Why don't I strap on my job helmet, and squeeze into a job cannon, and fire off to jobland, where jobs grow on jobbies?

Here's the thing.

The fact the the guy at El Pollo Loco recognizes me when I go in now...that makes me sad. There is also the tidbit of info involving the sorrowful truth that BUYING El Pollo Loco has become a luxury, due to the miniscule number of dollars that grace my checking account each month.

Don't worry. It gets better.

I get to work for 12 hours a day, every other of which I have to run 5 miles afterwards, only to be right back in the beginning where I not only realize the cashier at The Crazy Chicken knows where I live, but he also knows I'm scraping by this week to dump out enough change for a BRC burrito. And you know what's the WORST? Finishing my looooong day, and realizing that the beautful crimson and gold chicken haven is CLOSED by the time I have the 2 minutes necessary to get over there and get my share of slow-roasted goodness.

And all of this, becuase of what? MY JOB. My little jobby, that pays me shit and shits on me at the same time. How could I be so lucky?

But I do like my job. What, I do! I'm in a creative enviornment, even if that means getting creative while lying on the phone, or creatively figuring out Ron Jeremy's number for a client's 'special request.'

I wouldn't like my job. No I wouldn't. If not for my boss, who recently stated: "You can't throw a glass in my family (usually a glass filled with bourbon) without hitting a person with Down's Syndrome." So eloquently said. His tasty antecdotal delights get me through the day, along with the boys to my left that keep me laughing more than I should at a talent agency. I mean - talent is SERIOUS BUSINESS. This is entertainment, folks, it's nothing to laugh about.

So what I'm saying is, I GUESS I could think of worse places to spend 12 hours a day, just not that many.

It's just a little bit disheartening to yearn for a time when my name can be in my email at work, and I can answer my own phone and not someone else's. Maybe a time where I'm not planning trips for rich people who bitch about other rich people not footing the bill for them, but planning trips for myself instead.

Basically, when all is said and done, jobs don't grow on jobbies. So until I pay my many dues and end up somewhere I can't wait to get to, I guess I'll have to hold out for now and get someone somewhere water or coffee - and try desperately not to break my job helmet in the process.

You have a freak flag, you just don't fly it.

People do weird shit at the gym.

Like, stuff that should be reserved for the privacy of their own homes. Or a padded room. The Santa Monica 24 Hour Fitness already has a plethora of questionable inhabitants based purely on it's location: 50% bleached blonde and fake-boobed, 50% beach bum and khaki-wearing, and 10% normal. That's right - my gym exists in a vortex where 110% really is possible. It helps you give it your all.

So people are either trying not to pop their implants on the eliptical, or exercising in the clothes they wore to work that day. Either that, or staring at and being bothered by all the bizarre specimens putting themselves on display - like me.

It turns out that the gym on Valentine's Day is one of the most entertaining places you can be on the most pointless day of the year. While others are ditching their fitness regimine and paying for overpriced food and chocolate that won't get eaten, the rest of us are at the gym thinking about how pathetic everyone else there is. Who goes to the gym on Valentine's Day? I'll tell you who - Biker Without A Cycle, Sings-Out-Loud-Like-No-One's-Listening, and Asian Aerobic Superstar.

I don't know why she doesn't have feet.

Biker man is well-equipped for a day of riding up steep hills and through rough terrain, only he doesn't realize that the gym is, in fact, not outside. He still has his racing sunglasses on to shield him from the fluorescents, and his skin-tight neon outfit to outline his ba donka donk and monkey business like no other short can. Lost without his two-wheeled friend by his side, he resorts to the stationary bike - and does interpretive dance with graceful arm-circles while he's at it.

Rockstar jams along out loud to her ipod like she's the only one in the effing gym - what if I don't want to listen to to Whitney? (Who am I kidding, I always do.) But my favorite is A.A.S. - she does 80s-style aerobics EVERY DAY I'm there while she's pumping away on the eliptical. I think if she keeps it up she'll soon whither away and be nothing but negative space. But at least I won't have to wait as long for a tready. But really, can you stop distracting me from my run, because all I can focus on is how annoying your showcase of flamboyant exercising is. It's really unfair to ME.

