Put me next to a baby and the first word out of my mouth is "F#$." It never fails. I don't mean to do it, it's not a reaction. It's almost like sudden onset tourettes. I had lunch with my friend and her baby yesterday, and somehow the topic turned to politics. I was pretty good, keeping my mouth shut until that monster-under-the-bed topic, religion, came up and then all of a sudden, the profanities started flying. I could see her baby, pudgy and perfect-skin cuteness, shaping his little mouth into an F sound and I flashed forward to the future where my friend called me screaming, “his first word should have been Mommy. Not mother-f@#$%!”
She would not have been the first mother who has gotten upset with me. This past Christmas Eve, I gave my pal CW’s step-children a special treat when, as we were opening gifts, I commented on a very “unique” gift by saying, “what the F#$!” I knew when the kids mouths flew open, their eyes went wide and their hair stood straight up that they had never heard that word before, except maybe at the movies.
On airplanes, I am the poor soul who gets stuck next to the crying baby. It is karma for all the F words I’ve lobbed in my life around children. Just the other day on a flight back from Vegas, I said to a mother who was trying to console her crying child, “well, you know, it’s gotta be the f#$%*@^g turbulence that has her upset.” Wow. Can that mom shoot a nasty look..
I have a personal relationship with the F word. Some people find it prosaic and lament that people could come up with something more unique. What the F@#$ is up with that? The F word is descriptive of the emotion you are feeling. Something can be “F’ing brilliant” and the person you are talking to knows you love it. “F that,” means you hate something and “I f’ing hate you,” means you really, really hate something, as in “I f’ing hate you, Dick Cheney.”
So to any mothers reading this, if I’m coming ‘round, lock up your babies or at least get them earmuffs. I sincerely mean no disrespect, but man oh man, I can’t seem to keep my f!@#$%& mouth shut.
April 30, 2008
April 29, 2008
Hey mister, did I ask your opinion?
I went to see Bill Maher and Tony Snow with my friend E.D. last night. Despite the fact that he comes across as a misogynist, and despite the fact that he likes Obama better than Hillary, I still like Maher. I don’t know much about Tony Snow, other than I disagreed with almost everything he said. He did look well, though, despite his battles with cancer.
I could write at length at the funny, pithy lines from Maher----“Gas prices are up 200% and our president just happens to be an oilman” for instance---but, instead, I want to take a moment to say something to all the people who had to shout out their disapproval every-time either Snow or Maher said something they did not like.
“Oh for God’s sake, shut the f$%! up.”
Yes, I’m talking to you, to that man in front of me who kept saying, “You’re stupid, Snow!” I may not be a fan of Tony Snow, but he was on that stage as a featured guest, while meanwhile, you buddy, are stuck in the rafters with me. Or to the other guy down the aisle from us who kept jeering Bill Maher. I got a look at you, mister. I wouldn’t be jeering anyone. Then there was the woman behind me who kept hissing. I don’t know. This is LA. Maybe her breasts had sprung a leak.
We paid $85 to go see Bill Maher. We didn’t pay $85 so angry audience members could express themselves. The event promotional material didn’t say anything about group therapy.
Of all the one-liners and pithy zingers levied last night, something Maher said really struck me, and it was nothing provocative. He mentioned that the election is six months away. We don’t even have a candidate yet, but it doesn’t matter, because what is important is that McCain is defeated, and no matter what the polls show, I think an awful lot of people feel the same way. Yet it’s clear there’s also an awful lot of people that don’t; they say they want change, but for some reason think McCain is that change. It’s going to be an ugly six months ahead. Friends are going to start fighting and jeering and hissing each other, and I'm not talking about leaky breasts or snakes gone wild. Everyone has an opinion, even if they don't have facts. And in the end, we are all going to be united over one thing: what's up with undecided voters? How can they not have an opinion one way or the other?
