The Mutual Admiration Society, LA Chapter

Stuck in traffic between the 10 west and 405 south, I popped in a cd I hadn't listened to in years. It was from a band I love, that doesn't exist anymore, fronted by
a man I adore.

The first few chords played and all of a sudden I was transported back to that initial night in May 2000...when the cd was released...when the boy climbed the rafters like a randy monkey...when The Troubadour became home...when I met the people who would be responsible for most of the trouble I'd find myself in over the next 5 years.

It was the start of an era characterized by a seemingly endless run of reckless fun. And it was fucking fantastic.

As the music continued to tickle my heart strings in the way only his songs can, the cherry red sun sank across a purple sky and I slowly inched along to my exit, willing myself to let it go. Because we're no longer those same kids. There are no more party buses to Vegas. Or late nights at St. Nick's. Or hug therapy at Mel & Rose with the boy who warms hearts with his very smile.


Time refuses to stand still. But melancholy has a way of overstaying its welcome.


Things You Missed

Yesterday there was an annual solar eclipse. But you didn't see it, unless you're in South America or West Africa and I haven't had any readers from there lately. So we all missed it.

There was a fakey eclipse on Heroes, if you watched that. I did. But it was fakey.

Yesterday I almost nearly slammed into an SUV in front of me when traffic suddenly came to a dead stop. That's what is typically and improperly called a near-miss. But you didn't see that either, unless you were at the intersection of Washington and Vermont over there in the basin. I don't recommend that area. It's crowded and dirty. And dangerous to drive in, apparently.

I'm really glad I didn't have another car accident. I've been rear ended about seven times. You can file that under "painful incidents that were also not fun."

"Painful incidents that are fun" include falling off a barstool and being too drunk to realize that you've just busted your tailbone and will not be able to sit, walk, or otherwise function for the next 3 months. Because being that drunk is always fun.

But you didn't see that either, unless you were at Molly Malone's that October night in 2003. And that's probably why you continue to encourage my drinking.

This entry has no rhyme or reason. I'm babbling because I've been up since 4:45 am. Because that is what my job requires of me on occasion. But unless you were at Le Meridien this morning, you also missed early morning GPG. Who was eating croissants. With decaf coffee. Because she's allergic to caffeine.

I really should go to bed now. I sincerely miss midday naps.

Confidential to my favorite Boy Muppet: happy birthday, sweetheart! I miss your hugs, and the directions on how to give them. Hope Nut got you some Boy Muppet catnip. Or something.


Setting a Career Path

Here's a link courtesy of our friends over at Perrero: jobs women should get to increase their fuckability.

I still think international spy is the coolest gig on the planet. And like I mentioned in the comments section, the CIA is now advertising its need for new meat. My timing couldn't be any better.

As for the fuckability factor, have you watched any James Bond movies? 'Nuff said.

Though if I had the creativity, I'd totally be a sex writer. But I don't, so instead you guys get stories about me wanting to be a spy. With nunchakus.

Which you like, right? Right?!?!


Birthday Present Quandry

Help me out here, kids.

My biggest problem right now is figuring out what the hell to get my friend La Ria for her birthday this Friday night. She's going to be 27. Which, for me, was a great fucking year. Turning 28 hasn't been that spectacular (had my heart broken...twice), but 27 was pretty damn good.

When my birthday comes around, I make it easy for everyone. Of course, no one has been able to procure me a Greek manservant with flowing black hair, broad shoulders, strong arms, with a penchant for walking around in nothing but white linen pants and catering to my every whim. But I'm holding out hope.

La Ria, on the other hand, is a bit tricky.

She actually stated that she can't think of a single thing she wants. And she certainly doesn't need anything. Except a clone and about 24 more hours in a day (the girl works too hard, but she loves her job).

Really, what do you give the girl who has everything and needs nothing?

Several of us are in this boat together. Ladies, I would say lets pool our resources and just take her to a strip club. Except she doesn't have a free night between now and the end of October, so that sucks. We could all go to a UCLA football game, but the only one that matters is already sold out and, again, that's not till December. Showing up empty-handed is really lame, though.

So, what to do???

First person with a decent idea gets my undying love. For about an hour. If I can fit it into my schedule.

***UPDATE 9.27.06 8:00 am***

I realize I didn't give you any background info on this girl to make intelligent suggestions. So here goes: has a degree in English; runs a local theater; loves punk and 80s metal (we've gone to so many punk shows, that I lost count somewhere around 832), dolphins, Last Comic Standing, Rockstar (both seasons), 24; has more arcane musical knowledge than anyone I know (except Will); and is very close to her extended family. Who all live in Glendale.

