Happy Halloween!



It's All in the Ending

I was all set to bitch about the horrid traffic day I had. Out of fucking nowhere, the number of cars seemed to balloon 187,000%. There was some bullshit accident at 5 am that up until 8 pm was still wreaking havoc on all Los Angeles roads.

ALL of them. ALL the fucking way from LAX to downtown. Do you know how far away those two locations are? 20 miles. Do you know how many square miles of road that is in between?

80 fucking quadrillion!!

It took an hour and 20 minutes to get from work to home. Those last 20? I moved a full 2 miles. You can imagine how furious and exhausted I was by day's end.

And then I walked in my front door to the most jubilant roommate. As she shoved her left-hand in my face, I had to laugh at how excited she was by the gorgeous ring on her finger. She was literally glowing.

So she's getting married next spring and couldn't be happier. And coming home to that kinda really made my day.


New Reads Around the Neighborhood

It's been a difficult month here in California. First, wildfires that ate up everything in sight, and generally fucked up any plans to breathe. This sucked. But things are getting worse: next up, a possible writers' strike.

While this might not seem important to people who don't watch tv, it's actually worse than a dive in the entertainment quotient. See, most writers are unhappy people to begin with. So if they aren't going to be working for a few months, you can guarantee that there will be more incidents of road rage and less places to sit at the local coffee shop. Where the writers will hang out until kingdom come. With lattes and bad attitudes. It will make getting coffee and/or driving less fun and a lot more dangerous.

What to do? Instead of fretting about professional writers not getting their proper fees, lets all turn our attention to some people who will give it to you for free. To stave off the depression of more reality tv, check out these new additions to the harem:

Attractive, Single, Mentally Stable: Choose 2
The title says it all. Though now that this citizen of the world is threatening to marry a character known only as D, that leaves attractive and mentally stable for the choosing. She appears to love drinking too, so you know that immediately endeared her to us here at Exxy HQ.

Cigar Smoking, Beer Drinking Lawyer and Starving Trial Lawyer
Two obviously legal-based blogs, I found these relatively recently through Anonymous Lawyer. Given who I have to deal with for a living, these guys help me get into the mind of what I would otherwise categorize as arrogant nincompoops. I hate attorneys less after I read these.

Fear & Loathing in Absentia
Written by Neil who is witty and rarely satisfied, but leaves comments for me so he is well-liked around these pink parts. I imagine him as part modern-day Beatnik, part frustrated Einstein. I've never met the man, so there is no way I could confirm this persona, but I'm happy to encourage it.

Lightning Bug's Butt
Truly riotously hysterical writing. There is little that can be said about this blog that would do it justice. The archives date back nearly 3 years, and there's little we at Exoterica like more than a willingness to keep churning it out.

Mumble, Mumble, Mumble
She's back, finally. A dear friend of your humble GPG, C-dub returns to the blogging world. She's newly married but remains one of my favorite camera whores. We like her lots.

And that should keep us all busy for a while.


Tourista in the City: 90291

In my new and completely irregularly posted series, I'll give my dedicated readers tips on getting around the maze that is Los Angeles.

First up: Venice Beach. Specifically, its notorious boardwalk. (I dedicate this to Jay.)

- If you see a gorgeous Adonis of a black man standing by his bicycle looking in your direction, do not ask your boyfriend if you can take him home with you. Because the black Adonis will either hear this, or see your lips moving, and come right over to you and talk nonstop for the next 10 minutes. During which you will learn that he was born in '61, he used to box with Mike Tyson, and that he's got a black tooth. This will ruin your meal, consisting of a hot dog for you and hot wings for him. Neither of you will finish your food, and that's just a waste.

- Nobody rolls around the beach in a limousine unless they are a douchbag. Points for it not being a Hummer model, but the ruling on the field stands. Especially when its a Chrysler 300, aka the Poorman's Bentley. And when you see Dog the Bounty Hunter step out of said vehicle, step to the side. A stampede of white trash sycophants are rushing to stalk him down the boardwalk and you do not want their buckteeth to snag you.

- Dating a man with the same name as a famous singer is good, especially when it gets you into a conversation with the very attractive Puerto Rican doorman. Spoken completely in Spanish. Being Puerto Rican gets you the best seats at the bar, and impeccable service like lots of cherries in your Shirley Temple. Do not expect this level of attention unless you are indeed Puerto Rican as well.

- The pillar of a figure standing in a black sack will poke and/or mock you. Much to the enjoyment of everyone at the Sidewalk Cafe. Don't get too close or you will become the show.

