The Laid-Off Peripatetic (LOP)

View from Lipari—Aeolian Islands, Sicily

Since subscribing to Escape From America Magazine (EFMA), I’ve started receiving other similar newsletters about how to not only buy land, but retire, move, etc., to a foreign country. It stands to reason that my name was either on a list that was sold, distributed or otherwise pimped out to other publications; or I’ve been given a sign from the Relocation Gods of Foreign Lands (which is what I prefer to believe).

But even though all the signs exist, the question still remains: Where should I live? Contrary to the beliefs of those who’ve never advanced beyond the confines of their resident state lines, there is a vast, great world that exists beyond the United States, and dare I say it? Yes, even beyond the whole of North America.

One of the reasons I sojourned in Europe last summer was because I was convinced that I belonged somewhere on that diverse and overpriced (for the dollar, anyway) continent. And yes, there were a few cities that sang to me—they said, “Hi there, will you come live on my lovely soil and be one with my people?” And I responded, “In good time, my foreign friend. You shan’t be going anywhere, unless of course you elect George W. as your president and consequently, have your country completely dismantled from the inside, out, and thereby run into the ground.” My EU friend laughed…nay, guffawed at the thought of such an imbecile at the helm.

Anyway, my cities of choice have been whittled to Paris and Marseille, which is interesting given that I wanted to avoid France at all costs during my walkabout. (I’m infinitely grateful to my gays for convincing me otherwise. Thanks, gays. )

Historical fishing harbor in Marseille, France

I stumbled across an article in EFAM about a seasoned traveler and author who has endeavored to travel  to six countries over the course of 180 days to research what foreign lands are best for real estate purchases and retirement. He’ll be assessing everything from cost of living and lifestyle to health care and investment opportunities.

Here’s the link if you want to take a gander.

www.escapefromamerica.com/2010/01/travel-expert-searches-world-for-best-place-to-live-and-retire

There is a fee to join the Web site sponsoring him. Plane tickets don’t buy themselves, ya know. Although in my fantasy land where I have mastered teleportation, I don’t need no stinking plane tickets.

And, can I just say that I’m insanely jealous of this guy. Guy, if on the off chance you happen to read this blog about your awesome adventure wrapped in bacon, I must know…however did you get this gig? And more importantly, do you need a sidekick? I wash my parts regularly, can fit into carry-on luggage, will give you piggy-back rides when your dogs start barking and play juvenile drinking games when you are bored. Think about it…

Man of the iron buttocks

It’s taken a few months since my European walkabout and my following move to Los Angeles to regain some sense of normalcy and balance—well, as much normalcy as can be expected in my oft nutty life. But Mama’s on the mental mend—I’m back and rarin’ to go. Yesterday was my first official, unchaperoned field trip where I left the general vicinity of Hollywood and all of its lampshade-wearing denizens far behind. And I did it on a bus. (I just realized that I sound like an escaped mental patient…)

I’m not sure if you know this or not, but I’m car-less. Yes, car-less in LA—a statement that is mostly met with disdain, fear and incredulity. But alas, I have proven that it is possible to exist in this city without four wheels and a crank shaft. Sure, it takes 10 times as long to get anywhere because the public transportation system is shit, but the only other option is a Vespa, which is not an option for moi. I don’t relish the idea of getting mowed over by a famous driver hopped up on Dom Perignon and Xanax or by one of those trucks that drive around with bikini-clad hooters on display.

Anyway, I visited the Getty Villa, which is positioned on a picturesque portion of the Pacific Coast HIghway in the Pacific Palisades. For those of you unfamiliar with the name, J. Paul Getty founded the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. He loved Roman, Greek and Etruscan history so much, that he built the formerly named Villa dei Papiri to display his ever-increasing art collection.

I timed my arrival perfectly as the last of the screaming school children boarded their bus. Yee-haw. I wandered about the property looking at Roman jewelry (which was a highlight for me), dead guys wrapped in linen, wonderfully ornate greek gods and goddesses and busts of the high-brow. But why is it that the tip of the nose on said busts are always missing? And not just at the Getty, it seems that noses are missing in every Greek and Roman art display I’ve ever seen. I wonder if the nose fairy has a surplus baggy with marble contraband…

It's amazing how smog really makes a sunset sing...

I concluded my day with a chocolate chip cookie, a walk on the beach and an interminably long bus ride home with a woman behind me babbling about a yawning black hole in her basement filled with martianesque critters.

It was soooooo worth it.

