It's Business Time

This past Saturday, I came home at 3:30 a.m. to find the dumpster and a black motorcycle in my parking spot. Shit. Why did this have to happen at this time? I was tired and frustrated. And I couldn’t exactly honk my horn so the perpetrator would come outside. Hell, it was 3:30 in the morning! I wanted to go to sleep…

Fuck it, I thought. I’ll just move the dumpster and motorcycle myself.

As soon as I put my Mazda into park and opened the door, a rotund African-American guy trudged down the stairs towards me. “Is that your spot?” He asked coolly.

“Yeah,” I said. “And somebody needs to move their shit,” I muttered, with a bit of irritation in my voice.

“I’m movin’ it,” he responded, shuffling towards his bike.

“You need to help me move the dumpster, too.” I told him.

Just then, my 40-something, female upstairs neighbor yelled out over the balcony angrily. She shook her fist at me, and in some sort of thick Slavic accent, she screamed, “You don’t talk to my customers like that!”

What? Customers? Does that mean what I THINK it means?

Yes folks, a hooker lives above me.

“Listen, I’m tired. I just want to park my car and go to bed,” I responded as calmly I could, thinking she would follow suit. But for some reason, this made her even more infuriated. Maybe she didn’t understand me.

“Fuck you, bitch! Go the fuck home!”

Keep your pants on, sister. (Well, at least until you get back to work.) I just wanted to pull into my parking spot. After all, it’s my spot.

“Fuck you, shit-cunt! Go home, bitch!” she screamed at me. Jeez. It was as if I was being verbally assaulted by a Russian hooker with Tourette’s. She kept screaming curse words at me maniacally. I was beginning to get scared. What if she unleashed holy hooker hellfire on me or did something crazy to my car—like slashed the tires?

Her customer moved his motorcycle behind someone else’s vehicle, and I backed my Mazda into my spot. When I got out of my car, my upstairs neighbor was still hanging over the balcony screaming, “Fuck you, bitch!” I walked towards her, and replied as pleasantly as I could, “Hey, all I wanted to do was park my car in my spot. I’ve had a really long day…”

She cut me off and screeched, “Don’t fucking talk to me like that! Fucking cunt! Bitch, go the fuck home!” She was enraged—like she wanted to claw my eyes out. Jesus, it was the middle of the night. I really didn’t give a shit what she was up to at this hour, as long it didn’t involve my parking space.

I gave up trying to reason with her. As I silently passed her on the way to my apartment, she hung over the balcony and yelled smugly, “That’s right, bitch! Go home! Have a good night!”

I unlocked my door and stepped inside, completely baffled by what just took place. Based on the incidents at hand, here’s what I concluded:

1) My upstairs neighbor is a hooker.

2) She has little grasp of the English language—except for a few choice curse words. “Bitch” and “cunt” appear to be her favorites.

3) It’s clear that she doesn’t like me. (Note: Before this incident, I’ve tried to say, “Hi” to her on several occasions, and she completely ignored me and/or gave me a dirty look. Does she think I’m going to steal her customers? Or maybe she thinks “Hi” means “rancid crotch.” I should discreetly slip a list of useful English greetings and phrases at her door. Yeah, that would help.)

4) She lets her “customers” park wherever they damn well please. What is this…Whore Depot?

5) Apparently, it doesn’t take much to make her fly off the handle.

And lastly...
6) she struck me as being psychotic. I am now somewhat scared of her.

Smells Like Dinosaurs

You’ve always been one to say what’s on your mind.

You speak freely about things like ice-skating, Martha Stewart, robots, teddy bears, salad tossing, Satan. Hey, you’re in a safe, comfortable environment. Why the hell not?

Little did you know, your little love-muffin-sugar-dumpling-honey-pie-sweetie-cakes was listening to your every word, documenting your deliberate responses, noting each sarcastic nugget of brilliance…

only to later, post it on a website.

Well, folks, it’s true. There is, indeed, such a site. And I stumbled upon it. (I swear, you could google “Mother Teresa” and discover a page dedicated to Himalayan goat porn.)

While somewhat offensive, these gems are pretty funny. But I’m not sure how each comment was remembered so clearly. Was her Victoria’s Secret Biofit® Bra tapped?

Regardless, you can check it out here.

Why Listen to Anything Else When You Can Listen To This?

“The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don't wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules…”

--Rob Gordon from Nick Hornby’s “High Fidelity”



My love of the mix tape began when I was nine years old. My dad gave me a blank Memorex cassette and told me to record songs off Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 Countdown that he’d like. Toto’s “Africa,” Styx’s “Mr. Roboto,” and Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ “Come On Eileen” (his favorite) all made the cut. This became a Sunday morning ritual.