There is just a really abnormal amount of weirdo in Los Angeles.

For instance, I can't help but discuss the amount of freakazoid currently taking over the patio of this Coffee Bean. I don't care if it has nothing to do with the gym, it still has to do with freaks, so this remains a cohesive entry. Boom.

The patio: Do I have a sign on my forehead that says, 'talk to me, I feel lonely'? Do I look like I'm aching for someone to discuss wireless internet and phone companies with? I think I need to start doing my hair differently, or wearing more unapproachable clothes (jeans and sweatshirt is apparently an invitation to interrupt my peaceful evening and blabber to me about your own bullshit, even though we've never met and never will again). Also, thank you to the lady who said she'd watch my computer when I went to pee, and left before I came back. Real classy.

Also, go to the gym.

Frankly, I love living in a land where people don't care how the outside world perceives them. Not only so I can relentlessly make fun of them, but also so that I can write about it and put it all over the internet. So I invite you to fly your freak flag loud and proud.

Lord knows everyone else does.

Merry Christmas...Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol.

Yes I do realize that it is no longer the holiday season, but let me pretend for the sake of the quote.

In so many ways, the holidays are that time where the true character of all your friends and family is given permission to be unleashed upon the world, and for some reason promptly forgiven - tis the season. And by that I mean this, and by this I mean the following: There are two kinds of people in life - the ones who give shit gifts and the ones who don't.

I was granted the gift of extra FAT this year, HAPPY 2008!, as well as the haunting realization that alcohol and tacos are in fact NOT diet foods. This is the first I've learned of this fact.


And it is now that I formally announce, in all my muffin-topped glory, that I will be running the 2008 San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon in June. And by running I mean jogging, and by jogging I mean rolling.

It seems only fitting.

The first day of my marathon training really began last nite. Upon trying to doze off early for a change, I was faced with the daunting task of drowning out the Wicca meeting taking place next door. That's right, people - witch lady has only gotten stranger and louder, and I think offered up her home for regular midnite gatherings. And said gatherings are gaining more of a following, I might add, because the caucophony of voices is growing. Thank God.

When I finally reached a state of somewhat-slumber, I was greeted with a dream that can only be described as a bad TNT crime drama. I and another faceless friend were in a park on a typical backdrop-sunny day, when we discovered two bloody dead bodies in the bathroom. I knew this was a dream immediately, because I generally don't go in rec park bathrooms, nor do I have any faceless friends. But my mind decided to go for a ride and stay sleeping anyway. As the dream became progressively more scary and weird, me and my fake comrade were being chased by two crooked cops, after us to cover up their ugly mistake of dumping their murder victims in the park we dream-frequented so often.


Thank you retarded imagination.

Due to this seemingly frightening dream, I woke up yet again at 4:30AM. But don't worry, I was immediately thoroughly entertained by my next-door sorceress, with her eerie singing and too-loud television.

But somehow, I still managed to drag my ass out of bed and half run / half almost-vomit out my 2 miles for the day. But not without forgetting to use my inhaler and getting stuck in 25 minutes of 1.5 mile traffic on the way home from the gym, which is longer than my actual workout.

I'm pretty sure the next training day will be a better one.

Save it for the talk room, son.

Upon completing another slobber-filled day of babysitting, I've come up with a few items I feel are vital to keep in mind when considering creating offspring. I now present...

REASONS I'M SCARED TO BIRTH A CHILD.
1. I know how big my vagina is, and it's not big enough.

2. I never WANT my vagina to be big enough.

3. I don't want a boring child. I don't want the child that just stares at you when you ask it a question, or prefers not talking over talking. I would rather the child that is obnoxious and outspoken, though that brings me to fear #4.

4. I don't want one of those asshole kids. The ones that throw shit at people they don't know, and tell strangers they're fat.

