14 posts tagged “stories”
Today Ed and I met an elderly woman named Thelma Bell.
She was standing outside of the Ralph's on Wilshire and Western and as we were pulling into the lot Ed said "It's hot out, we should give her a ride." I thought about it for a moment and I was torn-- I grew up having an abnormally special relationship with my grandmother and I have always had a spot in my heart for the elderly that's like, super soft. Even as someone who often gets asked to make jokes, there are two things I won't joke about because the subjects are too sensitive to me: homeless people and the elderly. I don't do "old people are gross/lame/smelly/stupid/out of it" jokes. That's not funny to me. In my personal opinion, the elderly are our most prized citizens and it is a shame that they aren't treated like that more often.
Still, I felt nervous at first and told Ed that we should let her be. I didn't want to insult her or have her think we're robbing her or anything. A few years ago I wouldn't have thought twice about walking up to her and striking up a conversation, but LA has made me more weary of others than I've ever been. I'm thinking that this is something I need to actively try and change about myself. I'd like to get that personable and friendly nature back. ANYWAY, Ed insisted we say something.
Within a minute or so of talking to us, she told us that her name was Thelma Bell and she will be turning 100 years old in August. She's lived in Koreatown for over 48 years in the same apartment. She's from West Virginia and she has a son. Her grandson stole her gold teeth that were worth four thousand dollars.
She refused a ride but let us walk her home. We walked arm and arm while I carried home her groceries and Ed and I basically just let her talk to us. She didn't come across terribly lonely, but that that's "Greatest Generation" bullshit that my grandparents did. All people that age never let on to how bad things really are-- they were raised to put up and shut up. Thinking about that as I type this, I can't help but wonder that if when we are elderly, they will call us the Most Annoying Generation or The Self-Obsessed Generation. I can't imagine anyone I know ever quietly accepting that their friends are all dead and they live thousands of miles away from their only living relatives. I can't even shut up about the fact that my cellphone is broken.
When we got to her apartment, we walked her upstairs and gave her hugs. We promised to take her to lunch sometime and take her for a big grocery order where she could get all the food she wanted and not just what she could carry. I really hope that we follow through on it. Cliche as it sounds, talking to her today and walking her four blocks to her home gave me a lot more than it gave her.
I am not an unreasonable person.
I will occasionally eat foods that are really disgusting. I don't have a particular standard for the restaurants I go to. I'm willing to admit that some of the grossest hole in the wall type places can sometimes have the best food in the world. I enjoy McDonalds on occasion. I really do. Here's what I can't deal with: I can't deal with the IHOP on Wilshire and Hauser. I can't.
For YEARS, I enjoyed IHOP. In college there was no bigger treat than piling my friends into my Oldsmobile and taking us all to IHOP at noon on a Sunday... and I would clean my plate every time. Nothing was better than that carafe (a fucking carafe!) of coffee.
I've had a couple lack-luster IHOP experiences since I've been in LA, but nothing particularly offensive. I was actually at an IHOP last week, and despite a couple slightly off things, it was pretty delicious. And then this morning happened. This morning happened... like, TO me. I was victimized. I went in there looking for some snacks and came out feeling like... emotionally wrecked over what happened to me in there.
Let's just lay it down: The first sip of my OJ had a seed in it. If the juice tasted like any orange or orange flavored thing I had ever eaten in my life, than I would have thought "Oh well, at least it's fresh!" but because it was a weird yellowish color and had an aftertaste that burned, I figured that that wasn't the case and was pretty perplexed as to how an actual orange seed would even make it into a beverage that so clearly doesn't have oranges in it.
So you're probably thinking at this point that I'm a pussy. I can't handle an orange seed? No. The seed was gross and random, but overall that's something I can move past, especially in the mornings when I have coffee. But the coffee. The coffee. I don't even really not how to describe what was going on with the coffee. I couldn't even guess if it was that they didn't brew it long enough or if the beans were bad or if there was perhaps something wrong with the coffee machine... all I know is that it tasted like brown water that had just the tiniest bit of insect repellent stirred in. It wasn't a bitter taste, it was a chemical taste. Have you ever licked a battery? Like a AA-battery? I have! And let me tell ya: That's what my coffee tasted like. Except hot.