Okay, go!

***UPDATE 9.27.06 6:30 pm***

The Bouncing Souls are playing at the House of Blues on November 3rd, so I bought us tickets, printed them, and will put them in a card to give her on Friday. And we're taking her out for live comedy, which she loves probably more than the Souls themselves. So yay, we're done!

Thanks everyone. Y'all had good ideas. You are invited to my next birthday party.


Nightmares & Dreamscapes

I had the most horrible sleep on Sunday night. Around midnight, I was awakened by the sound of someone repeatedly screaming NO!

That someone was me, wrenching myself out of the worst nightmare ever. I had just narrowly escaped torture by a gang of mutated serial killers (imagine the characters from The Hills Have Eyes), when my friends suddenly disappeared with my car and the bad guys were after me again. For the first five minutes after waking, I was absolutely terrified and kept trying to convince myself that it wasn't real.

Now, I didn't smoke crack or eat chocolate before bed, so I have no idea where the fuck that came from. I was too rattled to fall back to sleep after that, so I entertained myself with some bubblegum vapidity courtesy of Laguna Beach.

When I did eventually succumb to the sandman again, I dreamt that I woke up to H. Wood setting up a surround system in my bedroom. That made no sense either, but at least he's not a scary guy. And it sure beat the hell out of being murdered. Plus, he's much better looking than this monster, that's for damn sure.

I'm hoping my subconscious doesn't try to kill me again tonight. I have a long day tomorrow. Starting it off dead would be quite detrimental.

This is just one more reason not to sleep alone. Seriously.


Training Week #25

Today I ran 14.5 miles. It was my longest and hardest run ever.

Not because I hadn't done this before. Well, not 14 miles, but I have done 13. No, I just felt like shit this morning.

The reason is that I was an asshole on Friday night and gave in to 7 shots of
Mexico's finest. For the record, 4 is usually my limit. 5 will make me sick. But I was at home, enjoying some company, and didn't really take into account that 7 shots over 2 hours is a really stupid thing to do.

So Saturday was spent barely conscious. It was the worst hangover I've had since my 23rd birthday, when I woke up in a pool of my own vomit and then had food poisoning for the next 5 days. This wasn't that bad, but I was definitely not prepared for 4 hours of running today.

I walked nearly half of the course. My chest and back hurt from all the violent vomiting the day before, making it difficult to breathe. The Santa Anas blew in, making it hot and icky. And generally feeling like hell didn't help.

Despite that, I didn't necessarily go easy on myself either. The
Long Beach Half-Marathon route is nice and flat. But since part of my team is training for the Nike Women's Marathon in San Francisco, I decided to do some hill training with them today. It was not fun.

I'm so glad I'm not running that event.

In three weeks I'll be hitting Long Beach and I have no doubt that I'll finish in less than the 4 hours I've given myself. I'm totally ready for this, both mentally and physically. But I can't afford giving in to my baser needs, so I'm going back to my original plan. No more alcohol until this is over. None. Which really shouldn't be difficult.

Now, off to massage my supremely sore muscles. What I wouldn't give for a live-in masseur tonight.

Or any night, really.


New Aspirations

I've decided I want to become an international spy. I need to get a passport anyway, and also I can't find my social security card. So if I have to get new ones, I might as well start faking it from the get go.

My work nemesis The Jungle Boy (so named because his office has more plants than the Amazon) suggested I stick to an ol' American passport. His reasoning is that international spy tracking agencies would never suspect falsified American papers from an actual American. And though he may have a point, he is a villian after all, so his suggestions are treated with the appropriate amount of suspicion.

Here's why I would make a good spook:

  • The funny coloring I have makes it difficult to tell if I'm Latina or Persian or something in between. The Valley girl accent can easily be mutated into lower class East LA Spanglish (though not for extended periods of time), making people underestimate me.
  • I'm good with knives and other pointy objects, but clumsy. Which could be a bad combination, if it wasn't so disarming in its oxymoronic nature. I'll confuse the bad guy with my mad crazy skills, and then...stab!!
  • I can kickbox, which will make me a natural in ninja training. I wanted to buy myself some nunchakus, but the damn things are illegal in California (and Massachusetts, New York, Canada and Australia. Dude, civilized people don't get to have ANY fun!), so anyone out there in not-these-places wanna help a girl out?
  • I'm good in bed, which will come in handy when seducing male adversaries. Or female adversaries, should the situation call for it. I've never been above using my feminine wiles to get what I want, so I might as well go with what I know.
  • I've always wanted to travel. Originally I wanted to do it to take pictures, but taking out the enemy is almost as good a reason.
  • I know the difference between right and wrong. And it belongs to whoever is the highest bidder.