My New Year’s Day hangover has affected me from the cranium, down. But, ’twas nothing a bit of Smart Water, grease and Advil couldn’t handle…

And as for resolutions, well, I find those pointless because they typically last about one week. Instead, I have a few goals I will achieve within the next year: find a job that I like sans asshole boss; eat more waffles slathered in peanut butter; learn to surf without wearing arm floaties; star alongside Jason Stathum in a smut movie; learn to speak French (aside from the epithets I already know, of course…e.g., merde); and invent the first airline seat with a shock mechanism to control kicking, screaming bratty children and adults with no travel etiquette.

Here is to a glorious new year!

I’m off to Kansas tomorrow. And given that the most technologically advanced gadget my parents possess is an automated coffee maker, I won’t be blogging while I’m there. I will however, be making a stop at the local bar in Hanston, Kansas, for $5 beer night (that’s a flat rate for the night, not per beer). So, here is an early Merry Christmas greeting and I’ll chat with you in about a weekish. For now, this whirling dirvish must pack for a 5:45 a.m. flight. Eek. So, over the river and through the woods I go…

Off to greener pastures...for the time being

Palm Frond Dweller

I used to watch Saturday Night Live religiously as a child. In the era of the Frightened Family, I created my own prop that entailed a flap of faux hair that would stand on end when I pulled a hidden string. I even sent Lorne Michaels a letter requesting a spot on his show. Scratch that. I sent him 10+ letters until finally one day his secretary…sorry, administrative assistant… called to tell me there was no room for me on the show and that I needed to cease my correspondence. (This took place before stalking was illegal, of course.) I was crushed. But the prop construction continued. For awhile, anyway.

I’ve since moved on, probably because Saturday Night Live began to suck—quite a lot, actually. It’s been years since I watched it, which explains why I had no idea the skit “Dick in a Box” existed. But, the Happy Couple brought it to my attention and now, I can’t stop giggling. Also, I was ambivalent about Justin Timberlake, thinking him to be more of a tool than not. However, that changed in a 180 kind of way post “Dick in a Box” viewing.

So, this is my Christmas gift to you, my five readers (excluding my Mom and Dad because they don’t own a computer). And as it happens, it’s a topical video as well that happens to touch on Christmas, Kwanzaa and Hannukah. The bonus video at the bottom is from the Lonely Island album as well and is as equally as funny and raunchy.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhwbxEfy7fg

www.youtube.com/watch?v=4pXfHLUlZf4

I overheard this conversation between two early 20-something women while hiking down Runyon Canyon and wanted to share. (Editor’s note: Though it may seem unlikely, I have neither embellished or paraphrased.)

“Some guy is taking me out tonight.”

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you, like, not know his name?”

“I totally just talk to my dates until I figure out their names and then I put them in the customer file.”

[no segue, but the same girl is speaking]

“When I, like, totally get famous, there will probably be a photo of me, like, picking my butt and I, like, totally won’t care. I’ll be like, yeah, this is totally me.”

“Totally.”

THE END (Thank God)

Our Thanksgiving began on Wednesday with the 1st Annual Pre-Thanksgiving Walkabout. It was a vampire/werewolf theme for no other reason than because we had purchased movie tickets to see New Moon. Wow it was bad. But the shirtless wolf-boys made it most bearable; which initiated a moment of self-discovery—I think I’m a cougar. Most of those young bucks were half my age, but that didn’t stop me from salivating. I should have brought a drop cloth and a mop.

Anyway, the bar/restaurant portion of our walkabout included visits to the following:

Dillon’s, a new Irish pub in Hollywood that charges a mere $3 for a beer—and that’s every kind of beer, not just the canned water that Budweiser and Coors attempt to pass off as beer.

Hungry Cat’s happy hour—$6 specialty drinks created from fresh fruit and the like. They are of a slightly less caliber than those at the Roosevelt Hotel, but they’ll certainly do in a pinch. Our bartender, Jake, was wonderfully sarcastic and even played in our reindeer games when we asked him to describe the milk base of each cheese selection with animal noises. The best was a cow, sheep combo: MoooooBaaaaaaaa

The Well, which is owned by the same people who own The Woods. I realize this means nothing to those who don’t live in Hollywood, but both bars are great. The Well even made the cut for the World’s Best Bars.

Oh, and speaking of cocktails (even though I wasn’t really, but I needed a segue), The Burgundy Room on Cahuenga has become one of my new favorite hangouts. It is dark, dank and has the oddest mercurial glow behind the bar…it’s kind of like drinking in a spaceship.