I excused myself to the bathroom despite how hard I had been trying to hold it. I'm not stupid. I know that IHOP bathrooms aren't exactly pristine... but I'm kinda a down to earth chick. I can pee in a gnarly bathroom or outside or in your roommate's messenger bag. It really doesn't matter to me... and the cleanliness didn't even appear to be a huge issue to the naked eye once I got in there. But the smell was unforgivable. Like someone shoved a canned ham in a radiator the night before. It was humid and it smelled like HAM. I felt like I wasn't in a bathroom, but in fact, a warm pork sandwich. A warm pork sandwich that I was supposed to find a way to urinate in... without actually touching anything that wasn't on my body.
I came back from the bathroom and told my friend that I was eating with that I was pretty much revolted at this point. I was called a complainer. I tried to suck it up. I really did... but my sensibilities were far too offended at this point. It was too fucking much for that time of morning to deal with. Especially with a Grey Goose hangover. At that point, what I was even less interested in than being in the IHOP was being in a fight at the IHOP, so I just shut my mouth and waited for my eggs to come out.
When they arrived five coffee-free minutes later (and for you non-caffeine addicts, that's like seven hours in coffee-drinker time), our server put down my friend's food first and then mine in front of me. Right as the plate was about to make contact with the table, I noticed how she was gripping the plate: four fingers under the plate, and her thumb on the side... RIGHT IN MY HASH BROWNS. Her fucking thumb was in my hash browns. I'm not assuming she's a dirty person in her actual life but as someone who has worked in many many dining establishments in her day, I can tell you that even four-star restaurant employees have filthy hands. Like, fucking filthy. The odds that this woman's hands weren't covered in actual-- or what would be the equivalent to-- cat semen are slim to none.
There's no moral to the story. There's no happy ending here. I scraped the tainted hash browns off my plate and onto a stack of pancakes that nether of us ordered but that somehow wound up at our table. We ate our breakfast in silence. He was pissed because I couldn't "hack it" or something and I was pissed because my mortification was being treated as though it was MY problem. Clearly, it's an attitudinal issue on my part. Clearly I am high-maintenance. It must be my rigorous showering schedule and pristine living environment that supported this theory.
And I will have you know that I went this entire story without mentioning that there was a three year old girl running up and down the aisle next to us with snot running down her face in gigantic globs because I don't like to be mean to children.
I am the opposite of inhumane.
1) Wagandstuff and I spent the morning getting him ready to fly to Boston next week with me. He got a shitload of shots, had his feces tested (seriously? they shoved a small syringe in my dog's ass. I would have brought some in had I known they needed it. Jesus.), had his nails trimmed, got puppy Valiums for the flight and a pet bag that fits under an airplane seat. Since I was already spending my life savings in one afternoon, I decided to get him a new harness, too. I'll post a picture later.
2) If you haven't done your taxes already and you're like me (completely fiscally irresponsible (see above) (triple parentheses!)), I really suggest going to H&R Block. They hooked my shit up so hardcore it was retarded.* Do you understand that I am a freelancer getting a return? I barely understand it honestly, so if you figure out how the fuck they managed that, please do let me know. For real: If you live in Los Angeles and you need to do your taxes (especially if you think you are eligible for a refund), go see my newest homegirl Carmen down at the H&R Block on 5th and Western. She will Change U 4Eva.
3) Kendall and I made this video of us reading a book of short stories I wrote when I was in 2nd grade. I'm thinking of transcribing the book I wrote in third grade for the net because it truly is like, SO next level compared to this talking chair business. It's a suspense/thriller starring a man named Phil Science, Expert Detective! OK. That's all I'm giving away... I think I will transcribe it soon. Here's the video:
4) One last thing about Wagandstuff. Wagandstuff has a little fanbase. Today at The Coffee Bean on Larchmont a man and his daughter started talking to me about my dog, and he asked me what his name was. When I told him, he said "WAGANDSTUFF! I KNOW YOU! We met you at Amoeba, remember? Yeah, we loved that name. We were going to steal it and hope we never saw you again." It was very, very cute and I remembered that the little girl had pinned back Wags' ears in the middle of the record store and was squealing "OH MY GOD! HE'S SO CUTE LIKE THIS! DAD! ISN'T HE SO CUTE LIKE THIS!?" and I was laughing because I often do that myself and think the same thing, minus the "DAD" part, because that would be weird. (When are one of you guys going to tell me what a run-on sentence is???) Nearly every email I get mentions Wagandstuff, first and foremost. His star power is evident and I know I've been saying it since day uno, but his attitude has got to change if he ever wants to be a model. No one wants to work with a diva who's just starting out. I tell him that. I tell him that every day.
