch.

Ah, theater.

Kristy and the Shoes

Kristy was a chill girl, a nice girl. Kristy was new to the West Coast, and oh, what a Chicagoan life she had left behind! (In Chicago, people have Conversations about Things. I remember this kind of life, but only faintly). Was Kristy ready for the corporeal appeal of Los Angeles, city of sin and silicone and smog?

Kristy soon discovered the limited delights of Prey and Bliss and Nacional and then, like so many new Angelenos, quickly tired of them. Such places are intended for 19-year-olds fresh from their appearance on Dr. 90210, and such a creature Kristy was not. Kristy discovered a more accessible watering hole at Del's Saloon, on Santa Monica near the super-smokin' Smart & Final and did what any sensible person in need of a break would do: went to Vegas for the weekend.

Kristy reviewed her Las Vegas wardrobe:

1 pair terry-cloth sweatpants
1 pair flip-flops
1 jean
assorted wifebeater tank tops, swimwear

Brilliance! Brilliance! While sunning herself by the hotel pool, Kristy struck up a conversation with a friendly man, B. B. had sensitive skin and had to go inside, but would she like to go to Pur later on? B. seemed nice enough that Kristy might have set aside her distaste for vaguely European-sounding, monosyllabicly titled enterprises, particularly ones inadvertently reminiscent of water filtration systems, but alas--it was no matter; she had to decline. Pur does not allow flip-flops. Pur is a little like LA clubs, firm in its belief that thongs are for asses.

Ah well. Kristy took it in stride. B., on the other hand: crushed.

He was so crushed that he went to Prada and had them send some shoes up to her room.

I'm going to Vegas with work people very soon. And I am going learn from Kristy, and get me some of that.





Kristy's account here.

Grown Ups Can Be Fun

What a lovely night it is, when you begin it with your producer, an editor, and an assistant in Palms. How lovely it is to continue on to Silver Lake in the BMW belonging to said editor, who dresses like the guys in your 4th-grade homeroom, sandwiched between the door and the baby seat ("Sorry dudette; forgot to take it out"). How fun to find a parking spot directly across from Spaceland, and to hotbox the BMW in plain view of everyone on line, attempting to exhale away from the baby seat. If only we had had the forethought to bring the 2-foot bong recently sent over as a "thanks for ordering all that DV equipment" gift from Revolt Pro Media. How totally sweet to drink and drink and jump around to Weird War and charge everything to the company AmEx.

So sometimes my job is cool.

I Struggle to Resist the Crazy Cat Lady Within

I have to write a Mildred-free post, or you're going to think of me as one of these:



When I was a small child I thought that being a cat lady was really cool.

"My aunt has 24 cats! I can't wait until I'm grown up and can have 24 cats!"

And then my parents would kind of shift their weight uncomfortably, and interrupt before I could embarrass myself/them further.

Is my first-grade prophecy fulfilling itself?

When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers!

Fuck! It is! I'm kind of grown-up. I don't have a boyfriend. I write about my cat on the blog incessantly. Can talking about my cat incessantly be far behind? Will I stay home during social events to keep my cat company? What if I order cat stationary, or start IMing from CatzRool275, or set up an account at millionsofcatsbutneverenoughcats.com?

I think knowing is half the battle on this one. Knowing, and possessing an at least semi-active social life. I'm going to be okay.

I mean, look at my exciting weekend plans:

Friday: 80s night at The Space for my roommate's birthday.
Saturday: Weird War at Spaceland.
Sunday: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Because it's going to rock, and you know it, so shut up already. Yeah, I've seen the Gene Wilder version at least 300 times, too. But they can be good independently of one another. Really, they can. Okay?

Okay.

I'm wearing leg warmers tonight.
















Ok nominations for Mildred's new name include Harper, Stella, Babette, Snoozer, Titania, Evie, Rosalind, Celia, Lyssy, Pepper, and Ouisa (Weezy for short). Suggestions welcome. Ok cat talk done, for real this time, I swear.

Fuck! Really!

Mildred?

Yeah, I don't think I'm going to name her Mildred. Maybe. The roommates and I ran through about 9213847238947 possible names and none quite fit... we just know it won't be Honeydrop, Lydia, or Hated One.

She's very cute, though. If kind of sneezy.

Mildred!

Joy! La! Mildred is at the West LA shelter! They called me! She is doing well! I am going to get her now! I am a responsible pet owner!

More Mildred Update!

So I talked to the "charming" staff at the South LA shelter. I think I'm going to have to miss some work to go get Mildred, because it's very possible that these people walk around with overfull euthanizing syringes, "accidentally" sticking random animals when they get bored.

Hang in there Mildred! Cough medicine and a euthanasia-free home are coming very soon! Don't die!

Mildred Update

Mildred has been sent back to the South LA shelter, as she has contracted a cold.

The South LA shelter, which is nowhere near where I live or work, and which is open only during my own working hours. And whose phone line is apparently never freakin' free.

At least they didn't kill her.

Thank you, City of Los Angeles. Your bureaucracy's ease of use, once again: amazing.

Mildred, Where Art Thou?