A couple of years later, I got a radio/tape player for Christmas and started making my own compilations. Adam Ant, Culture Club and Prince were among my playlist regulars. To balance out their eyeliner and pirate shirt androgyny, I’d sprinkle in a few balls-out dirty boys from K-SHE 95’s “Monday Night Metal” show—AC/DC, Ozzy Osbourne and Scorpions.

In high school, I graduated to indie and modern rock mixes—primarily created from Les Aaron’s “New Music Sunday.” Oh, there were always a couple of radio hits mingling with them. At any given moment, songs like “Under the Milky Way” and “A Question of Lust” might be followed by “Push It” and “The Humpty Dance.”

Since then, I’ve created a multitude of mix tapes. These evolved to mix CDs—LOTS of ‘em—for birthdays, holidays, barbecues, bachelorette parties, etc. And in recent years, I’ve become somewhat known for my eclectic mixes (at least amongst my friends).

When it comes to the collection of particular tracks, I rarely follow a theme. Usually, I just burn a bunch of songs onto a CD that I’ve been digging lately (and that I think the person I’m making it for would like). I always throw a few wild cards in the mix—say, Nazareth or Nenah Cherry. No matter what makes the cut, though, I have to agree with Mr. Gordon. The making of a great compilation is all about creating a flow—one that allows you to go from Pixies to The Go! Team to The Game to Dilated Peoples to Beck to Michael Jackson to T. Rex—as if these artists were all meant to hang together in the same space.

At this point, you’re probably asking yourself, why is she going on and on about mix tapes? Who gives a shit? Why am I reading this? Where’s my bong?

Well, all of this is leading up to a kick-ass website that I discovered yesterday. If you like mix tapes as much as I do, then you need to check this out IMMEDIATELY. The site is muxtape.com. And its reason for being is the same simple reason you make a mix tape: To share your music with someone else. Only, in this case, you can share it with many people. Granted, this site is pretty bare-bones. No cool graphics or cutting-edge flash intros. No catchy links running along the side or smart-ass comments from satisfied or unsatisfied users. Regardless, I thought it was pretty cool. After all, it’s all about the music, right?

And of course, I made a mix tape on it—which you can check out here*.

*NOTE: My songs might not currently play due to technical errors. They played yesterday. But today, there seems to be a bit of difficulty. I assure you, though, when the über-geniuses at the muxtape.com help desk get the glitch figured out and fixed, be prepared to fill up on MAJOR ear candy. In the meantime, make your own sweet mix.

I Love a Parade

While watching the film version of “Oliver” the other day, I pondered this question: What if LIFE was one, big musical? Frustration could be expressed through a string of melodic expletives. Awkward silences would be filled with beguiling lyrics. Getting a root canal or waiting in line for the bathroom might be more bearable. And at a routine stop at the gas station, if you saw a bum grab his junk while you pumped, you could probably make a pretty catchy song out of it.

No doubt, every day would be entertaining, and you could overcome just about any obstacle. For instance…

1. You’re trying to explain something to someone, and they’re STILL not getting it. Did they ride the freakin’ short bus to school? You put it in a happy, little tune and…FINALLY, it sinks in. NOTE: Sometimes you need to spell it out, as in “Doe. A deer. A female deer. Bitch. A dog. A female dog.”

2. You’re trying to trick a crowd into buying into your crap, and they’re not falling for it. But when you turn it into all-group sing-along, suddenly, you have ‘em eating out of the palm of your hand. (It’s a little creepy, though, if you’re a grown man trying to start an all-boys marching band in a small town. Just sayin’…)

3. You are at a drinking establishment and trying to avoid a previous hook-up: “Shit! He/she saw me!” Now what? Engage the crowd in song, and while everyone is dancing their asses off all Pappy McSlappy with a pint o’ Paulaner in their grimy mitts, you cut out through the side door, easy-peasy.

4. People are much more willing to accept your deep, dark secrets—no matter how embarrassing or controversial—when expressed through song. Like if you’re a [sweet] transvestite. Share it in a splashy, garter belt ‘n’ feather boa-wearin’ number, and…instant moral support!

5. You can sing about anything—even whores—and somehow, it manages to sound somewhat sugary and innocent.

6. Drinking naturally lends itself to singing—which means after you've sucked down a few cocktails, it would be perfectly acceptable—if not ENCOURAGED—to break into robust song so as to share your happiness, albeit temporary, with everyone else around you.

7. You can openly express how you feel about someone without fear of ridicule. Granted, this usually works best if the feeling is mutual. Of course, there’s still a slight risk that you could make an ass out of yourself—in which case, you may find yourself in situation #6, ultimately leading to #11.

8. You can share the salacious details of a liason (without really sharing TOO much) through a series of clever rhyming euphemisms.

9. You can openly discuss plastic surgery you’ve had—from the breast augmentation that’s changed your life to the “angry inch” that remains from your botched penile removal.