If I were Bill Maher, I'd have a funny way of closing this post. I'd say something provocative and biting, and you would get a belly laugh out of it. Unfortunately for you, I'm not Bill. So cue the hissing lady already.
I could write at length at the funny, pithy lines from Maher----“Gas prices are up 200% and our president just happens to be an oilman” for instance---but, instead, I want to take a moment to say something to all the people who had to shout out their disapproval every-time either Snow or Maher said something they did not like.
“Oh for God’s sake, shut the f$%! up.”
Yes, I’m talking to you, to that man in front of me who kept saying, “You’re stupid, Snow!” I may not be a fan of Tony Snow, but he was on that stage as a featured guest, while meanwhile, you buddy, are stuck in the rafters with me. Or to the other guy down the aisle from us who kept jeering Bill Maher. I got a look at you, mister. I wouldn’t be jeering anyone. Then there was the woman behind me who kept hissing. I don’t know. This is LA. Maybe her breasts had sprung a leak.
We paid $85 to go see Bill Maher. We didn’t pay $85 so angry audience members could express themselves. The event promotional material didn’t say anything about group therapy.
Of all the one-liners and pithy zingers levied last night, something Maher said really struck me, and it was nothing provocative. He mentioned that the election is six months away. We don’t even have a candidate yet, but it doesn’t matter, because what is important is that McCain is defeated, and no matter what the polls show, I think an awful lot of people feel the same way. Yet it’s clear there’s also an awful lot of people that don’t; they say they want change, but for some reason think McCain is that change. It’s going to be an ugly six months ahead. Friends are going to start fighting and jeering and hissing each other, and I'm not talking about leaky breasts or snakes gone wild. Everyone has an opinion, even if they don't have facts. And in the end, we are all going to be united over one thing: what's up with undecided voters? How can they not have an opinion one way or the other?
If I were Bill Maher, I'd have a funny way of closing this post. I'd say something provocative and biting, and you would get a belly laugh out of it. Unfortunately for you, I'm not Bill. So cue the hissing lady already.
April 27, 2008
Fa la la la la la L.A.
Being new in town is a little like being the new kid in school in the middle of the semester. Not only are you a stranger among friends and neighbors, but there’s already subtext going on that you don’t know about.
When I first told my friends that I was leaving Las Vegas and moving to Los Angeles, nearly everyone had the same response. “Why?” They asked, horrified. And that was the people from LA. My friends from San Francisco and New York just looked at me with great empathy and said things like, “Oh Honey, maybe you don’t have the best judgment. Think about that decision for a while. Like a year.”
But I knew, I knew in one instant when I made the decision to leave Vegas that the place I wanted to go was Los Angeles. And I can honestly say that since I acted on that decision, there hasn’t been one moment where I have regretted my decision. On the other hand, I have really, really bad judgment.
I’ve lived in the South, in San Francisco, and in the South West. I have traveled all over the country, and I can honestly say that I have friends in three-quarters of the states thanks to my day job. I know people in Sweetwater and El Paso, Lincoln, Boise, Royersford (PA) not to mention the bigger cities. On the surface, people in LA look like the rest of America, except maybe a bit thinner (‘except for the ‘burb people. They are chunky like the rest of the country.) Everyone usually plays by the same rules, but here in LA, there are different rules. When someone says, “I’ll see you at 6:00,” they mean 6:30 or 7:00, or, like some people I’ve met, 8:00. People don’t date, they “hang” which gets confusing because friends “hang” as well. “Let’s hang,” is an often used phrased. It can mean anything from “Let’s have sex,” to “Come on over and let’s watch ‘Gossip Girl.’”
Another difference: no one drinks in LA. They either smoke pot or are in a 12-step program. When I first moved here, I kept thinking my block was infested with skunks, My friend Robby gave me that sympathetic look that people give me a lot these days and said, “Oh honey, have you already forgotten your college days?” As far as the wine goes, for the first time in my life, I feel like the Episcopal at the Baptist pancake supper. I’m ordering wine while everyone else is smirking at me, drinking water, and then going outside to take hits, or, worse, 12-stepping me. That’s an actual phrase, “12-stepping” someone. I learned that shortly after I moved here and it’s a nice way of saying, “stop treating me like a drunk.” Another often used phrase is, “stop 12-stepping me, Lindsey.”
