The Laid-Off Peripatetic (LOP)

The big-girl love shack about which I’ve been gabbing for months is mine, all mine! And while I am a big fan of visual aids, my camera is lost somewhere between the hot mess in the bedroom and the moving box forest that sprouted in my living room. (Oh yeah, I said my living room.) So, you’ll have to take my word for it when I brag about the copious storage space, shiny hardwood floors where lies the image of the Virgin Mary in the wood grain (I saw Jesus in a piece of Colby Jack cheese the other day—I really am blessed), bathroom counterspace big enough to fit a baby grand piano and a scenic outdoor pool that I have no intention of using unless I fall in accidentally when I’m drunk.

So, I’ve been a crazy woman with box cutter in hand rediscovering my little gems, my belongings, my life that has been tucked away in storage for almost two years. (The story is lengthy, not that exciting and requires more space than one blog post. So, if you really want to know, I have the ability to share telepathically.)

Most of my stuff is Cally-friendly, but I found one necessary, nay, essential product at Bed, Bath & Beyond that was not in my collection—Quake Paste. Or maybe it’s Quake Hold. Quake Putty, I dunno. But for those of you living on stable ground, the product glues down anything smaller than a couch for those unpredictable moments when the tectonic plates decide to play duck, duck, goose. The concept of vase glue is both ingenious and completely foreign to a corn fed, Kansas gal such as myself. It made me giggle, but I bought it in the interest of preserving my Precious Moments collection.

Prior to that moment at the cash register, I’ve had difficulty calling myself a Californian. Sure, it still stings to be associated with the Governator, but somehow purchasing Quaker Glue was a rite of passage that brought me mentally and spiritually closer to the West Coast.

Another thing that has brought me closer is Cheeto Jesus. That crunchy little guy always makes me smile.

“Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.” —Oscar Wilde

Step off home skillets, mama has a job and, yeah, get this, is looking for a big girl apartment! To what do I attribute these efforts to rejoin not just society, but those who live in reality? I’m not sure, though boredom might have something to do it. Unbeknownst to me, I picked the ideal time to begin apartment hunting because LA’s insanely high rent prices are declining to only painful.

It seems as though I’ve looked at every one-bedroom apartment in Hollywood, and what I’ve found are mostly mundane, boring boxes that one would expect from suburban living in Phoenix. However, there are those few gems that sang to me, like a siren in the night, begging me to move the last vestiges of my Chicago existence through the front door and stay for awhile.

Ah, but what constitutes a desirable apartment? Well, it’s subjective for sure, but the following are my requirements:

• The top floor (corner apartment if you can get it): If I’m going communal, I want to minimize the number of people with whom I share walls/floors. Reason being? Even with all the bitching, begging and bribing with sixers of PBR, one can’t convince the stupid, inconsiderate ilk of this world to change their ways.
• AC
• Hardwood floors: Sure, they are a pain in the ass to keep clean, but I’m always highly suspect of the apartment buildings that say they “deep clean” the carpets between tenants. Woolite carpet spray doesn’t count.
• More than 600 sq. ft.: I’ve had walk-in closets bigger than that.
• Front doors more substantial than those constructed of veneer, foam and paint.
• A building manager who doesn’t touch fondle his junk and get lost in a masturbatory reverie while discussing your move-in date.
• No pestilence of any kind, which includes, but is not limited to cockroaches, mice and meth dealers.
• Character and personality: Art, furniture and paint can only ameliorate the mundane. Trying to turn a suburbanesque boring box into something inspirational is like trying to turn Margaret Thatcher into Elizabeth Hurley. However, if you begin with a partial canvas, it takes only a bit of titivating to make it home.

So, those are my criteria, most of which I don’t think are too crazy. I’ve found a lovely one-bedroom in Hollywood for which I will be placing an application on Monday. And glory be, It is a top-floor corner apartment with actual space for my shit. Until we meet again, think happy apartment thoughts por moi.

I’ve been MIA and have no other excuse than being uninspired. However, due to the urgings of a certain friend (thanks No-Ra!), I’m back with a blogging vengeance—for today anyway.

So, yes, I have a few updates. Not only have I embraced my new city, I’ve opted for acting as a means to support my writing career. And yes, I know that one phrase screams hot mess. But reinventing oneself takes time and a certain amount of insanity. It just so happens, I have both.