Essex was our last stop and rightfully so, it was about 11 p.m. and there was absolutely no need to imbibe any further. Even though it doesn’t appear as such, I actually do have an OFF switch.

Thanksgiving Day was dedicated to eating our bevy of appetizers to which we all contributed (though I forgot how sadly lacking in cooking skills I am) and toasting family and friends. And even though it’s post gluttony, I am still thankful that:

• I never again have to endure another inarticulate speech from G.W.
• I am in possession of real, live ninja attire
• Britney Spears has stopped procreating (this is wishful thinking more than anything
• I’m not lactose intolerant
• Webster’s Dictionary has never acknowledged y’all and fixin’ as words because they aren’t
• I no longer work for an epic prick
• There is a street named Lunt in Chicago (hee, it never gets old)
• I have the best friends ever
• My family is still alive, kicking and crazy as ever, which only makes Christmas that much more interesting

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving. I’m still feeling the effects of sugar, fat and carbohydrate induced food coma, but that’s what being an American is all about. Gobble Gobble.

Mild-mannered tattoo artist and DJ, Josh Schneider, is one multifaceted guy. I first met him at Coach & Horses, a bar on Sunset Blvd. in LA, that features DJ Jazzy S spinning 80s hits (and yes, I made that moniker up…luckily Josh doesn’t know where I live—hee hee) on Thursday nights. This event is known as Technoir to the tavern denizens. By day, he artfully wields a mighty tattoo wand. I’m sure the term “needle” is more accurate, but, oh wait…I almost passed out. (If you are interested in having one or more tattooos applied to your person, Josh is your guy. Check out his Web site at www.joshschneidertattoo.com or visit him at Freak Chic, 7365 Melsrose Ave, Los Angeles.

Josh posing in front of his artwork

What foreign country would you like to visit and why?

I would most like to visit the U.K., specifically England because English culture has influenced so much of my life between music, fashion, film and attitude. I’m listening to Madness as I write this actually!

What is your favorite vacation destination? Please list your most memorable travel moment. (Tricky Josh consolidated these questions…please, read on)

My favorite vacation destination is also the home of my favorite travel memories—Australia! if you have not been “down under” yet, I couldn’t recommend a better place to explore! Some of my favorite memories were white water rafting and petting a ‘roo, koala and a wombat! My favorite moment was quite simple actually—sitting on my best mate’s back porch, drinking Aussie rum, listrning to Men at Work and watching a thunder and lightning storm. It was really quite beautiful.

What is your favorite weekend getaway? Do you take snacks? If so, what kind?

My favorite weekend getaway would have to be San Fransisco. I’ve been there about a dozen times, mostly getting tattooed. Does Zanax count as a snack?

Are you a hotel or hostel kind of guy?

I prefer staying with friends. I like planning some of the trip, because usually i work half of the trip and then do whatever during my free time.

Thanks Josh!

How excited was I when my lovely friend Barb called and said she was coming to LA? Well, I was so giddy it was a good thing I was wearing a diaper.

My going away bash: Barb with our good friend Brown Kevin

Anyway, she is staying with her sister in Encino, California. The name of the town was vaguely familiar because I was permanently scarred after subjecting myself to Encino Man, one of Pauly Shore’s many horrid movies. But with the help of Mapquest and Barb’s verbal directions I scrawled on a cocktail napkin (don’t ask), I had a definitive plan of action—I would drive to pick her up for our girl date. Wahoo!

And so I went forth onto Highway 101, a road mired in cars, exhaust and road rage hoping that no “incidents” would occur and that the Happy Couple’s car would remain unscathed. (For those of you who don’t know, I’m carless. This fact seems to bother those whom I tell much more than it does me, but such is life in LA.) I pined to see my friend badly enough though that had a car not been available, I would have hijacked a skateboard from a hoodlum lurking in the alley, all the while screaming, “This is for Barb-a-Reeba!!!” Flailing, pouncing, oh, yes, that skateboard would have been mine. I can be terrifying when on a mission for wheels…or booze or food. But never you mind that.

What I noticed first about Encino was that it bears a striking resemblance to the giant strip-mall that is Dallas, Texas. (I lived in Dallas for seven painfully long years. And though I made some great friends, there is no amount of money that would make me return, ever. I refer to it as the “armpit of the world.”) But no matter. I wasn’t in Encino to research housing or to sight-see, though Barb mentioned that Michael Jackson’s compound was only five blocks from her sister’s house.