5. Parents don't know when they're children are ugly, but I'm pretty sure that I would. Pleeeeease no ugly baby!

6. Lactation. I don't like the idea of someone being able to juice me.

7. As far as I can tell, the first one is so easy and precious, it tricks you into having more. And from then on it's a downward sprial into being broke, yelled at and eventually abandoned, until they move out of the house and finally learn to love and appreciate you. Wait - have I had a kid already? No, just too much experience from being one.

8. Finally, there is a certain amount of fright surrounding the fact that it might actually end up like ME, and that's no good for anyone.

In conclusion, I love children and plan on popping out a few, but for now (and the immediate future) I'm keeping all my eggs in my basket before they're scrambled for good.

Am I gay for God? You betcha.

aka, "Why I Love Me Some Aussies, Indians and Gays."

In a blatant oversight on my part, I neglected to mention the benefits that come with having minorities as friends. Not only are a wealth of new quips and material available, there is also the innate protection entailed in joking with and in the presence of the butt of the joke.


Here's why I love me an Aussie. A fella from down under can get pretty much any American lassie he wants, no matter what he looks like or how weak his arms are. He can be smarmy as hell and as intelligent as Paris but as soon as that smooth-talking dingo opens his mouth, he can generally make a few girls swoon. Foreigners are the life-blood of the female American serial-dater, and kudos to them for pulling it off. There are a few Aussies that actually DO possess amazing qualities on top of the accent, and it's a wonder not all of them have been snatched up out of the single girls' lives already. And the taken girls, for that matter.

I love me an Indian for many a different reason. Firstly, Gandhi was Indian, and I've heard he was a pretty nice guy. Indians also, surprisingly enough, enjoy Taco Tuesday even more than an authentic Mexican, and I prefer anyone who can down margaritas to anyone who cannot. Descendants from this heavily populated and beautifully clothed country tend to have a certain good spirit born into them, and even if they weren't birthed in the motherland, an uncanny ability to imitate the classic Indian Quickie Mart accent. But my favorite Indian is the one that is that voice in the back of my mind constantly pushing me to achieve the unachievable, and that's why he's my favorite.

And BOY do I love me a GAY or two. Nothing says Sunday morning like a girly boy downing cocktails, and for this I salute my favorite gay of all. No one beats a homo when it comes to dancing like a whore or being Auntie to your children, at least I hope not, and he can always be counted on to cry at a movie when I'm the only other one that is. The gays in my life also have a special talent of being that effervescent lifeforce that keeps me going in the moments life feels dark and grey, and for that I'm forever grateful.



So raise your glass of beer wine or liquor to your favorite non-dominant racial and or social group - I know I have...one time too many.

**THIS HAS BEEN A TRIBUTE TO THE MINORITIES THAT LIGHT UP MY LIFE. YOU ASKED FOR IT BITCHES, HERE IT IS. :)

Wanna hear the most annoying sound in the world?

There are pros and cons that come with being the only girl in a group of guy friends. Sure, I am subject to cruel musings about sexually explicit acts I wish never entered my brain, but it can't be all bad, right?

I have my two groups: my west coast boys and my east coast boys.

The New Yorkers feel much more like a fraternity - a vulgar, boisterous and inappropriate group of shenanigans who's vile speech about the opposite sex never ceases to amaze me. They bring out the disgusting competitive side of me that only beer chugging contests can fully unmask, and help me prove to myself that I in fact CAN drink more than my body weight, and swimmingly survive the next day. These "men" taught me that quantity of sexual partners is much more important than quality, and that playing darts and shooting pool are the most vital life lessons one can ever learn. It's okay to party during the day, and it's okay to judge people only on their appearance, especially if it's funny...right?

But as well as I could survive in a frat house after my year in NYC, those boys also taught me that having fun is generally all that matters. Work is important, but it's not everything, and being able to shotgun a beer faster than your quickest chugging buddy is more of an accomplishment to be proud of than anyone might realize at first. And there really is something to be said for a girl who can party with the big boys, and love them for who they are and want to be. Most importantly, I have no doubt in my mind that any one of them would run to my rescue if I ever needed it. And bring an extra beer with them to lessen the pain.

And then there's the California coasters.