*best/worst sentence I've ever written
Have any of you ever spent the remainder of your Sunday night coaxing a chihuahua into vomiting up old birth control? Oh, OK. Allow me to fill you in.
First of all, I don't know how he got the pills. I can assume he did something really sneaky/interesting to find them because not even I knew I was still in possession of them. In fact, I assumed when I heard the jingle jangle of pills that he had actually gotten into a package of Tic Tacs. Then I realized I hadn't bought Tic Tacs in forever, and I ate the ones my mom sent me in one sitting. Like candy. So then it hits me that he must have some left over flu meds he snuck out of my bedside table, so I dash under the bed and find him chomping not on Tylenol, but a little round pill packet with four different colored pills inside. Fuck, right?
I didn't even know I still had them. It could have been worse, but I didn't want to run the risk of my dog dying and/or growing lady breasts, so I grabbed the hydrogen peroxide, gave him half a teaspoon and bounced him around on my hip for ten minutes. Then he puked. He ate more for dinner than I thought he did, that's for sure. He also doesn't chew as much as I imagined.
He's fine now. He's already danced around and wagged his tail and now he's passed out at my feet... but I keep poking him every few minutes to make sure he's still alive.
[Note: I hope you know that I am so paranoid that I almost considered not writing this post because now everyone now knows I'm not on birth control. If some sicko internet perv wants a love child with me, they now know their chances are that much more greatly increased if they rape me (which would be totally futile cause AS IF I'm having my rapist's baby). Listen: I hope you know, Sicko Internet Pervs, that I'm on to your game and since I've already written about this on my blog, the police are going to know where to start looking first. An IP address isn't hard to find. You've been warned.]
I spent most of the afternoon cleaning my apartment. I picked up every last thing from the floors, vacuumed, Swiffered, changed my sheets, sorted laundry by color and wash cycle... It took about three hours, and by the time I was done I was exhausted and in need of an Diet Coke/Marlboro Light/e-mail break. I sat down on my bed and put my feet up to rest, when out of the corner of my eye I see Wagandstuff doing a little sniffy thing all around the middle of my bedroom. I stop reading my gossip pages long enough to take a closer look at what he was doing, and right at that moment he took a massive, watery shit in the center of my lemon-fresh floor.
And that, ladies and gents, is a metaphor for my entire life.
I woke up at 6:30 this morning and watched cartoons with Wags in bed. Children's programming is like, next level if you don't already know. Take it from someone who watches television professionally (yeah, I get PAID to watch TV), this is some of the most highbrow shit on television. Some of these shows, like Oobi, make Fraiser look like a retarded kid's art project.
Vox wont let me post any pictures this morning, so instead I'll post a video of Ed and Wagandstuff from last night:
I was reading ReadyGal's blog today and she posted all the beautiful pictures of her view this morning. It reminded me that I live in a city filled with filth and how I came to the realization that in plain view of my apartment there is a whore house.
There's this "massage" place across the street from my apartment. One morning I woke up with a stiff neck (well, stiffer than usual... I have had horrible neck and back problems since I was twelve) and I decided to treat myself to a massage so I wouldn't kill myself from the pain. I go over to the place and I realize that there's something fishy about it. There's a two way mirror with a sticker on it that says "Support Your Local Police". I had just read something about how many of the brothels in LA are known about by the cops but they slide under the radar because they are somehow in on the deal, they get a payoff or something. So this clicks in my head, but I decide to throw caution to the wind because my neck hurt and I had committed myself to the idea.
I walk in and the lady behind the counter doesn't speak English. Typical, not strange at all, especially in my neighborhood. I give her my money and she starts setting up a room. You could tell she was surprised that I was there and that they were not ready to do business, even though it was noon and all other massage places have been open for hours doing all sorts of massage type things. This was another hint to me that I might be in a whore house.