Okay, Animal Birth Control Center: Pico Blvd. I was willing to play along with your "influx of animals" yesterday morning. There were many other kittens getting adopted along with dear Mildred on Sunday and I get that you can't just magically spay/castrate them all at once.

But you have no record of my animal? Are you f-ing kidding me?

They have killed my cat. I can feel it. Mildred, where are you?

Day the Sixth

There is no day the sixth. I'm sick, I require sustenance, and I am phasing the brothy soups in early. Master Cleanse, we barely knew ye. Maybe we'll do a full run in August.

In much bigger news, I went to an adoption fair and got myself a kitten. Yeah, that's right, a motherfuckin' kitten. I am a responsible pet owner. I pick up little Mildred from the feline hysterectomy doctor later today. She's quite fantastic.

I did some calculations yesterday, and should Millie escape getting lost or trampled by car wheels, I'll have her until I'm 40.

Day The Fifth

K. sent me some encouragement.

Day the Third of Master Cleanse

Ok, the Master Cleanse Spicy Lemonade was really grossing me out this morning. I stood at my kitchen counter, citrus fruits and cutting board and manual juicer at the ready, wondering exactly how much more maple syrup and cayenne I could actually take. I began thinking about foods I enjoy. And then I almost made myself a big, delicious salad for breakfast.

Oh, the delicious salad. A big--and I mean big--bowl filled right to the fucking brim with bite-sized hearts of romaine, tiny red and yellow cherry tomatoes, and thinly sliced red onion, all lightly but thoroughly coated with a strawberry-balsamic-dijon vinaigrette and liberally sprinkled with dry, crumbly chevre and a few twists of black pepper. I could've eaten the whole thing. I would've eaten it with salad tongs, and then I would've made more. And I would have been so happy.

Floating on the cloud of my salad daydream, I opened the fridge and stared at the artisanal and semi-stinky triple-cream goat cheese I purchased just last week. I noticed the bin of baby spinach, to which my roommate said I am always welcome. Can you imagine the ecstasy I was imagining, as I also noticed the balsamic vinegar from the other day, reserved from when we'd soaked it with market strawberries, cane sugar, and just a hefty pinch of salt? I grinned maniacally, and danced a little to the beat of "She Drives Me Crazy" in front of the fridge. Oh, this salad was gonna be good. Oh man. I imagined that first bite of salad, and stopped.

No. It would be empty ecstasy, the one-night stand of salads, initially fulfilling but quickly surrounded by guilt and emptiness. Plus I think I'm adjusted enough to liquids that solid food might make me cramp.

So I made my Master Cleanse Spicy Lemonade.

I halved the maple syrup and reduced the cayenne, though, so now it's more like Master Cleanse Watery Lemon Juice.

Tomorrow I am going to wake up feeling light and airy, as though I have been massaged by the cherubim and pampered in heaven's own health spa.

If I don't, I'm eating the salad.

Reviews of New Food: Master Cleanse Spicy Lemonade

I have been reading McSweeney's Reviews of New Food for the last hour, in retaliation for not taking a lunch break (unjustified, as I am not eating lunch but instead sipping my spicy-sugary beverage and resisting the casual urge for Pringles ~4x hourly while tallying shipping invoices).

McSweeney's Internet Tendency Presents:
Reviews of New Food
(careful not to read it all at once, or around people who you prefer see you dry-eyed, with an intact gut)

McSweeney's, which I have for several years privately viewed as obtuse, unapproachable, masturbatory, and gauche, has finally cracked me. I find it hilarious. And given that I have sworn to ingest only Master Cleanse Spicy Lemonade until the Saturday the next, it comforts me to know that according to the likes of Gregory Plemmons, Jonathan Shipley, and Other People I Have Never Heard Of, I'm not missing out on much.

The Master Cleanse

C. and I are tag-teaming in an effort to rid our bodies of unwanted toxins, and we are not fucking around. We need an ally in this pursuit, and if it must be a difficult one, then so be it.

We are taking on The Master Cleanse.

For the next ten days, we will consume nothing but this special drink of lemons and maple syrup and cayenne pepper and water. Plus the occasional "internal salt water bath" (don't ask. Seriously, don't even speculate).

Never fear, it's perfectly safe. I read it on the Internet, so it must be true.

WOLboys*

Yes, KA boys continue to exist outside school. Yep yep. Only they call themselves "Funboys," make matching shirts for each other, and wear them to bars where they shimmy together while tossing around slightly rehearsed homosexual epithets. In general, act like douchebags.

So now I remember why I never hung out with frat boys.

This guy sucks particular ass, so if you see him around, please kick him in the nuts.




*supersecret code for Waste Of Life
(see New Zealand emails, April 2003).

Sandra Day O'Connor Resigned This Morning

Yes, it's official, women are fucked.



What am I saying? Women aren't fucked. Everyone is fucked.

Screw the "warm, bipartisan praise" she technically deserves. Bitch couldn't stick it out a few more years?

So if you're into Sesame Street, medical care, civil liberties (blinds on your windows, etc.), foods other than steak, and/or not getting shot, I suggest you get your fill ASAP.


This will help you ineffectually contact your congressperson and senators. I'm starting the fax cycle now, but really, let's all look into fares on AirFrance. I love America, but I think hate Republicans more.