I escorted my date to a lovely Italian restaurant called Oliva Trattoria, 4449 Van Nuys Blvd. I ordered steak and Barb, the spinach and ricotta ravioli. The cow was fine, but I wouldn’t recommend it over the pasta, which was handmade and delicious. The salads were huge and could easily feed two people if ordering one for a starter course. The service was mediocre, but the manager complimented my hooker heels, so I’ll cut him a little slack.

My most favorite shoes...

The bar scene was nonexistent for the most part, but we actually found one that was open and featured a tragic lounge singer equipped with a velour vixen dress. The badness of it all was the perfect backdrop for great conversation…

I’ve never been a suburban kind of gal; I break out into hives if submerged in Stepford too long. So, Encino didn’t wow me, but it was still nice to explore. My next stops as a local tourist will be oceanside cities. I’ve toyed with the idea of taking surfing lessons, but given the fact that I require floaties, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea. I won’t be able to enjoy life much if I’m tits up…or face down, as it were.

Every year in January, I give myself the gift of a tropical vacation for my birthday. Last year, it was a trip to Maui for 10 glorious days of diving, eating and playing. I hadn’t planned on sight-seeing much, only because when I take tropical vacations my druthers is to remain supine when I’m not swimming with the fishes. As it turned out, the only beach time I spent was when I hauled my diving equipment in and out of the water during my shore-diving adventures with Shaka Doug.

Instead, I was drawn to the rainforests, the Road to Hana, the black sand beaches and most of all, the sacred places on Maui, Hawaii (the proper pronunciation of Hawaii is Ha-vy-ee…just so ya know). Some of these spots are where sacred temples used for sacrifices now stand—they are called “heiaus” and are sacred to the Hawaiian people. (I’m not referring to the “howlies” as the mainlanders are called by some Hawaiians, but those of actual Hawaiian descent.) Sacred places are located all over the island, but I was wrong in assuming they would all be easy to find so I settled for the two with the biggest road signs:

Haleakala Crater: Legend has it, that Pele, the goddess of fire, created the black sand beaches dotting Maui’s shores and also Haleakala, the volcanic crater. Visitors are warned by Hawaiians to never disturb or steal any stones from either place unless permission is given by Pele via a Hawaiian priest(ess) or all kinds of crazy bad luck will befall that person until Pele’s property is returned. Personally, I would rather not tempt a fire-based entity, but take your chances if you are so inclined. Regardless, both Haleakala and the beaches are worth visiting. However, be warned that you will freeze parts off if you take only your beach wear—the summit tops out at 10,023 feet. Not even a Snuggy will save your arse if all you’re wearing are short shorts.

Haleakala Crater

Black Sand beach just off the Road to Hana

The ‘Iao Valley (pronounced EE-ow):

The Iao Needle

The energy coursing through this area, which is known to visitors as a state park, will transfix you on the spot if you are attuned to it. There is a small, paved path that weaves around a fresh-water stream and you can see the Iao Needle from the tourist-designated look-out. But the most interesting aspects of this sacred place lie in a walking path that is, well, technically off limits—but that’s only if you get busted. Ironically, it begins just after the sign the says “Stay on the path.” It was during this hike that I found an ancient petroglyph etched into a boulder.

The Ancient Hawaiians practiced Huna, which is based on the principle that each person has three selves. It's demonstrated in this hieroglyphic in the shape of the legs, rectangular middle and the two lines above the head. Otherwise known as the unihipili, uhane and the amakua.

Prayer rocks wrapped in a kind of leaf are left on the boulder by Hawaiians offering prayers to the gods.

In 1790, the Battle of Kepaniwai took place in the Iao Valley. In an effort to unify the Hawaiian islands, Kamehameha the Great waged war on Kalanikuple and the Maui army. As it turns out, he won, but not without a cost. History recounts a battle so bloody that the bodies blocked the Iao Stream. Kepaniwai means “damming of the waters” in Hawaiian.

These are the other sacred spots, that I know of, but didn’t have a chance to experience…yet, anyway:

• Halekii-Pihana hieaus, which are ancient temples previously used for sacrifices. Not now, of course, it was more like circa 1240.
• The Bellstone, which is a large rock that sounds like a bell when hit by a pebble.
• The Seven Sacred Pools are actually a series of pools and waterfalls near the O’heo Gulch at the southernmost portion of the island.