Monday, November 5, 2012

Sunday, September 9, 2012

I CANNOT stand REPUBLICANS (of the "Tea-party"/"Birther"/"Sarah Palin-4-president!" variety). CAN NOT FUCKING STAND THEM.

What I'm currently MOST sick of is their inability to spell OR USE SPELLCHECK or to maintain verb agreement or, GOD FORBID, use a fucking adverb when modifying an adjective or verb or another adverb (!!) before posting their patently stupid and demonstrably-illogical, stone-age "wisdom" on Facebook, or anywhere else, for that matter. All I have to do to know whether or not someone is religious or not is check their post for grammatical errors and misspellings. The higher the number of errors, the higher the odds that "God" or "Jesus" will be praised at some point in the post. Also, the less coherent the post, the greater the odds that the fact that that person is a "Christchiun" (doesn't it look stupid when people spell words you care about phonetically!? Isn't that obnoxious and distracting to your brain even now, many words later?) need to be mentioned, a propos of (and relevant to) nothing. Anyway. I'm crabby today. Please hate all over this post all you like, cuz I deserve it. But, I feel better, for now anyway.


(Note: I just think this is a kinda-hot photo of Elia and myself from a few days ago, it has utterly no function, purpose or business being here in this post, other than for the sake of vanity. But vanity is my favorite sin (for this post, anyway), so in it goes!)

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Journal Entries from the 90's


My Journal                                                                      October 16, 1997

I realized recently that have been alive for almost 27 years (only 26 of them ambulatory) with little or nothing to show for it other than a shocking number of parking violations, most of which are outstanding. Although, it is comforting to know that I am “outstanding” in at least one thing, however dubious an area of achievement it may be, I admit I do hope to leave my mark somewhere else besides the “100 most wanted” list at the DMV. But how does one achieve that inner peace that brings about greatness and a sense of accomplishment? I asked myself, “what is the most important thing a person can strive to achieve?” I believed if I could apply myself to something that was truly worthwhile, then inner peace would be mine. And I wanted it, tout suite!

Now, I have few illusions as to my abilities. I will not find a cure for AIDS. I will not rid the world of cellulite, nor of Calvin Klein. I have to pursue a life that is meaningful and extraordinary while I have been saddled with profound ordinariness. This does not bother me. It can be done, I just have to find my path to specialness. I had narrowed the field down to three things, which were; 1.)Crusading to end world hunger, (it seemed to do wonders for Audrey Hepburn, however the jury’s still out on Sally Struthers, so I’d have to nix that one), 2.)Making people laugh (I have to say, Ellen is my hero, since the gal is funny and can do 8 (!!) one-arm push-ups, but most comedians seem to be closer to Carrot Top and Chris Farley in terms of spiritual evolution; therefore  I’m going to pass on dedicating my life in pursuit of that goal) or 3.)Being a good person, being honest and kind, in other words, being no less than the best person I can be (not to be confused with the Army’s “Be All I Can Be” which of course, would immediately disqualify this particular lifelong commitment). But since I couldn’t think of a role model that was particularly famous, or fucked up or been featured on Inside Edition which has attempted to acheive #3, I knew that I had found my calling.

Anyways, I finally I arrived at this decision—that the pursuit of “goodness” was a noble and valuable endeavor to invest one‘s time in. And that was what I decided to strive to achieve. And then I realized that I had very little clue as to how one achieves ”goodness”.  Now, before I try to expand on this, I have to say that while good and bad are easily defined in terms of cinema, odors and raw meat, it is not so with people. So, I have to figure out how to define people as good or bad. This of course then begs the question, is a good person excluded from being bad, and vice versa? Now, although a good person, on occasion may do something bad, he may not do anything that knowingly is bad, and he must always try to right whatever bad thing he has done. That is what makes him good.



My Journal                                                   November 13, 1997

I am not yet “good.” I am right now, just trying to be “better.“ I have resigned myself to that right now. But I never defined or located the place on the map, the point on the graph that “Best,” or ever “Good” rests--so my path, if charted would look like the wanderings of a drunken snail. I have no point. I am just drifting. My life is living me.




My Journal                                                   November 14, 1997

I am sad to say that deeply ingrained within me is this little tiny part that is bad. I cannot deny it, I am a bitch to my husband, crabby to my mom and dad, I snap at my sister on the phone, for no reason. I do self-destructive things like eat a bag of cheese popcorn and then punish myself internally for hours. How does one extract oneself from themselves?  From the awfulness they exists within the very core of their “self”? Is the one tiny corrupted, incongruent seed that is nestled in the belly of the pear greater than the whole of the pear, it’s flesh, it’s stem, it’s skin, the numerous other blameless seeds?

What makes a person a “good person?” Is it reflected in the way in which they treat others? Does a good person worship God, or everything or does he worship nothing at all? Is it the size of his charitable donation (within relation to his income) or is it Is it the graciousness with which he declines to make the donation?  And do we all pay for our mistakes—somehow—is Karma a simple matter of time before ”you get what’s yours??” It’s weird because I was thinking about the fact that my anger and hatred which I believe is part of my gift when I write is definitely working against me lately—at least artistically.