I keep telling myself that people are the same everywhere, but they really aren’t, not here. And I think that’s the beauty of a town like LA for a girl who wants a new life. Reinvention just isn’t a term for marketing flaks, it’s a personal process here. It’s a town charged with creativity where people spin their own story and everyone’s working on either a labor of love project or they are simply trying to get their big break. There are a million writers, directors, actors, etc all with day jobs, just trying to get by until they find the act that will suffice, as Wallace Stevens would say. And that’s the good thing, they are keeping hope alive.
Oh God. I hope all those people aren’t Obama supporters.
When I first told my friends that I was leaving Las Vegas and moving to Los Angeles, nearly everyone had the same response. “Why?” They asked, horrified. And that was the people from LA. My friends from San Francisco and New York just looked at me with great empathy and said things like, “Oh Honey, maybe you don’t have the best judgment. Think about that decision for a while. Like a year.”
But I knew, I knew in one instant when I made the decision to leave Vegas that the place I wanted to go was Los Angeles. And I can honestly say that since I acted on that decision, there hasn’t been one moment where I have regretted my decision. On the other hand, I have really, really bad judgment.
I’ve lived in the South, in San Francisco, and in the South West. I have traveled all over the country, and I can honestly say that I have friends in three-quarters of the states thanks to my day job. I know people in Sweetwater and El Paso, Lincoln, Boise, Royersford (PA) not to mention the bigger cities. On the surface, people in LA look like the rest of America, except maybe a bit thinner (‘except for the ‘burb people. They are chunky like the rest of the country.) Everyone usually plays by the same rules, but here in LA, there are different rules. When someone says, “I’ll see you at 6:00,” they mean 6:30 or 7:00, or, like some people I’ve met, 8:00. People don’t date, they “hang” which gets confusing because friends “hang” as well. “Let’s hang,” is an often used phrased. It can mean anything from “Let’s have sex,” to “Come on over and let’s watch ‘Gossip Girl.’”
Another difference: no one drinks in LA. They either smoke pot or are in a 12-step program. When I first moved here, I kept thinking my block was infested with skunks, My friend Robby gave me that sympathetic look that people give me a lot these days and said, “Oh honey, have you already forgotten your college days?” As far as the wine goes, for the first time in my life, I feel like the Episcopal at the Baptist pancake supper. I’m ordering wine while everyone else is smirking at me, drinking water, and then going outside to take hits, or, worse, 12-stepping me. That’s an actual phrase, “12-stepping” someone. I learned that shortly after I moved here and it’s a nice way of saying, “stop treating me like a drunk.” Another often used phrase is, “stop 12-stepping me, Lindsey.”
I keep telling myself that people are the same everywhere, but they really aren’t, not here. And I think that’s the beauty of a town like LA for a girl who wants a new life. Reinvention just isn’t a term for marketing flaks, it’s a personal process here. It’s a town charged with creativity where people spin their own story and everyone’s working on either a labor of love project or they are simply trying to get their big break. There are a million writers, directors, actors, etc all with day jobs, just trying to get by until they find the act that will suffice, as Wallace Stevens would say. And that’s the good thing, they are keeping hope alive.
Oh God. I hope all those people aren’t Obama supporters.
April 24, 2008
Where bloggers go when the economy turns blue
Last week I blogged for the first time in months, and as I do, made a huge deal out of it. Then, in an accidental attempt to make myself look silly, I didn't blog for over a week. A blogger blogs, that’s the rule. But a girl gets busy. A girl goes to Vegas. A girl has to sit by the TV and wait for Hillary to win Pennsylvania. Tonight, this girl went for a drive in her Mini. For reasons I can't even explain, I had yet to take a drive out to the ocean, except for that one time when I turned left on Santa Monica when I should have turned right. Forty-five minutes later, ocean, and I was late for an appointment.