- Finally, dogs and babies are more plentiful than fat, pasty tourists with black socks and sandals. Beware of dog poo and large strollers, piloted by clueless parents that don't realize you shouldn't take innocent children to an area abuzz with germs and clouds of marijuana smoke. That's bad for their little lungs. And getting a lame message t-shirt isn't going to cure their asthma.


From the Land of Minimal Effort

I've become lazy as all hell. Having a job that hypothetically drains the life out of you tends to have that effect.

But seriously.

I've stopped caring about what I wear. In the mornings, it's almost too much trouble to wash my hair. There's a point where if one continues to ignore her eyebrows, they become a ragged, unplucked mess.

I'm half a step removed from that point.

This morning, after awaking from a nightmare in which my coworker was trying to kill me and Bea Arthur was trying to help me, I dragged my tired ass out of bed and stared at the closet. I had an event tonight, so I had to at least try to look decent. It took half an hour, but I somehow managed to pull it together.

I even put on make-up. But just the bare minimum.

At 4:30 I dragged my more tired, worn out, faded make-up wearing ass to the hotel. Where I spent the entire dinner chatting with a nice young man. Who ended the night by asking me out.

The moral of the story: there's no point in trying to look good. Apparently I'm better off like this.


If you came here looking for a Friday photo, too bad. I just didn't feel like it today. Expect this apathy to continue indefinitely. Or until someone gives me a million dollars.

Whichever comes first.


Overheard at the Sofitel

Last night, La Ria and I got together once again to enjoy more of our industry perks. Namely, partying at a swanky hotel.

We got to sit among the Hollywood wannabes discussing their movies. And smoking. Isn't it illegal to do that yet?

I hate smokers.

I spilled tequila on myself because my stupid swag bag fell over on it. So annoying. It was good tequila too. So we had to sit around and wait for me to dry off, lest the lingering stench of alcohol cloud our ride home. Can you imagine if we got pulled over?

But the true climatic event of the evening came when the old geezer next to me decided to comment on my choice of scotch.

Blonde bartendar: That's the last bit of the 18. We don't have any more bottles.

GPG: This is less than a shot. Wow.

BB: It's all yours.

Old Geezer: 18 year old scotch, huh?

GPG: My boyfriend says it makes me mean when I drink it. I'm not talking to him tonight, so I'll steal this opportunity to enjoy it.

OG: It makes you mean?

GPG: Yes. But I'm Puerto Rican, so that's allowed. He knew what he was getting into from the moment we met.

At this, the geezer made a face like he'd given up trying to understand women. He briefly pontificated on the difference between "mean" and "nasty," then went to put the moves on the budding starlet sitting on the other side of the bar.

It fascinates me to no end how old men will never hesitate to hit on young women. It's entertaining.

Almost as good as free cheese and wine. And scotch. She didn't end up charging me for my miniscule shot. Or the one I spilled.

It was a good night.


The Fire Season

Remember how Southern California only has three seasons? As the humidity went into negative numbers the other day, I made a bad joke about how the hills would soon be alive with the smell of burning embers.

The next day, angry flames devouring everything in sight. From Malibu to San Diego, 10 separate incidents. That's a little suspect, don't you think?

We're now up to what? 20 fires? One million people evacuated. It's affecting people I know and love. I prefer they not become homeless.

The cover story of the November issue of Los Angeles magazine is about fire being the real danger. Not earthquakes. Not terrorists. Not idiotic Hollywood darlings with nothing better to do than run over the paparazzi and squander their lives in rehab. Nope. It's fire.

California isn't going to fall into the ocean. It's going to implode in a huge cloud of acrid smoke, leaving behind a huge pile of dust. Like a vampire after you expose it to sunlight. Smells bad. Like burnt meat. What a waste.

It's usually not safe to breathe the air. But right now, you need an oxygen mask. The sky has a permanent orange glow, grey clouds blotting out the sky. At nine am today the light had an eerie, late afternoon glow about it. It's been suspiciously quiet too. Like the worst is yet to come.

Recently I drove past the site of some ugly fires from earlier this year. Ones that ate up the vegetation in my favorite childhood wonderland: Griffith Park. The scars remain in the twisted limbs of blackened trees stand silent against a charred, naked landscape. It's like nature's own scorched earth practice. The land will lie fallow for another 7 years.

Then there was that year that the hills behind my parents' house lit up the night sky. They spent that week in Mexico, ignorant of the threat to their home. I stayed there just in case their valuables needed rescuing.

And that's the thing about these fires, and why it's ALMOST understandable that arsonists derive such joy from setting things aflame: it's beautiful. Destructive in the nastiest of ways, but from afar, it's gorgeous. And we will rebuild. We always do.

