I’m Go-nna Beat Your Brain

I forgot to pick up toilet paper. Worked all day long. Two jobs. Shitty jobs at that. But, I still forgot to pick up the toilet paper. My bad, which I learned after opening the screen door that one Tuesday evening. Our mutual friend was visiting, but that didn’t matter. I still didn’t pick up toilet paper on my way home. My bad.

I ended up leaving, went to Sav-On, bought the biggest pack they had and returned. I opened the screen door, threw that 24-pack of ultra-cozy, cushiony Cotonelle in on the floor, did an about face and left.

Looking back on it now, there were many nights that went down like this. Nights I should have taken off when I didn’t. Nights I should have moved out, but I didn’t until four months later. Burbank my savior! Why did I wait so long!!? Nights I regretted uprooting my suburban Colorado life and moving out here to LALA land. Nights I regretted being a built-in babysitter. What was I here for anyway? I wanted nothing to do with “entertainment.”

Sometimes moving somewhere with someone is not a good idea. Plain and simple. Especially if you’re moving states and you’re moving with a friend and a child in tote. Not that there’s anything wrong with a child in tote. Unless, of course, he’s a devil child from hell who tells you in his sing-songy devil child sort of way that he’s gonna beat your brain… with the hanger he’s holding in his hand, in the back seat of your car, while you’re waiting for his mother to return with her purchases from 7-Eleven.

No Parking Dumbass!

Some POS neighbor of ours can't seem to get it through her thick skull that a Private Parking sign means Don't Park in This Spot Bitch.

She seems to think that leaving a note with a little smiley face and an apology is all she needs to park any place she wants...even if it's at the expense of her neighbors who pay a pretty penny for those spots each month.

This weekend her boyfriend was in town so he parked in someone else's spot until he got kicked out...then he "created" his own spot up the center of the tiny parking lot adjacent to our building, effectively blocking three other spots.

This literally weeks after leaving their car in one of our spots and going AWOL for an entire weekend.

Granted, it's Venice, and parking's hard to come by, but I lived down here for four+ years without a spot and never parked in a private spot. And, yes, there are the beachgoers on the weekend who occasionally ditch their vehicles in our lot as well, but when I work my ass off all week, the last thing I want to see when I get home is my neighbor's dumbass smiley faced apology and a car in my spot.

Next time, I say Tow that Bitch!

My Water Tastes Like Crap

Sure when I moved out here several years ago, I moved right into the east Hollywood slums. I rolled right up into the dilapidated driveway at one of two duplexes sidled next to each other near Sunset and Vine. 6214 DeLongpre Avenue, to be exact. Of course, the charming duplex that we had scoped out as our destination just weeks before had lost a bit of that charm. In fact, the white, adobe exterior had lost all of the Sunday afternoon charm that exuded from it the day we signed our lease.

But, the next door neighbors obviously invested care and effort in their lovely flower/rock/junk garden, so maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

Although, the building to the West of us, of course, I didn't know it was West at the time, turned out to be an abandoned piece of property that sat quiet by day and became infested with homeless squatters by night.

And, the squatters weren't the only ones that came out at night...due to our rugged, urban locale, the women of the night also came out--bowed legs, cheap heels, fishnet stockings and all.

Sometimes I'd hear their heels coming down the sidewalk as they candidly tripped in cracks and hiked up their hose in anticipation of falling on their backs to fill their change purses, pay bills or fulfill other urges.

When I moved out here, I didn't have a bed, but I did, and my friends can attest to this one, have a waffle iron, among a wide range of kitchen gadgets my mother would unload on me as Christmas gifts in the years to come. Yes, the waffle--a regular staple in the lives of the struggling and newly independent.

In fact, if I recollect correctly, the lists we foraged together in preparation for the move always proclaimed its existence. Magpie, stereo. Chris, TV. Magpie, vacuum. Chris, VCR. Magpie, waffle iron. Too bad I let an ex claim it as collateral in a break-up a few years later. All I got was a scratched A&M Records 25th anniversary release of Joan Armatrading's classics Volume 21 CD. So much for waffle iron cookbook.

The duplex was huge with wood floors...in every room but the bedrooms, which had rust shag carpet, of course. Two bedrooms and one bath. A living room and a dining room, but nothing but a sink in the kitchen. (Rust wasn't limited to the ugly shag carpet either. We soon found out that water out here was not consumable unless it came in a plastic bottle and was purchased from the grocery store. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, our water looked and tasted like crap. I can't begin to tell you how long it took me to force myself not to swallow a swig from the faucet every time I brushed my teeth.)

We brought a fridge out with us. Chris's brother hooked us up with one in Las Vegas. It seems that most of her brothers lived there with their families. We had to go out and buy an oven/stove though, so we ventured down to Western Avenue where we bought a miniature oven fixture that was dated back to the early sixties.

Western also brought us our beds...mine a futon which led me to the aching back I would have nearly two years later when I finally ditched the thing in an alley down in Venice. Chris, on the other hand foisted her eyes upon a black lacquered contraption with neon light affixed on either side on the headboard. It came with matching end tables...everything with the same art deco design. (Ugh, the thing was hideous. Not sure if my former roomie still has it though because we are no longer in touch.)

Shortly after our purchase on Western Avenue, we took our first site-seeing trip in Hollywood... down to a little street off Sunset Boulevard made famous for Hugh Grant's arrest after police found him in his car, engaging in oral sex with Hollywood prostitute Devine Brown.

Aaahh, despite the water, homeless squatters and fleas that we were about to find out about, we were slowly but surely starting to settle into our new digs in "Hollywood".

My Life and the 101

The most difficult part of being a driver in Southern California is maintaining some sort of behavioral consistency.

Part of the difficulty comes from the fact that on any given day, at any given hour, minute or moment, you can find yourself behaving in a manner wholly foreign to you and your existence on this planet up until now. This, of course, is not entirely your fault. Mainly because on any given day, at any given hour, minute and even moment, there are thousands of others on the road who are having difficulty maintaining some sort of behavioral consistency as well.

And, why shouldn’t they? No one in Southern California appears to know how to use turn signals, how to legally pass someone, how to make lane changes, how to slow down at yellow lights, how to make left turns, how to make right turns, how to merge, how to parallel park, how to park in any way for that matter, how to come to a complete stop, how to yield, how to maintain an appropriate speed, how to wait their turn at an on- or off-ramp, how to keep their eyes on the road, how not to read a newspaper while driving, how not to put on make up, eat, change CDs or change clothing while driving a motorized vehicle. The rest of the difficulty comes from the fact that many Californians call themselves drivers—but few have any consistent idea of what this entails. These people, in my opinion, account for the large majority of drivers in the Los Angeles-area.

Regardless of the type of vehicle—SUV, compact or diesel truck—the type of road—freeway, highway, off-ramp, side street, main street, driveway or parking lot—Southern California drivers are just plain bad. As with any other task, due diligence must be exercised when selecting to insert your key in the ignition and shift out of park. In California, knowing the financial stability and claims settlement record of your insurance provider (critical to timely reimbursement of a loss)—is a must. (You never know when one of those tiny Toyota pick-up trucks carrying every last rusted yard tool in existence will come barreling into your back bumper in the event of a sudden stop.)

Which brings me to my main point...you, in your green Buick station wagon. Yeah, you with the wood paneling and all. Turn off your left turn signal! Unless, of course, you're actually indicating your intention to make a move. I know the CA Driver Handbook may suggest using your turn signals even when you don't see any other vehicles around you, but it's only fair to let the other drivers on the road know what you're not going to do, too (even if you don't see them).