With that said, I’ve heard the only way to succeed in Hollywood, just short of being “discovered” or doing time on the casting couch, is to market oneself shamelessly. And so it has begun. I now have business cards with my headshot on the back. Yeah, I know, I laughed too. But apparently, it’s all the rage here. I added a little twist though—at the bottom of my card is the phrase “WILL WORK FOR FOOD.” And there’s absolute truth to that—I attach them to my bartending resume. (Given that I’ve opted to pursue acting, it’s only fitting that I find a job slinging booze. So, for all of you who read this, please think happy bartending thoughts for me because I’m currently in search of a job.)

Chicago A-Go-Go

Brown Kevin, Diego, Moi, Bobert

Diego and I went to Chicago for the St. Patrick’s Day celebration. As is tradition, we were eating a grease bomb breakfast (biscuits and gravy with a side of bacon) at 7 a.m. and our first beer in hand by 8:15 a.m. There are those who mock my friends and I for this tradition; or merely have that look of disdain mixed with fear mixed with perplexity coupled with one simple word: “Why?”

And I say? “Why not.”

You’re probably wondering why I’m so sparkly—if not, I’m going to tell you anyway. I’m sporting my party attire, i.e., a green sequins cape, which is the focal point; spring-loaded head gear and other equally ridiculous accoutrement. I love dressing like a jackass.

So, that is the abridged version of what has been happening the past few months. I’ll be back with more frequency, this is a promise I make to my few loyal readers. Who loves ya crazy kids? Yeah, the LOP does.

Diego is the newest member of my inanimate family, joining the ranks of such items as a rubber chicken, an invisible friend named Li’l Rambo and a stuffed black and white bird that squawks when squeezed just so.

Let's rock out, bitches!

Diego accompanies me wherever I go wreaking havoc, making friends and generally becoming the proverbial mayor of wherever he happens to be at the time. He’s a rebel with a unibrow and follows only his own rules, one of which is that he only dates women who shave.

If you’d like to follow Diego, you can do so at the following:

• www.doitdiego.com.
• Twitter: DoItDiego
• Facebook: Diego VonTrickster

Diego loves you.

I didn’t think any pairings existed that could surpass the exquisite perfection of chocolate and peanut butter, but alas, I have found a couple—jazz in the Caribbean, blues in the Caribbean, or just generally, live music in the Caribbean. What better place to hang out and listen to some crazy musically inclined cats (that’s stage talk, by the way) than a tropical island (sans major weather event).

I happened upon the events below whilst planning and dreaming of my annual happy-birthday-to-me tropical sabbatical that I won’t be taking at the end of January this year. Oh well, there is always next year. MOPE. Okay, I’ll stop digressing and whining…

Whether this list is exhaustive, I don’t know, but it seems fairly extensive. And I do hope that someone who reads this can go in my stead because I yearn for the swaying palm trees of Antigua and St. Lucia and Grenada and Bonaire…

(oh, and by the by, several of the Web sites haven’t been updated with the respective event’s 2010 info, but I included the link anyway just because…I’m assuming the info will be updated eventually.)

Barbados Jazz Festival, January 11-17 (yeah, I know, the info is a tad late to plan a getaway unless you are the spontaneous sort with a private jet, but if you happen to be venturing to Barbados already, check it out.)

Air Jamaica Jazz and Blues Festival, Ocho Rios, January 24-30

Mustique Blues Festival, Mustique, Grenadines, January 27-February 10.

Bequia Music Fest, Bequia, Grenadines, January 28-31

Plymouth Jazz Festival, Tobago, April—I couldn’t find specific dates because I believe they have yet to be confirmed.

St. Lucia Jazz Festival, May 1-9

Heineken Jazz Fest, San Juan, Puerto Rico, May.

Bonaire Heineken Jazz and Salsa Festival, June 4-7

Ocho Rios Jazz Festival, Jamaica, June 13-20

St. Maarten/St. Martin Summer Fest, two weeks in July..now which two, I have no idea and couldn’t find much current info on the 2010 event.

Curacao Jazz Fest, Punda, Willemsted, October

Bermuda Music Festival, October. Also, I’m not sure how jazzy or bluesy the lineup is, but really, even if you had to endure listening to Yoko Ono, wouldn’t the beaches in Bermuda make up for it?

Dominican Republic Jazz Festival, Playa Cabarete, November.

Tranquility Jazz Festival, Anguilla, November

Riviera Maya Jazz Festival, November

Martinique Jazz Festival, Fort-de-France, December

Havana Jazz Festival, Cuba, December 12-21 (I trust by then, Americans won’t have to sneak into Cuba via Canada, Mexico or other islands in the Caribbean…not that I would ever condone such illegal goings on.)