As I was driving tonight, I listened to Ryan Adams, "When the Stars Go Blue." The chorus refrain is "Where do you go when the stars go blue." While he's not talking about the economy and our recession, it made me think of that, nonetheless. It's like when my boss talks about ROI and I start thinking about lunch, or when George W. Bush talks about Iraq and I think about this girl I knew in college who was a cutter. Everyone I know is afraid of losing their job these days, especially the people I work with. Our revenues are, at last count, 30% off. One could blame marketing, but then one would have to blame me, so when I'm not thinking about lunch, I blame our sales guy who says things like, "do you want to get something to nosh on while we have a dialogue?" He can't just say something straightforward and simple, unlike George W. who can only only utter one syllable words, unless he's butchering those large words like "terrorists" or "nuclear," or "apology," as in, "I owe this country an apology for my arrogant ways."
Instead of thinking how lovely the sun looked at it set tonight, all fat and orange at the end of the ocean, or how the jackass in the BMW was tailing me too close, I was thinking about how this Ryan Adams song could be a metaphor for the economy---granted, only another Ryan Adams fan might feel that way (and no, he is not the one who did, “Cuts Like a Knife.”). People are hunkering down, hoarding rice, staying home and watching TV in the dark. Instead of summer coming, it feels like winter. Earlier today, I spoke to a friend who had been laid off and I asked what he was doing to get by. “I don’t spend money,” he said. “I walk instead of drive, I eat pancakes three times a day [the new rice] and I watch a lot of TV for entertainment.”
All this makes me think of another Ryan Adams song, albeit from his “Whiskeytown” days. “The situation has me drinking every day and night. . . The situation ain’t so right. So excuse me if I break my own heart tonight. After all it is mine. . .”
Okay, actually, for a lot of homeowners, their heart belongs to the bank that just foreclosed on their house.
As I was driving tonight, I listened to Ryan Adams, "When the Stars Go Blue." The chorus refrain is "Where do you go when the stars go blue." While he's not talking about the economy and our recession, it made me think of that, nonetheless. It's like when my boss talks about ROI and I start thinking about lunch, or when George W. Bush talks about Iraq and I think about this girl I knew in college who was a cutter. Everyone I know is afraid of losing their job these days, especially the people I work with. Our revenues are, at last count, 30% off. One could blame marketing, but then one would have to blame me, so when I'm not thinking about lunch, I blame our sales guy who says things like, "do you want to get something to nosh on while we have a dialogue?" He can't just say something straightforward and simple, unlike George W. who can only only utter one syllable words, unless he's butchering those large words like "terrorists" or "nuclear," or "apology," as in, "I owe this country an apology for my arrogant ways."
Instead of thinking how lovely the sun looked at it set tonight, all fat and orange at the end of the ocean, or how the jackass in the BMW was tailing me too close, I was thinking about how this Ryan Adams song could be a metaphor for the economy---granted, only another Ryan Adams fan might feel that way (and no, he is not the one who did, “Cuts Like a Knife.”). People are hunkering down, hoarding rice, staying home and watching TV in the dark. Instead of summer coming, it feels like winter. Earlier today, I spoke to a friend who had been laid off and I asked what he was doing to get by. “I don’t spend money,” he said. “I walk instead of drive, I eat pancakes three times a day [the new rice] and I watch a lot of TV for entertainment.”
All this makes me think of another Ryan Adams song, albeit from his “Whiskeytown” days. “The situation has me drinking every day and night. . . The situation ain’t so right. So excuse me if I break my own heart tonight. After all it is mine. . .”
Okay, actually, for a lot of homeowners, their heart belongs to the bank that just foreclosed on their house.
April 17, 2008
Say it ain't so, Bruce!
