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.

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.

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.

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

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…

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!

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!!