I go in for my massage. I can hear men entering the place as I'm laying there and I listen to hear them leaving after less than an hour, knowing that that will be all the proof I need. I didn't even have to wait, though. The lady who's massaging me kinda starts molesting me a little bit. She stops before she does anything I'd have to kill her for, and because I'm pretty much the biggest pussy ever, I don't say anything and allow her to keep going. When it's finally time for me to leave, she brings me my bra off the bench I had placed it on and TRIES TO PUT IT ON ME. I say no, so she snatches the towel that's covering my boobs away from me, and it's just a topless me, sitting on a massage table with an extremely pushy Korean whore. I finally got some guts and I yelled at her "I'm fine! I can do it myself!" and she leaves. I never really did anything about it after that. I told a couple friends, but I was pretty embarrassed about it for awhile. How dumb of me...
I guess the moral of this story is that if you think you're in a whore house, you're probably in a whore house and it's better to cut out early than to stick around and find out for yourself.
There are many things that I write about in this blog that boarder on "too personal" for me... my man troubles, for one. But there are many many things I won't even touch upon because they are so meaningful or evoke so much emotion that I feel if I were to somehow try and explain these feelings into words that they would be cheapened. I don't write about my last relationship, I don't write about my father and I don't write about Girl Talk.
I have an obsession with Girl Talk that dates back to last Winter. Most people would think I'm just a fan, but his music has influenced me in so many ways that I attribute finding his last record to finding my true self. I came alive when I heard Night Ripper for the first time in a way I hadn't felt alive in years. It was like the first time I read Catcher in the Rye or the first time I really truly felt like I was in love.
Last night I had the opportunity to interview him before his shows at the Echo, both of which I attended with the enthusiasm of a fourteen year old girl at a circa 1999 NSync Show. My universe came together last night. My experience in LA seemed to be capped off. I remember thinking several times throughout the day that I hoped I would die immediately after the shows because I really feel like I've finished up what I needed to do here on Earth.
What I love about Girl Talk (aka Gregg Gillis) is his pure love of music, his desire to do nothing more than to just share his gift with others. He seems not to seek fame, just good times and good people to share them with, that's all. He is a true genius, an artist and a REAL PERSON. He could sit next to you on a plane, he could let you cut him in line at the grocery store, he could ask to use the dryer after you at the landromat, but he brings the mother fucking noise every single night all over the world. How amazing.
I'll never be able to truly explain the way I feel about his music, and I can't even really try much more than I just have. It makes me sick to think about the fact that I've starred my idol in the eye. Most people live their whole lives wondering if they will ever meet the person who moves them in the way he moves me... and I haven't just met him, but he knows my name, he knows my face, he remembered our past introductions. It's not a case of being star struck... I think some people feel this way about the Pope. It was a confirmation of my belief system and the way I live my life.
My life has been changed forever.
I spent yesterday morning working on the set of a porn movie. I was filming/interviewing for Fleshbot.com, a porn site that falls under Gawker.
I don't quite know what it was that I was expecting, probably drugs and sluts and loose morals and trashy people... but honestly? It was really fun. Everyone was super nice-- the ladies were sweet as pie and the men were quiet and approachable. The atmosphere on the set was great. Everyone was there to laugh and have a good time and really didn't mind being there. I ask you to go find me an office somewhere where all the employees are genuinely happy to be there and excited to get work done.
It was surprisingly not embarrassing or awkward at all. It didn't matter to me that I had to watch two girls suck another girls nipples for an extended period of time. It was so clearly fake that there was nothing to be uncomfortable about... they just as easily could have been playing tennis. Seriously! I know that it's an unbelievable thought, but their actions were completely normal seeming.
I know all of this might sound like I have some strange morals or something and believe me, I never thought that I'd be watching some nice Asian girls crawl around naked while draped in plastic beads, but now I truly believe that there's nothing wrong with what these people do. I think if more people had the chance to visit a set, the porn world would make a lot more sense to everyone and not be such an enigma.
Here's a photograph to commemorate:
Saturday morning I woke up with a hamburger bun in my purse. It was half of the top bun and it had about six bites taken out of it. I put my hair in a pony tail, threw on my favorite shorts, grabbed Wagandstuff and headed to Venice for American Gladiator tryouts.
When I came home I went into the bathroom to further survey the situation from the night before. The jeans that I wore out were in a heap in front of the toilet. My shoes were underneath them perfectly aligned facing the door, There was a Carl's Junior wrapper on the sink, spread out perfectly flat. There was a piece of spicy chicken on the counter next to a bag of untouched French fries. The other half of the bun was in Wags' water bowl.
Your guess is as good as mine.