I'm sure you all have heard the terrible news. No, Lindsey is not back in rehab (well, maybe she is, I'm not keeping up.) My hero, my own personal Jesus, my rock god, and the man I was meant to marry from the time I was thirteen, Bruce Springsteen, endorsed Obama for president Wednesday, saying "he speaks to the America I've envisioned in my music for the past 35 years." In a letter addressed to friends and fans posted to his Web site, Bruce said he believes Obama is the best candidate to undo "the terrible damage done over the past eight years."
Bruce, why? Hillary is the better candidate! Ask her a question, she'll give you an answer. And best of all, men are afraid of her: think about how she'll have those world leaders running for cover.
Look, the democrats can put a beer can up there and I'll vote for it if that's my only choice---hey, I've just started a new breed of democrat. Forget the Yellow Dog Dem, I'm the Beer Can Dem.
The irony is that if Obama speaks to the America Bruce envisioned in his music, then Hillary speaks to the America I've envisioned in Bruce's music. Bruce's musical landscape is about hope, redemption and always searching for that act that will suffice. Except for "57 Channels and Nothing On." I'm not sure what that mess was about. Hillary is a no-nonsense girl who wants to give health care coverage to everyone (hope), get us out of Iraq (more or less redemption as she helped put us there, which she's had to answer for time and again) and the mere fact that her own personal quest is to be the first female president speaks to her holy grail, i.e, that act that will suffice. Yes, you can say all the above about Obama, as they really aren't that far apart on issues, it's just how they discuss the issues. I never know what Obama is saying. Some people call that eloquent, I call it over-the-top writing.
What disturbs me about Bruce's endorsement, is, like John Edwards, he could have waited. Why not just support the final winner, be it Hillary, Obama, or a bottle of Miller Lite (this country needs to lose weight).
Of course, now that I evoke Edwards, watch, he'll come out in support of Obama. Oh Hillary, I love you even if no one else does. Course that could be your problem right there . .
Bruce, why? Hillary is the better candidate! Ask her a question, she'll give you an answer. And best of all, men are afraid of her: think about how she'll have those world leaders running for cover.
Look, the democrats can put a beer can up there and I'll vote for it if that's my only choice---hey, I've just started a new breed of democrat. Forget the Yellow Dog Dem, I'm the Beer Can Dem.
The irony is that if Obama speaks to the America Bruce envisioned in his music, then Hillary speaks to the America I've envisioned in Bruce's music. Bruce's musical landscape is about hope, redemption and always searching for that act that will suffice. Except for "57 Channels and Nothing On." I'm not sure what that mess was about. Hillary is a no-nonsense girl who wants to give health care coverage to everyone (hope), get us out of Iraq (more or less redemption as she helped put us there, which she's had to answer for time and again) and the mere fact that her own personal quest is to be the first female president speaks to her holy grail, i.e, that act that will suffice. Yes, you can say all the above about Obama, as they really aren't that far apart on issues, it's just how they discuss the issues. I never know what Obama is saying. Some people call that eloquent, I call it over-the-top writing.
What disturbs me about Bruce's endorsement, is, like John Edwards, he could have waited. Why not just support the final winner, be it Hillary, Obama, or a bottle of Miller Lite (this country needs to lose weight).
Of course, now that I evoke Edwards, watch, he'll come out in support of Obama. Oh Hillary, I love you even if no one else does. Course that could be your problem right there . .
April 15, 2008
It's been awhile
You haven't heard from me in some time. La Blogda is all about people behaving badly, and I've lived that the last few months. I was even one of them, but then again, I always was.
Last time I posted---back in October---I had flown to LA from Vegas and saw Springsteen at the Sports Arena. Now I live in LA, and last week I saw Springsteen again, this time in Anaheim at the Honda Center. My life is completely different from that October night. I used to live in a nice house in Las Vegas. In the evenings, I sat by the pool drinking wine and listening to music. I worked hard all day (more or less), and then I came home. I wrote a lot more than I do now. I didn't really like living in Vegas, but I have to admit, I liked the comfort of my life. I didn't have to do those daily, mundane things like take out the trash, pump gas into my car, write checks to pay bills, or even wash dishes by hand.