10. The most ordinary activities—from bowling to cleaning the chimney sweep—are suddenly injected with a little excitement.

11. You can invite someone to engage in a bit of questionable behavior without sounding like a complete ‘ho. (Okay, you MIGHT sound like a ‘ho.)

12. It’s an effective way to remember someone’s name—although it might be a LITTLE obvious if you immediately break into a song with his/her name in it upon first meeting. (I’d wait until they were out of hearing range.)

13. If you don’t have a GPS in your car, it’s a simple way to remember directions—even if you take same road all the way to your destination. (Like if it’s yellow and brick.)

14. Jazz hands and fan kicks would be just as common as high-fives and flippin’ the bird.

15. Lastly, if something truly excites you, there’s no greater way to express your affection than through song. (Honestly, though, I can’t imagine singing about a parade. They get old after a while. I mean…Shriners and clog dancers and baton twirlers? After the first 10 floats, I’m ready for the after-party. But that’s just me.)

Swarmed!

Yesterday, I ventured out on my lunch to Urban Outfitters on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica to buy a birthday gift for my friend, Kari. After sifting through “Who Shat That” books, Care Bears t-shirts, talking yard gnomes and other possible items she might enjoy, I finally found two that were the perfect combination of thoughtful and offensive. Excitedly, I brought them to the checkout.

As I was standing at the counter, I noticed a crowd of people gathered at the entrance of the store looking at something through the glass doors. Hmmm…I wonder what they’re looking at, I thought.

I finished paying and headed towards the doors. It was then that I realized that no one was allowed to leave Urban Outfitters. And outside, the whole area was sectioned off with yellow “Police Line, Do Not Cross” tape, while four police officers stood guard. All because of…

BEES!

Hanging from the tree in the center of the cobblestone street, right in front of the Urban Outfitters store, there was a GINORMOUS beehive SWARMING with hundreds of bees. It was about the size of Vern Troyer a.k.a. “Mini-Me.” (I know how big he is because I saw him once, up-close, riding on his Segway at the Bellagio in Vegas. Basically, he’s about the size of a sack of potatoes.) I had never seen so many bees! How had I not noticed this on my way in?

Through the glass window and from behind the yellow police tape, everyone watched in awe as the beekeeper—or beekiller, whatever he was—propped a ladder up against the tree and ascended to spray the hive. He was dressed in a white, airtight, jumpsuit-looking thing with a huge, clear plastic helmet attached to it—straight out of “The Right Stuff.” He doused the hive with an ungodly amount of poison—so much, that it dripped from the bottom of the hive and soaked the concrete below. Finally, it grew heavy with the weight of the liquid, collapsed to the ground, and a heaping mound of dead bees landed on the pavement. There had to be at least a thousand bees! Unfortunately, there were just as many who had cheated death. And man, they were PISSED.

Bees were EVERYWHERE—buzzing through the branches of the trees, all around the beekeeper, near Urban Outfitters, Guess, Bebe and Forever 21. A few drunkenly landed on the ground and staggered to their final steps.

On the concrete right in front of Urban Outfitters, we watched as the bees withered away slowly. Their little wings fluttered helplessly, and they gasped their last little bee breaths, as if to say, “Must. Kill. That. Evil. Mother. Fucker.”

My lunch break is approximately an hour. And at this point, it was nearing the two-hour mark. I had not planned to be away from the office for this long, especially since Anne, an Associate Creative Director that I worked with, needed some lines from me for a cat food job that we were working on. My guilt got the best of me, so I called my work and asked to speak with her. The receptionist couldn’t track her down, and offered to take a message instead.

“Well…” I began. “Anne needed me to write some copy for her. But I can’t leave Urban Outfitters because there’s a swarm of bees outside, and they’re not letting anyone go. But I’ll try to get out as soon as I can. Maybe 10 minutes or so?”

“Um, okay,” she sounded unsure.

“I swear, I’m not making this shit up.”

“Alright, then. I’ll tell her.”

While CSS, The Rapture and other assorted indie bands blared through Urban’s sound system, we continued to stare out the windows at the spectacle before us.

The Urban Outfitters manager approached us as we waited patiently. “Whoever asked if there was a back door—we can’t let you out that way. Sorry.”

So we just stood there, watching…and waiting. I was restless, so I wandered around and perused the overpriced plaid Little House On the Prairie-esque blouses and gold falcon necklaces. After doing a lap through the new spring arrivals, I made my way back over to the door.

“What…are we stuck inside here ‘til every last bee is dead?” I asked my fellow Urban Outfitters comrades. I mean…I love distressed tees and Arcade Fire as much as the next girl, but I had to get out of that store.