Pointe-a-Pitre Jazz Festival, Guadeloupe, December

I’m not sure if I’m in the midst of a mid-life crisis or a career change or both. Though my Mom fears the worst and has already found a job for me at the Dodge City Casino either slinging drinks to drunken rednecks or serving fried chicken and ’slaw to men fresh from work at the meat packing plant. (Completely pointless factoid: Dodge City, KS, is known as the meat-packing capital of the United States. A lofty title to be sure, but one to which I’d rather not be associated.)

As tempting as either of those occupations sound, I’ve opted to stay in LA. Call me crazy.

Nature's fertilizer...Praise to the bovine!

My foray into the world of the free has given me insight into other financial opportunities besides sitting at a desk listening to the rants of an inept, probably impotent boss with a goiter. That’s not to say I plan on robbing a Gas N’ Sip or mugging a Girl Scout; though if I could unleash my potential as an alchemist, life would be stellar. Some way, somehow, I will make millions this year and when I do, I’m heading to either Hawaii, Cote de Azure or the Caribbean to buy my first seaside villa. I imagine it will look something like this little gem.

If I like you, you are welcome to use the guest bedroom, my tequila chair and snorkel equipment

Of course I could always buy out the Dodge City, KS, casino—as one of the few sources of entertainment in an idyllic town, it might just be a cash cow.

Ha! I kill me…

Four months ago, I could think of nothing else but leaving Los Angeles—a God forsaken city innundated with weird guys on the street randomly dressed in bedazzled costumes, bad air quality and lopsided boob jobs everywhere, even on store mannequins. But after being subjected to the -20 degree windchill and the Arctic tundra in Kansas, I pined for the asymmetrical and cracked-out denizens of LA because with them comes 65 degrees, all the Vitamin D I can absorb and palm trees. I love a good palm tree.

But Southwestern Kansas was bedazzled in its own way—all sparkly and shiny and slippery, kind of like a stripper.

High Plains Frosted Wheaties

I shan’t bitch too much because I had a grand time having met the newest members of the Burke household. Might I introduce (Guinness) Stout and Gus(toline Octavia), my parents’ 3-month-old Great Pyrenees puppies.

Sleeping off a wild night at the cock fights

Junkyard Dog

In all, Christmas was fine. I ate my weight in sugar and almost every possible avenue for protein, i.e., ham, beef, deer jerky (yes, I ate Bambi, but I didn’t shoot it) and some other mystery meat that was a little gamey—it could have been a jack-o-lope for all I know.

Beware: They carry tazers

Now I must prepare for my first New Year’s Eve in LA LA. If it’s anything like Halloween, the crazies will be out en masse, even more so because it’s a full moon. If I owned brass knuckles, I would take them. I guess I could take my ninja umbrella. It’s just terrifying enough to make me look as though I’m a bad ass with a ghinsu, or that’s what the front-desk guy at the gym said. Speaking of which….

People who have been both awed and terrified of my ninja umbrella that looks like a sword especially when people are drunk even though those mentioned below seemed lucid save for one who might have been taking prescription drugs because her eyes were strangely darty but she didn’t scare me because she was more scared of my sword (hee, I said sword):

• The security guard at Ralph’s (for you non-Californians, that’s a grocery store)
• Front-desk guy at the gym
• Random geriatric lady at the gym who also told me the umbrella was bad ass, which was strange hearing a blue-haired lady speak Street

Happy New Year, kids!!

Fa lalalalalalalalala jingle jingle ho

How is it that Christmas is a week-and-a-half away? It’s as though someone shoved me through a time warp while showering in my old Chicago apartment. Though I’m not blogging naked—that would be weird and a little uncomfortable because there is a slight chill in the air. My kingdom for a Snuggy.

So, I’m traveling home for the holidays via plane and like many of you, not looking forward to the throngs of people that will descend on the airports. Of course, my presence will add to that number and therefore, I will probably be annoying someone else; but at least I can offer my seat-mate hygiene and an ass that needs only one seat.

My destination is Wichita, Kansas, via Dallas—home of Wranglers and the male camel toe. For two hours I’m stuck in the mundane world of ya’ll and fixin’ and have nowhere to go but the bar. It’s not my druthers, for the majority of my time at home is going to be spent drinking, eating and smoking cigars with Pappy Burke. So starting the process early isn’t in my best interest, physically speaking, that is.

If only I had a cubby hole in which to hang out away from the crowds, maybe take a nap, read without the incessant surround-sound whining of children who’ve had too much sugar and too little parenting. Enter the day room. This concept is found in airports around the world and now has been introduced in the States. Atlanta Airport is the first to introduce Minute Suites—rooms that can be rented by the hour. Sure it sounds sleazy, but each new renter gets cleans sheets, so try not to think about the creepy guy with the comb-over in the polyester suit who just walked out of your room zipping up his pants.