What I wrote in my letter to Brooke today:
Brooke, I love you terribly. By that I am not referring to the shabby way I treat you even when I say I love you, I mean, I love you a great deal. Everyone has been asking about you, everywhere I go. In fact, who in the hell are all these people coming up to me when i'm in line at Jamba Juice, when I'm taking my car to the dealer's and in front of the Baptist Church in Venice asking me 'bout you?  Did you like, sign up with some singles mixer on the days I was busy at home?  Oh yeah, Sulli, the ice cream man is available for "anything, " when you get back...I don't know if that means a really obscure flavor of sour-power licorice or "pleasant conversation in a romantic setting."

Mike is quietly, but seriously distraught now that you've left, but he tries
to hide his pain from me...you know how stoic he is.  He's a huge softie for
his sister-in-law.

I wasn't going to tell you this because i know you, and i didn't want you to worry, but...you should know, Rocky's not in good shape right now, emotionally, hasn't been the same since you left. Helen and david haven't been able to get him to eat hardly anything, with him infrequently allowing to be fed a few chocolate covered milk bones and profiteroles with a gravy glaze drizzled over them, and he won't take walks unless David picks him up and carries him many blocks away (but it won't be long I, suspect, before they drive him) and he shuffles dejectedly those long damp chilly three blocks home on his own, and then he just ambles despondently along, sniffing more out of habit then interest. Their worry, however turned to real concern when they realized that something was different...only they couldn't quite put their finger on it. FInally yesterday, while Helen was pulling some clothes out of the dryer, and admiring their clean, fresh, just out of the dryer smell of her Ralph Lauren pillowcase covers and dust ruffle--she realized that she had also smelled the coffee brewing from all the way in the bathroom this morning--and the sharp chemical smell on David's hands when he came in from the darkroom and helped her wash the dishes--Good lord!! She yelped, "DAVID!! Call the vet!! David!!! Rocky has not farted in at least two or three days!!! David, at his desk, scanning some new photos turns around and stares, his face ashen into the laundry room at Helen. "Get my wallet off the dresser, I'll get him in the Jeep, we'll call the doctors on the way. "

I am only kidding of course, but I bet he's not wagging his tail quite so vigorously this Sunday morning, since it's the first one since you've been gone!! I am going roller-skating today, it's cold and clear and crisp.  I hope that you are taking a much needed party break and resting comfortably after a grueling last couple of weeks. Please write and send money. (Ha ha). 

I was at Sav On yesterday buying blank vcr cassettes, low fat triscuits, light bulbs, face cream, artificial tears and votive candles (I'd walked in the pouring rain to the SavOn, my car was in the shop) and was somewhat perplexed when my card was declined (repeatedly) by the checker's computer. I assured her that the mistake was hers, to which she calmy replied, “Look, ma’am (ma‘am!!! As if I weren’t at least two or three years younger than her and lacking, unlike her, copious amounts of upper-lip hair!!!) all I know is, your card is dee-cliiined.  It doan’ sey why. Ooh-Kay? Now, you got a card that works?” I decided that I need not wrestle with the feriociously intimidating, mightily powerful alligator that was her stupidity and departed, but only after issuing a high-pitched, expletive-studded ”au revoir” to the Sav On staff. Out in the cleansing and head-clearing rain, I fumbled into my purse for a cigarette, walking across the trash littered parking lot when suddenly out of my purse peeked my other credit card...my motherfucking Master Card was in my purse after all!! I stopped, suddenly nauseated by the decision which I was now faced with. Dare I slither back into that viper’s den?  Well, I had no choice. I really really needed those votive candles and that 9 volt battery... Needless to say, I was none too pleased to have to pick out all the same items all over again, under the disapproving eye of the now-hostile manager, since if they'd held on to my previous basket of goodies, they weren't giving it up! Now, a normal person would probably see their card's refusal at the checkout counter as an indication that their finances are in some disarray, and call their bank. But not me!!! NO, I go blithely along with my day, nibbling my 15% interest accruing triscuits and lit all my votive candles with utter confidence that that lame brained Sav On staff had somehow infected their computers with the same brain-crippling, accent-thickening, attitude souring, butt-widening disease that afflicted them all: "Fat and Mad Cow Disease".

Well, you can probably imagine my surprise when I was informed last night, by our surly, pine-scented waiter “Julian” (who had long taped fingers like a girl’s and clucked his lips audibly when my card was declined) when I attempted to pay for my cocktail and happy hour apps. Then, he stood over me and judged me with his eyes while I fished around in my purse for that wily mastercard, (which, this time, was successful in eluding me), his eyes boring holes into the back of my head. I really could not stand him and was already planning not to leave my usual %20 tip and let him feel the burn of just %15 of this check!!
Luckily Poppy, as usual was more than gracious about paying for my meal and the glass of merlot that I hadn’t even touched!!! She’s so cool that way.