A less intimidating but equally vulgar crew of delinquents. Only there's much more comedy in the torment that ensues when I hang out with these folks - probably an equal amount of seriousness in their jabs at my sanity, but nonetheless more laughs. These ones remind me that I'm NOT feminine or anything like it (like I really need to be reminded of that...), and that I've become less intelligent since my return from the Big Apple. Good to know. I also become a different animal in their presence, and lose all regard for political correctness and social filtering to separate the inappropriate from the wildly inappropriate. They also possess a certain bitter disregard for proper behavior in social situations that I've come to cherish more than anything, and a constant reminder that I'm more of a man than I am a woman. I never feel more beautiful than when I'm surrounded by these purveyors of compliments and self-affirming remarks.

But while I'm beseiged by sarcastic commentary the entire time I'm with them, I also know that each of these guys would beat the shit out of someone if they tried to hurt me - even if their muscles are barely large enough to do so. In fact I might have to help. But they'd do it. I also know that they all care about me more than they'd ever admit out loud - and I'd never say it either - and that we have an understanding that good-humored insults are always okay. In fact they're the very things that make us close.

Frankly, I like being the only girl. I like knowing the potential that each of the guys has even if they don't quite know it yet, and knowing that they can do better - better girlfriends, better jobs, just better. I'm okay with it when they think I can do better too, even if it's sometimes hard to swallow. But mostly I love knowing that these guys have great hearts and deserve great things, and I'm anxious for the moments I can watch them grow up, and the moments they can do the same for me.

But for now, no growing up is in order. I'm fine with being the girl who looks up at her boys with hope. And then kicks their asses at a shotgun standoff.

Tonite we dine...in HELL!!

There is something about 300 spartans and a shot of whiskey that inevitably makes for a great evening.

Last nite I experienced my first Halloween in WeHo - which, incidentally, means West Hollywood - first lesson of the evening. Second lesson, West Hollywood means Dragville, and most important lesson, Dragville means best time ever. Frankly, I never knew the Tin Man was such a slut until last nite.

First and foremost, I think it's important to bring up the fact that the West Hollywood Halloween Parade is worth going to if not for one simple reason: the most succulent bacon-wrapped street hot dog I have ever devoured. I don't like bacon. I like hot dogs only at baseball games with a beer in my other hand. But this thing was diVINE. With grilled onion goodness and a yellow mustard topper, I knew immediately the nite would be a huge success.

The second thing to tip me off to this fact was the Jesus Christ I saw walking down the street bearing a life-sized wooden cross. I'm pretty sure the fake blood on his back was real by the end of the nite, and I'm quite positive that's the most pictures Jesus has ever taken with his people. He couldn't get a moment alone all evening. NOTE: I am not in support of the blasphemy that comes with dressing up as the Savior, nor do I condone making light of such a tragic historical event. I only encourage creativity and realism, and this guy had it. Amen.

Rather than freaks amongst the regulars, this nite was overflowing with every psycho, slut, crackpot, nutcase and gluesniffer ever to walk the greater LA area. The best part of it all is how much obscurity, obesity and lack of any class whatsoever is admired and supported this one nite of the year. This is the place you can come and let every bit of "weird" minutia in your body shine through, and in turn be touted and photographed purely for your ability to be strange.

And then there's the trannies.

My personal favorite. I haven't seen so many beautiful women in one place maybe ever, nor have I had such a rough time determining whether or not they had penises under their short skirts. What I DO know is, most had nicer legs than me, and most were probably checked out by straight guys throughout the nite, only to scare them into thinking they might be homosexuals themselves. Classic - I love that people think they can be tricked into homo-ship. It's not a pyramid scheme, people.

To top off the nite, my dream came true - I was photographed with a foursome of Spartans straight out of 300. When I say straight out of, I really mean the following: beer-gutted drunks in full garb, lacking any real muscles whatsoever. In fact, as a means of abating this sad truth, they not only wore fake cushy muscle suits, but the other half painted / shaded abs onto their skin. Frankly - worked for me.

Don the crimson cape and shield and I'll hold your chest and smile for the camera anyway.

Grrr.