These rooms are equipped with daybeds, wi-fi, satellite TV and rent for $30 an hour. Nappers can use the in-room alarm clock or call for a wake-up call. Fascinating. I don’t know if Jeeves comes with the package, but wouldn’t it be a bonus if he did and had the accent to boot?

I’ve traveled enough to covet solitude in an airport, so I would definitely pay the $30. I would probably spend that much or more at the bar; and if I could catch an old episode of The A-Team, then it would be doubly enticing.

On an aside…

Who deems them classics?

I want to know who has the power to grant certain books Classic Status. I ask because I just finished reading Lolita. It was fine and I learned several new words (kudos to Vladmir for having such an amazing grasp on the English language), but I’ve read far better. Maybe there were intricate details that I somehow missed while being privy to the innermost thoughts of a pervert. Or not. And don’t even get me started on Anna Karenina.

Here’s a couple factoids, by the by (compliments of Deutsch): Hitler only had one nut (which explains a few things.) And it is National Cupcake Day. I want to know if there is national holiday set aside for the nuclear cream inside Twinkies. Is there? Huh?

I believe I blogged previously about the movie New Moon. But just in case you missed it, here’s a recap. It dragged interminably for the first half, picked up the pace a bit in the second half, but mostly sucked. Buff boys were half-naked the vast majority of the time, which made the perpetual moping bearable. Anyway, the link below is the abridged version only much funnier and with LOL cats.

http://microsuede.blogspot.com/2009/11/movie-review-twilight-saga-new-moon.html

Also, if you have a chance, watch Late Night With Conan O’Brien. He’s incorporated Cody Devereaux, the depressed, brooding vampire who experiences death by sunlight on every show (R.I.P. 1598-Today); and Wolf-Boy, who is dumb as a box of rocks, but can move his pectoral muscles…almost as though he’s doing Morse Code.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=mj4PWV1v3II

Water-resistant Ninja gear

Christmas came early today. I hate trite sayings, but I can’t help but use them when they are true. The Happy Couple and I exchanged gifts and guess what I got—ninja accoutrement…picture a ninja sword handle on an umbrella. The best part is that it came with a carrying case so that it is both easily transportable and also looks like a sword. Hee hee. This increases the possibility that a roving officer of the law might stop me for carrying what appears to be a deadly weapon. But, for the opportunity to be a waterproof ninja, I’m willing to take that chance.

Never mind the Cheetah flannel pants and the fuzzy pink slippers—even ninjas need comfortable loungewear

In Europe, it’s not uncommon for parents to allow their chitlins to partake of spirits. I know this only because someone I once knew told me a story of a crazy Frenchman who became irate when the waiter at a restaurant in Chicago wouldn’t serve his 12-year-old son a glass of wine. I realize that my source sounds questionable, probably because she is. She was completely unhinged in a need-electric-shock-therapy-and-drugs kind of way, but the story is still funny.

Anyway, Europeans aren’t the only ones who like to feed their kids some sauce. Below is my Dad’s Hot Toddy recipe—the same one he served to me and my sisters from the time we could hold a cup. His magical healing elixir wasn’t doled out for our breakfast or on a nightly basis—that would smack of bad parenting. No, we only received the mug of love when suffering from a cold/flu-type thing. Dad’s concoction was the panacea for all that ails, or so he said. In truth, he loaded it with enough whiskey to knock us out for the night. What’s the saying? Ah yes, sleep is the best medicine. Now that cold and flu season is upon us, I thought I’d share. I hope the Toddy’s tremendous healing properties work as well for you.

Martin’s Hot Toddy Recipe: Mix hot water, a shot of whiskey, honey and a squeeze of lemon. It’s basic, but effective; even moreso if the liver is unfamiliar with the effects of Maker’s Mark.

Culture in Transit

I had my first LA bus experience this week—well, two actually. Though the transit system isn’t anything close to what Chicago has to offer, it still offers the same curious sights, sounds and smells. I didn’t see anyone without pants or puking, so it wasn’t quite the same. But the cost is only $1.25 a ride. Not bad. As far as my destinations, well, trip one was to play the part of makeup ginnea pig for a makeup artist who needed a mug on which to let her client practice. Um yeah, in the end, I looked like a member of the Insane Clown Posse. Trip two was to the chiropractor. It wasn’t exciting, but it was necessary.

Unlrelated funny sign