Finally, after it seemed like the bee death count had grown to a safe number, I decided that I was going to make a run for it. “I’m gonna try to escape,” I told the group. “The cops aren’t going to arrest us if we leave, are they?” I asked no one in particular.

“Yes, but you could get stung,” a short, older Hispanic woman answered.

“I’ll scale the wall so they won’t get me,” I told her. I wasn’t a bee psychologist, but it seemed that the live ones were more focused on seeking revenge for their brethren, which meant they stayed in fairly close proximity to the beekeeper/killer.

I quickly opened the glass door and darted out, making sure to stay close to the building. The cop in front of the Guess Store and a few Promenade shoppers looked at me like I was crazy. But I felt fairly safe. Everywhere I stepped, the sidewalk was dotted with dead bees.

* * *

When I got back to our building, I headed straight to Anne’s office.

“Did Emily give you the message?”

“Yeah, she said you were going to be late coming back because you were trying to avoid a swarm of bees.”

Gee, I'm sure glad that message didn’t get misconstrued.

If We Get Bored, We'll Move To California

A year has passed since I moved to West Hollywood, California, and so much has happened…

Lindsey went to rehab.
Paris chopped her hair off into a bob.
The Intermix store opened on Robertson.
Slash published his G ‘n’ R memoir, aptly titled “Slash.”
Britney missed several depositions.
Her sis, Jamie-Lynn became preggers.
Fred Segal had a 90%-off sale.
And it almost snowed.
(Wait…that was somewhere else.)

Amidst the chaos, I’ve adjusted to LA, with all of its good and bad, but never boring, attributes. I’ve also absorbed a lot of useful knowledge. Here are some key findings:

Online Comedy Traffic School, while thorough and informative, is not as funny as one would hope.

My upstairs neighbors (three male Swedish triplets) seldom wear shirts.

The hookers who used to live in my apartment had a fondness for French hook
earrings.

There are four public restrooms on or near Melrose: The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, Johnny Rocket’s, Antonio’s, and The Fairfax Senior Citizens Center.

Apparently, Ron Jeremy and I hang out in the same circles.

The Coronet Pub’s signature drink “17 Days In a Crackhouse” is quite savory. (I would say it’s probably better than spending 17 days in a crackhouse.)

Tokyo Delves is, indeed, the Japanese equivalent to Chuck-E-Cheese. No Jasper T. Jowls or skee-ball, though.

The ratio of collagen lip augmentations to frozen yogurt stands is, oddly, about the same.

If you wish to save cash on your next colonic, there’s always a valuable coupon in your weekly Money Mailer.

There are often times when it would be useful to speak Spanish. At the gas station, for example. Or Target.

The tiniest, nondescript place in West Hollywood can become immortalized on an episode of “The Hills.”

Sunset Tan, for some reason, is fascinating enough to garner its own show on E!

Give a homeless man a Slim Jim, and you have a friend for life.

If your parking space is located next to a dumpster, your car will be the hot make-out spot for stray cats.

Raccoons are about the size of Shelties. They, too, tend to loiter near your car (if your space is next to a dumpster.)

If you’re at The Belmont in West Hollywood and a 30-something British man in a woolen scarf asks you if you’ve ever seen uncircumcised penis before, regardless of your answer—you are about to see an uncircumcised penis.

Sometimes, after 12:30 a.m. in Hollywood, you can talk a $10 parking lot attendant down to a more reasonable $5.

With the high number of dogs in LA, one could step in dog excrement at any time, anywhere. Even on a date.

It is perfectly acceptable to wear platform stripper shoes in a step aerobics class.

To entertain yourself while stuck in traffic, learn all of the words to Snoop Dogg’s “Gin & Juice.” Later, apply this knowledge at your next karaoke outing.

You’d think that dried palm tree leaves wouldn’t hurt if they smacked you in the face when you ran under them. But they do.

A fishnet body stocking makes a suitable Halloween costume.

Sometimes, a public establishment is safe. Then you hear about the gang-related shooting that took place the week prior.

If it’s 54 degrees, weather-appropriate attire in Los Angeles might include any of the following: flip-flops, a hoodie or an Eskimo-esque winter coat.

Uggs: fashion’s great question mark.

An orange face does not equal a tan face.

El Pollo Loco means “the crazy chicken.”

My friend’s friend’s uncle was The Hamburgler in the McDonald’s commercials.

In addition to g-strings, fishnets, dildos, vibrators, lubes, XXX films and “Officer Naughty” ensembles, the Hustler store also sells pipin’-hot, fresh coffee. (‘Cause hey, no one wants to fall asleep in the dildo aisle.)

To sum up the 6 p.m. commute from the Westside to West Hollywood in a word: clusterfuck.

And lastly—
after a year in LA, I still get excited when I see someone in a Cardinals’ baseball cap and must immediately strike up a conversation.