So we'll take our amazingly brilliant sunsets, and wait out the horror. And when all is said and done, we'll start all over.

Destroy and recreate. It's how we survive.


The Gift of Blog

This little pink corner of the world here has afforded me a lot of fun.

It's given me pen pals in the farthest reaches of the globe. It's gotten me free drinks. It's put me in touch with my inner writer and her alter ego the grammar nazi. It's forced me to rethink my stance on many a topic before I commit it to the internet tubes.

It's even gotten me laid.

But in today's mail I got something even specialer than that. From the upside-down part of the world came a package. The contents must remain under wraps, but amongst the many neat findings there lay the secrets to finding the Baboon Army Compound.

Skookum Joe is the coolest cat in Aussie land. I highly recommend winning his quizzes so you too can have your own bag of heroin n' fun!


Random Hypothetical #2

How do you know when it's time to quit your job?

Is it when you can't stomach getting out of bed in the morning, just to go shovel more manure? Or when you can barely contain your disgust at the mere thought of dealing with your coworkers?

Or is it when you feel like your entire soul has been sucked dry and there is no more joy left in the world?

It's good to recognize these signs, should you ever find yourself in such a position.


I Love This Game

Since you already got your photoblogging for the week, let me share the joy that was the unexpected treat of watching my all-time favorite basketball player boyfriend help his Suns clobber my favorite team. I'm a Clippers fan, no doubt. But when Grant Hill is in town, I swoon for no other.

In fact when my real boyfriend called to ask what was up, I told him I couldn't talk because my boyfriend Grant had all my attention. I can't talk and drool at the same time.

But the real funny was when my baby brother and I first arrived at Staples Center. The Spirit Squad girls were posing for pictures when we walked by. He'd been snapping pics outside with his new iPhone, so I figured he want to put it to further good use:

GPG: Want a picture with them?

Baby Brother: Nah. They're not that hot.

He then went to buy his baby a Clips ski cap.

I'm sure the Shambot appreciates it all.


I Got Sunshine

With all the rotten things going on in the world (global warming, Britney being allowed to keep her kids overnight, my access to free pizza being compromised), I'm considering myself pretty fucking lucky.

I have a job with more headaches than perks, but at least the perks I do get are nice. And I've spent the week doing a damn good job of impressing The Powers That Be while only managing to work about 4 hours a day.

Halloween is just around the corner.

There's a certain man who to this day still knows when I need to hear his voice. And delivers in spades.

I just spent a random Wednesday night having a home cooked meal with my entire family. There's nothing like dinner with the people you love.

And tomorrow? Clippers vs. Suns!!!

Anyone who says life isn't good isn't me. Remind me of this next time I start crabbing.


Fun with Nyquil

Each annoyingly pathetic time I get sick, I know how it's gonna go: misery, misery, misery...

Otherwise known as The 5 Stages of Illness, per me:

1. Sore throat, sniffles.

2. Denial that I'm getting sick, followed by an overdose of Airborne, Emergen-C, echinecea, goldenseal and anything else I can get my hands on to prevent the germs from taking up residence in my mucus membranes

3. Anger when it doesn't work.

4. Inability to breathe because the germs have won and it hurts like a bitch.

5. Irritating hacking cough.

By the time I get the cough, I know I'm on the upswing. After 6 fucking days, I'm finally in the final stages of this awful cold. Even though my head still feels like a balloon, and I swear to god I'm floating, I know I'm getting better.

And I damn well better be.


Shady Figures

I live on a quiet street. It's a tree-lined residential neighborhood made up of apartment buildings nestled between two major avenues. I've been here for 6 years.

At night, it gets a little deserted. And the streetlights are set far enough apart that it's rather dark. Especially on nights like tonight when the moon is hiding behind a blanket of clouds. Did I mention the trees throwing shadows all over the place? It can be a little spooky.

So when I got home at nearly 9 pm, and there was a black-clad man wandering suspiciously down the middle of the street, and I spent all weekend in bed watching tv shows about women killed in their apartments, is it any wonder that I felt a little apprehensive pulling into my garage?

Thank god he just kept walking past my building. Preferring prey a little further down the road, I'm sure.

I gotta stop watching those shows.

Blog Action Day

Today anyone with a blog and an eco-minded conscience is tasked with creating awareness around our planet's plight.

So I give you this:

Cigarettes, children, litter.

Take from it what you will.


Blog Action Day.


So Fucking Sick

Since Thursday. That's 4 full days. It's the reason you've gotten nothing of substance from me, including a photo on Friday.

Frankly, I'm tired of losing my equilibrium because my sinuses are all messed up, or feeling like my head is going to explode. But the best part is sounding like someone who's smoked for 90 years. So sexy.