I'd be so damn good at this! In preparation, I'm going to spend my weekend watching episodes of La Femme Nikita and also training for the marathon. Because a good spy needs to have stamina too.


Celebration Time

First of all, a heartfelt if belated happy birthday to my favorite Kentucky girl, Lex. A lady never gives away her age, but I know for a fact that her spirit is timeless. And beautiful.

I love you, honey! And I hope it's all coming together out there.

Over at Be the Boy, young Will marks his 3rd anniversary in this here blogosphere. Congratulations to him. I hear the festivities will include a threesome and/or a drunken treasure hunt for a bag of money. Pants are, as always, optional.

And looking to the future once again, Friday is Maxim's Take Your Penis To Work Day. Celebrate as you see fit. I know I'll be enjoying it for all it's worth!


Land o' Lists

I make lists. They help organize life. La Ria does it too, so I know I'm not alone in my idiosyncrasies.

I used to tease my boy Mr. Reed about being a Check List Checker. He is in charge of huge files with blue lists attached, and every so often, he marks something off. In the course of that, a home loan is approved or denied, but that's neither here nor there. And it's really funny how pissed off he gets when I call him a Check List Checker.

Anyway, back to me and how fabulous I am. Here are a few lists I compiled for your reading pleasure. Because your pleasure is almost as important to me as my own.

The Incomplete List of Random Things I've Said Out Loud Recently:
- Fuck, I need a passport, don't I?
- I want candy!!
- What, you're not going to call me fresh meat?
- I don't really like the Beatles.
- Ooh, check out that young lawyer boy. Mmm.
- They're not "stupid," they're just shallow.
- You don't like tequila? Sissy.

- Blue eyes are scary.
- Where are my keys? I need to pee!
- Wearing a suit makes me feel like a little kid playing dress up.
- Your super power could be that you piss Guiness, like you're your own personal keg!

The Incomplete List of Random Thoughts I've Had Recently:
- Did I just break my shoe?
- I hate the fucking traffic in Koreatown.

- She did NOT just say "supposably," right?
- Why does my seat feel sticky?
- Tim Allen is a fucking moron.
- Wonderful, now I have blue ink all over my face.

- Please don't be white trash.
- Did I have lunch today?
- Wait, I'm busy Thursday too?
- Oh, he did not post that, really? Really?
- Aw, I miss my Sailor.
- Poor people drive like shit.
- Can I eat a jalapeño popper while driving?

- When did my hair turn black?

Incomplete List of Random Lines from Recent Emails I Wrote:
- It's a party! Against cancer! Which is fun!

- Otherwise, you can go with your gay bf sans chaperone!
- I emailed you from work, to your work, so our work emails could bond.
- Woo, Borat!
- I underestimated you. You have proven yourself a worthy nemesis. The battle is on!
- I'm not sure Pollock ever dabbled in the "brains & gore" medium.


Wow, They Love Me

The first day at the new gig rocked. Ways this is already way better than the last job: no concussion!

Trust me, leaving the building intact is a major improvement.

And being introduced to your department amid hootin', hollerin', AND applause will stroke any ego. It was actually a bit embarrassing. I've now become the benchmark to which all new applicants must be measured against.

One of these days they're going to see through my façade. But that day was not today.

Today was a good day.


PS: a big thank you and much love to everyone who made it out to our party Saturday night. You are my heroes.


The Critics Dig it

My fabulous baby brother, who is one half of the LA-based hip hop group Calisthenix and is much cooler than I can ever hope to be, just received his first cd

James Smith was pretty damn impressed: 4 out of 5 afros. Damn straight!

Buy it here:

Their first video for The Anthem is up too, but stupid YouTube is giving me issues, so I can't post it here.


And congratulations, honey!


I Took the Job

And I start Monday.

Fuck yeah. Back to the world of the living. Back to being a productive member of society, instead of a drain on my own bank account. Back to contributing to the GNP. Or GDP. Or whatever gross product it is we work for.

Back to doing what I love. Well, what I love doing that doesn't require a camera. Or a blood test. And is legal.

The point? No more daily double posting. I might actually not have the time. And for now, that is a very good thing. I think we were getting too comfortable in our reader/blogger relationship, us. What with you expecting me to feed you twice a day, me with too much to say, resulting in a shitload of sub-par ramblings. And really, you deserve better.