But that all changed. The great thing about Nevada is that it is easy and cheap to get a divorce. But the thing about divorce is that you don't just divorce a person. You divorce a life.
So I now live in West Hollywood in an apartment that was built in 1939. My landlord is an ancient little man who likes to vacation in Key West. He's so cheap he insists on doing all repairs himself: from wiring to plumbing to unfortunately, painting the walls. There are paint drippings in the oddest places, and don't even get me started on the caulking he did. Poor man, every time he climbs my stairs, huffing and panting, I have my fingers poised on speed dial for 911 in case he has a stroke.
A famous actor lives down the street from me. He walks his French Bulldog and he looks scared every time we pass each other, like I'm stalking him Really, I'm just trying to get to the gym. My street is lined with large, shady trees that remind me of any town in the Deep South, except when I look up the block, I see the Hollywood Hills and its 50s style homes. Betty Davis lived across the street from my apartment in her younger, er, more alive, days. In my Vegas home you could plug in appliances and sparks would not fly from the socket. In my LA apartment, every time I plug in my phone recharger I cross my fingers that I won't end up like a Texas inmate on Death Row.
I think that pretty much sums up my life. It used to be that sparks didn't fly and I felt safe. Now, sparks fly and I know I'm not safe. Some days I like that. Some days I feel like Gary Gilmore. One thing hasn't changed, though. I may not sit by the pool, drink wine and listen to music---scratch that, I don't sit by the pool. The rest remains the same.
Oh, and for a touch of the old La Blogda: Hillary should be the next president and I still hate W.
Last time I posted---back in October---I had flown to LA from Vegas and saw Springsteen at the Sports Arena. Now I live in LA, and last week I saw Springsteen again, this time in Anaheim at the Honda Center. My life is completely different from that October night. I used to live in a nice house in Las Vegas. In the evenings, I sat by the pool drinking wine and listening to music. I worked hard all day (more or less), and then I came home. I wrote a lot more than I do now. I didn't really like living in Vegas, but I have to admit, I liked the comfort of my life. I didn't have to do those daily, mundane things like take out the trash, pump gas into my car, write checks to pay bills, or even wash dishes by hand.
But that all changed. The great thing about Nevada is that it is easy and cheap to get a divorce. But the thing about divorce is that you don't just divorce a person. You divorce a life.
So I now live in West Hollywood in an apartment that was built in 1939. My landlord is an ancient little man who likes to vacation in Key West. He's so cheap he insists on doing all repairs himself: from wiring to plumbing to unfortunately, painting the walls. There are paint drippings in the oddest places, and don't even get me started on the caulking he did. Poor man, every time he climbs my stairs, huffing and panting, I have my fingers poised on speed dial for 911 in case he has a stroke.
A famous actor lives down the street from me. He walks his French Bulldog and he looks scared every time we pass each other, like I'm stalking him Really, I'm just trying to get to the gym. My street is lined with large, shady trees that remind me of any town in the Deep South, except when I look up the block, I see the Hollywood Hills and its 50s style homes. Betty Davis lived across the street from my apartment in her younger, er, more alive, days. In my Vegas home you could plug in appliances and sparks would not fly from the socket. In my LA apartment, every time I plug in my phone recharger I cross my fingers that I won't end up like a Texas inmate on Death Row.
I think that pretty much sums up my life. It used to be that sparks didn't fly and I felt safe. Now, sparks fly and I know I'm not safe. Some days I like that. Some days I feel like Gary Gilmore. One thing hasn't changed, though. I may not sit by the pool, drink wine and listen to music---scratch that, I don't sit by the pool. The rest remains the same.
Oh, and for a touch of the old La Blogda: Hillary should be the next president and I still hate W.
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