Except not. At all.


Gasping for Air

I haven't been sick since I had to take an entire month off of work in March 2006. It was immediately after that bout that I started training for my first half-marathon and somehow that kicked my immunity up to indestructible levels.

19 whole months free of germs.

Until the sweetest little boy--who just happened to have the sniffles--lay kisses on me all day Saturday. Now I can't breathe.

It's been a good month since I saw the inside of a gym. The combination of work hours and lack of energy don't make it easy to keep up my exercise routine. God knows I'm paying for it now that my pants fit a little snug. I know it's not gigantism either. And I was just thinking earlier this week that I damn well better get back there lest I get sick soon.

I guess the joke's on me.

Monsieur and I had a real date planned for tonight, too. One that didn't involve beer and/or watching football like the last 6 weekends of our lives. Not that I mind that, it's just that a girl deserves a little romance now and then. In a dress. With George Clooney.

I even shaved my legs.




Yeah, I got nothing.


Scavenging for Prizes

Over the weekend, my baby brother, the Shambot, my mom and Baby Aladdin participated in a scavenger hunt in beautiful downtown Burbank. Well, the baby was more of a silent partner. Like the team mascot.

We figured we had the inside track against the 4 other teams given that 3 of us were raised in the area, and most of the team lives with 5 blocks of it. We took the four page list, divided it among us, and ran off to hunt.

I was done with my list within 45 minutes, buying most of the items on my list. My teammates were much more resourceful, spending a whopping 86 cents between the 3 of them while I forked over a good 40 bucks. I returned everything except $8 worth of toys, which were immediately gifted to the G-brat and C-note.

2 hours later we reconvened and felt pretty confident about our findings. We were only missing 5 items, which were nearly impossible to find without running back to one of our houses. Which would probably have been cheating anyway.

Well we should have cheated, or at least driven a car to the event because we ended up coming in dead last. We could have picked up at least 4 of them at my mom's house: a driedel, license plate frame, magnets, fake monster teeth. That would have given us 20 points and tied us for 2nd place.

There are two morals to this story:
1. Always drive to the mall, and
2. Cheating is the only way to win.

I'm annoyed. This after running around in 3-inch wedges for two hours after attempting to climb a 74-story building the day before.

My feet still hurt, dammit.

But we did have a lot of fun. Next time, I say we do it drunk!


Two More Things

1. Heliocopters hovering in my neighborhood are annoying. Damn juvenile delinquents.

2. Bluetooth ear pieces fuck with your peripheral vision. Especially when driving. Which is just as distracting as fiddling with an actual phone, so what's the benefit?


Photoblogging Friday 10.5.07

I've exhausted the creepy parking lot so starting next week I'll start with something new. But for now, here's the last of the series:

Open window

Out the window

Looking down on 9th street in the Historic Core. Just around the corner from the Broadway Bar, which if you're ever in downtown, is an interesting watering hole. Owned by the same genius behind whiskey bar Seven Grand just four blocks away.

Now I'm thirsty.


Dancing Pipe Cleaner Queen

Have you seen this yet?

My favorite is making it dance to E.

It takes so little to amuse me these days.


Random Hypothetical

Say I run into an ex boyfriend while out with my current boyfriend. After the requisite introductions, is it acceptable to tell one that the other's penis is bigger than his?

Even if it's true?

I'm just wondering. You know, in case I suddenly lose all sense of class and graciousness.


September by the Numbers

I usually start these monthly rundowns off by complaining about how fast the time passed, don't I? This one is no different. Because I honestly cannot comprehend how we're in the last quarter of the year. Can you?

The days between Monday and Friday are passing so goddamn quickly that my weekends are now completely consumed with doing as little as absolutely possible. Doing not a fucking thing would be best. We'll see how that works out this month.

And then at the end: Halloween!!!

But for now, September:

25 days being in charge
1 new hire
15 days spent holding her hand
1 new client group
4 of the company's former presidents present at the first meeting
30 minutes making them laugh at my jokes
2 cocktail parties
1 massive ongoing headache that just won't go away
2 birthdays
3 day holiday spent firmly rooted to the couch with Monsieur
1 backache earned for that laziness
6 chiro visits trying to fix that mistake
46 pictures shot in his icky parking structure
45 minutes with a camera down my throat, enjoying the best sleep of my life
20 minutes in recovery, screwing with the oximeter probe to make the machine look like an Etch-a-sketch (the nurses didn't like that)
2 days spent fasting

And yeah, that's about it. All I did was work all month, so I didn't do anything fun. Even those cocktail parties were work. Man, I gotta get out more.

Or just stay home and rest. Yeah, that.