In the meantime, I'll be celebrating with my girls tomorrow and then
fighting cancer with beer on Saturday. Everyone who can make it, I hope to see you there.

The rest of you, I'll be back with better stuff real soon. You'll see!

No #$%& for You!

Note: this is probably NSFW

This t-shirt probaby isn't funny to Texans, and that's okay. If you can't laugh at yourself, then you shouldn't be laughing at other people anyway:

But this is really retarded. Look closely at the advertisment below:

Here, I'll spell it out: you cannot buy this personal item in Alabama, Colorado, Georgia, Kansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas or Virginia. Now, from personal experience, I wouldn't exactly recommend it, but that's no reason to disallow 8 entire states worth of people from trying it.

Does anyone else see something wrong with this?


Brawny Man Sighting

A nicely tanned man wearing the official local dress - cargo shorts, white t-shirt, and flip-flops - sitting outside a coffee shop and talking on cellphone, would have looked like any other beach bum enjoying an early morning cup of jet fuel. If not for the presence of the one undeniable lumberjack characteristic:

The full face beard.

What was a lumberjack doing in Mar Vista? Aren't they're trees for him to fell in a forest far away? Is he a retired? Can a strapping man who appears to only be about 35 retire so early from lumberjacking? And can I have his babies?

I suspect that he recently made a career move that brought him out to Venice Beach. But that he has been unable to give up the beard for fear that his face will have funny tan lines. Or maybe just out of habit; he has trouble completely parting from the lifestyle.

But seriously, there was a lumberjack at my coffee shop. How cool is that?

Pretty Shiny Things

Today I took a tour of the Natural History Museum's vault. In it, they house all their precious gemstones. You can't touch them, but you can drool.

Which I did.

I'm not a big fan of expensive jewelry. All of my real baubels are small and tasteful and I rarely wear them. I'm a simple girl that way. Which is why most of my bling lives in my mom's jewelry box.

My fake stuff is ghetto big. But the real stuff, I just can't carry it off without looking like I'm trying too hard.

About 2 years ago, a boy asked me to marry him. He wasn't serious, he just wanted a legal way to force me to share my income with him so we could buy a house. Being pathologically materialistic however, he was turned off by my unwillingness to wear a huge gaudy ring. And that was the end of his bogus proposal.

But all those sparkly stones under twinkly lights today were really pretty. I can't imagine actually wearing them, but I can appreciate their beauty.

And at least they're a better investment than a Mazerati.


Want a Date with GPG?

Of course you do.

And if you're in the LA area, then you can have it! Come to
The Park in Burbank on Saturday night. Yes, this Saturday the 16th. I'll be there from 7 to 10 pm. All you need to do is drink lots of beer and buy raffle tickets. Or more beer.

As an added bonus, you'll be helping us eradicate cancer. Which, by extension, means beating the terrorists.

And now, five years later, it's about time we started making strides in that direction, don't you think?

The Art of the Kiss

Do you know this man?

He knows a secret too many men forgot, or sadly, never learned. That even though a quick and dirty jab of the tongue and a rough manhandling of the rest of the body might lead to some sort of sexual gratification, the long, wet kiss that lasts an hour will make a woman weak in the knees and leaves her yearning for more.

We forget how gratifying a mere kiss can be. The intimacy created with a slow session of lip-on-lip action cannot be rushed.

When he leans in and softly presses his lips against hers, waits for her to respond, and doesn't immediately shove his tongue inside but teases her with the tip, that's a talented man.

When he pulls back and lets her catch her breath before attacking her with another tender kiss, a little harder than the first, that's a keeper.

When he finally opens his mouth, she won't even notice the stubble rubbing against her face. She's lost to the soft dance he's creating with her tongue. Hands in her hair, arms wrapped around each other, small moans escaping from them both.

She cannot get enough.

The extended make-out session, with no ulterior motive beyond the sweet kiss, where all action is on top of the clothing and stays mainly above the waist, is all but lost. Sexy, and oh-so-rare.

I'm shuddering just thinking about it.

And that is the sign of a VERY good kiss.


Best Thing Since Soda in a Can

Job offers.



It's That Good

What was the pinnacle of greatness before sliced bread came along?

I don't care. But I can tell you what the best thing SINCE then has been: canned soda.

It's soda. In a can. That you can take with you wherever you go! A little mobile carrying case for yummy nectar, it is.

You might argue that any vessel capable of not spilling your liquid refreshment would qualify as the best thing
since sliced bread. Like flasks. For tequila, or *insert your poison of choice here.* And you would have a compelling point. But changing the idiom to suit your ever-changing multitude of examples would be crazy talk. And highly confusing.