The reason I’m telling you this is, the next morning I went to the bank to deposit a measly $195.00 check from Joe and to find out what the fuck was going on with my bank account. I simply could not be overdrawn, it was only the 10th day of the month...in fact, I should have had over a thousand dollars in my account, and $1,200 with Joe’s check. So I deposited my check and glanced down at the receipt that was spat out at me upon completion of the transaction. It said;

Your current balance is:                                         $-6.37
                                                (!!!!)

I panicked, almost having an anxiety attack right there on Winward Avenue on the first Sunny Sunday of the new year. Oh my God!! I went back and had one of those mini-statements (which cost a whopping $1.00!, which the bank kindly advanced me) printed up and it confirmed that i'm totally flat busted.  I have yet to fully understand why, but I am, as we speak, investigating the matter and should have this solved tout suite, or else, starve.  Fingers crossed!

HAHA Your favorite sister and future clothing model esmoooodelbabe
gregson-sikie-popadapolis-fitch.






Sunday, July 15, 2012

Dear MLK, Please come back. We need you!


Where is the Martin Luther King of our generation? A Christian (or Baptist or Mormon or Catholic or Episcopalian or whatever) minister who marches [to Haight Ashbury?] in support of gay rights? Someone who, because of their faith, is moved to speak out against the moral injustice of prop. 8? Someone who gives impassioned, altruistic, eloquent speeches about the indignity of the second class citizenship suffered by gay people? He does not exist. Why? Because the Bible calls gays "an ABOMINATION." It does not call black skin an abomination, because the authors of the bible were at least intelligent enough to know that one doesn't choose one's race. But, sadly, they were not educated or sophisticated enough to realize the same about ones sexuality. Why? Because the Bible was writen 2,000 years ago by men with the modern equivalent of an 8th grade education--not by any divine, prescient supernatural being. But by philistines...literally. Okay, maybe not literally...but you know what I mean. I hope.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Momo RIP

My chihuahua, Maurice died today. He had been suffering from congestive heart failure for months, but this morning, around 5am, I was woken up by his loud panting and hacking. He was struggling just to breathe and his tongue (which hangs out because his front teeth had all fallen out) was turning blue.

I thought I'd post a video of him at a better time... it'll make me feel better, eventually. I hope...

Jay Steffy: Gay superhero (no cape!)

Jay Steffy was hired by my father to "decorate" our family home (2101 La Mesa Drive, Santa Monica, CA.) in the early 1970's, when my sister and I were just toddlers.  He did his job well, our house was featured in every home decor magazine they had back then, House Beautiful, Better Homes and Gardens, even the L.A. Times sent a photographer over to shoot something for their "Style" section. (To be honest, my memory of this is very vague, and possibly inaccurate.) In other words, he was no slouch at his job.  

But, he was much more than just "the interior decorator"--to my sister and me, he was more like an uncle or a member of the family. (In fact, he was closer to us than either of our actual uncles, whom we barely knew and rarely saw.) He and I remained close well into my adulthood; he even decorated my sister's and my first "home", (720 Shoemaker Lane, Del Mar CA.) the condo we purchased  to live in while attending UCSD for college in the early 90's.  He died shortly after finishing our condo, and I wasn't made aware of his passing until shortly  after his funeral, which I (obviously) didn't attend. I truly miss him and mourn his loss to this day. 

My earliest (and fondest) memory of Jay is as follows: One day he walked into the kitchen and found my sister and I hysterically crying because we didn't have one of the "required costume items" (yellow ballet slippers) we needed for our first major ballet recital taking place that evening.  Without them, we would not be allowed on stage, we wouldn't get to perform our routines, routines we'd practiced three times a week, every week for months.  Since our parents weren't home and had left us in the woefully inadequate care of our Guatemalan  housekeeper, Hortensia, (who couldn't even say "yellow" well enough to be understood by anyone that might happen to sell ballet slippers), things looked pretty grim.

That is, until Jay walked in, and saved the day. He listened to us tearfully explain our untenable predicament, thought for a second and said, 'Well, I'm sorry, but you girls will NOT be missing your recital! Yellow ballet slippers? Is that all you need? Well, that's easy! You have your pink ballet slippers right!? I mean, you've got a few pairs of those, right?" We nodded in unison. "Okay, well, grab your oldest, most faded ballet slippers and bring them back here. Meanwhile, tell me where your coloring supplies are, where your colored pens and markers are. Okay?"  We did as we were told, and when we came back to the kitchen, Jay had a bunch of yellow magic markers (mine smelled like lemons!) and we each started feverishly coloring our pink ballet slippers yellow.  The happiness we felt when we saw how well his plan was working was tempered only with the fear that the ink would smear on our white tights and that other people might notice our "fake" yellow slippers. But, he sprayed something from under the kitchen sink (still don't know what it was) to "seal" the yellow marker and off we went to perform in our first big ballet recital and no one noticed anything at all amiss. Jay even came to the recital with Hortensia (our housekeeper) and cheered louder than our parents ever would have, had they been there...