So it's soda in a can. As I have declared it so it shall be. Anytime you come across something truly excellent, you can now say "it's the best thing since soda in a can."

Although maybe "beer in a can" might be a better option?



I'm Losted Updated

I found the jeans! The black hole spit them back out. And my Palm Pilot!! It had fallen out in my car.

But now I'm wondering where my lip liner has gone. And my blush brush. My make-up must be on strike.

More importantly, my watch is missing. Which I could have conceivably left at someone's house. Can everyone I've had the pleasure of making sleepover fun with please check to make sure you don't have my Anne Klein watch? It's a round mother-of-pearl face with Roman numerals and a two-tone chain wristband. It was a gift from my mommy that I liked very much and they don't even make it anymore.


The Signs Are Clear

Yesterday I received an offer for free panties from Victoria's Secret. No purchase necessary. Just come in and pick up your free pair of whore floss.

And then today, this is the ad above my last post:

Free panties, free mirror for the bedroom (ceiling)...coincidence?

I think not.


I'm Losted

(C-Dub is going to chastise me for this, and make you all think I'm a whore, but ignore her. You already know the truth about that last part.)

We've been down the whole GPG-has-a-bad-memory road
before. So this is not news. But now things have gone missing--again--and it's driving me insaney.

I went a little psycho with the cleaning yesterday, and threw out a bunch of shit. I figured this would make it easier to find stuff. Guess again.

I seem to have lost an especially comfortable pair of jeans. I can't even recall when I last wore them...probably some party. Back in May. Yes, it was my nephew's birthday and someone told me I looked good in them. I remember that! So I wanted to check my ass out in them last night, possibly wear them to the movies, but after digging through my black hole of a closet I got nothing.

And no, I didn't leave them at someone's house after the party. That much I know. At least I think I do.

Even more irritating is the sudden disappearance of my Palm Pilot. I remember playing solitaire on it last Thursday while waiting for the stupid recruiter woman at an interview. And then I brought it home, charged it...and now I have no clue where it went. Which is potentially quite

I don't know how my things keep growing legs and walking away. But if they make a deterrent for that, I need it ASAP.

In the meantime, can someone tell me what today is and what I'm supposed to be doing?


In a Cleaning Frenzy

As you know, when you bribe me with traffic, I buy you alcohol. Or bring you tequila. Or rig the vote in your favor.

So while I'm divesting myself of 5 years worth of clutter here in my bedroom (quick aside: did you know that when I write these little missives of love for all of you out on the internets, I'm sitting in my bedroom? And usually, with naked feet!) y'all should go check out Kilroy @ The Gonzo Papers. His blog takes a little bit of savvy navigation, since he's able to post from the future, but he likes me. Why, I don't know. Probably because of the nakedness.

Find him here:
Fear & Loathing - The Gonzo Papers. His balls are autographed by Alan Sheppard.

Or, you could just go outside. It's pretty out. Here anyway.


August by the Numbers

What a month. I thought I'd have a job by now. Instead, I'm considering prostitution as a viable option. Even if there are no 401(k) options or paid vacations. At least it's easy money!

36.5 miles run
9 weeks to relieve the leg pain issue
5 days with tolerable discomfort
31 days unemployed
12 interviews survived
1 interview killed before it began for being related to an associate at the company
2 hours wasted taking their remedial candidate tests and then waiting for the stupid recruiter who was running late, all to be told that they do not hire relatives of existing employees
3.2 fleeting seconds of wondering whether homicide would have been justified at that point
6 hours spent training a replacement for a previous employer
60 minute massage rewarded for my efforts
110.35 dollars spent on alcohol in one week
3 birthdays celebrated or not
30 years of wedded bliss achieved by my kooky, lovable alien parents
240 pictures shot in a single photo session
0 outfit changes necessary
8 of us at a Dodger game
1 obstinate child unwilling to share her cotton candy
4 runs scored by the home team in the bottom of the 7th
418 additional dollars raised for
3 glasses of wine imbibed before movie premiere
106 enjoyable Snakes on a Plane minutes
5 hours spent reuniting with old classmates
18 shots of whisky guzzled over the course of the evening
3 pit stops made on the ride home to relieve my stomach of its contents
1 bon voyage party for Kentucky native, talented actress/writer/singer, and my whore Lex
5 months till we see her again
3 threesomes proposed
0 threesomes resulting
1 new
website launched
5 galleries added
26 blogs posted