Jun 12 2014

“I’m Laid Back”

New term I’ll be incorporating into my vocabulary after a weekend with extended Texas relatives: “I’M LAID BACK”

It’s most commonly used as a non aggressive synonym for “I don’t give a shit.”

My cousin Brandon hits on a girl at a bar. She tells him she has a boyfriend. He tells her “I’m laid back.”

Aug 25 2010

Where’s your pahtner?

Hey Kids.

Recently got back from Coconut’s nuptials in Antigua. It was beautiful, make no mistake, BUT there was ONE glaring hiccup for The Burrito: it was a honeymoon resort and I was riding solo.

Post touch-down at the VC Bird International Airport,  I squeeked through customs with Pork Sausage.  Since she was also traveling alone for the time being (Rice-r-Roni was catching a later flight) we clung to each other like Chelsea Handler and a bag of Dorritos.

It was a cacophany of Island crazies outside baggage but PS and I managed to make it to the hotel shuttle kiosk intact.  Apparently the hotel wasn’t used to singles. Or so we were about to find out.

At the kiosk, I was met by a deranged looking woman with a disorganized clip board chatting up someone on her cell phone. She laughed that laugh that losers laugh to advertise they have friends, then gave me the “one moment” finger.   I waited a beat, then after exchanging “fuck her” looks with PS, decided to gently butt in.

“Is this the Sandals check in?”

She looked at me like I’d just interrupted a threesome with her, Brad, and Angie, then slammed the cell phone shut mid-sentence (Bi-polar much?). With a cold island accent she hissed…

“Burrito,” I said.

She flipped through the sloppy clip board with so much aggression I wondered if I’d said “Bitch, fuck your mother” instead of my name by mistake. I hadn’t, she just hated her life.

“You’re not on da list.” She stared at me for a moment and strummed her acrylics. I realized she expected me to solve this problem for her.

“I have the confirmation number here.”
“I can do no-tin weet dat. Ah need ah name.”
“Miss Talking Burrito”
“I oolready looked fer dat one. Whaz yer pahtner’s name?”
“My pahtner?”
“Yer Hoosband! Yer boyfrin! Yer pahtner!”
“Oh! Oh oh oh oh no. No no. No partner. Just me. Single. Solo. Solomente.”
“Yeh don have a pahtner!?!”
“Not at the moment, no. Again it’s Burrito, Talking.”
“Yeh sure it con be unduh any oodah name?”

Then it popped into my head.

“….Errrrm…..Spam? Maybe Spam? BUT I took his name off the reservation 3 months ago AND I booked it under MY name with MY credit card so I can’t imagine that–”
“Ahhhhhhhh der we go,” She got so saccharine that I skipped right over theorizing about a bi-polar disorder and went straight to diagnosing her as a sociopath. “Mr. and Mrs. Spam! I found it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I dead panned.
“Yooll be taken dat van ober der to dah Mediterranean side. Welcome to da Island!”
“Can you fix the name? And isn’t it weird to have a Mediterranean side on a Caribbean Island?”
“Geet goin now!”

I died a little, gave her a look like she’d just farted, and did an about face. Pork Sausage immediately made eye contact with me from across the clusterfuck and mouthed “ouch.” You said it sister.

While PS checked in under her partner’s name (naturally), I produced a designer dew rag from my carry on and tied it to my head with a defiant Arrrrrrgh.  The theme score to Pirates of the Caribbean played in my I head. I needed rum, a sword, and someone to stab… Jack Sparrow too if he was available.

Puffing out my AA chest, I wheeled two heaving TUMI bags towards the van that sociopath had gestured at. A big sweaty man in a Tommy Bahama shirt was leaning against the sliding side door. As I approached I could see him looking at my bags with dread.

“Hi! Is this the van to Mediterranean?”
“Could you help me with my bags?”
“Where’s yer pahtner?” AGAIN with the partner shit!
“I don’t have a partner.”
“You done have ah pahtner?!”
“Everyboody got ah pahtner.”
“Apparently not.”
“WHY? Why done you have ah pahtner?”

He asked me this question with genuine curiosity and intrigue, like I was a world mystery to be solved. Seriously!? Did he only read about single women in the Bible?! I’m not a reformed prostitute on a Jesus binder, just your average 20 something with a bag full of vibrators! But of course I didn’t say that. Instead I said…

“Ummmmm just keeping my options open in case I meet a nice man like yourself.” He seemed confused at my insult, so I pushed the more important topic. “Care to help me with these puppies? Better get ‘em in the back before space fills up!”

He looked at the luggage really angry-like. I had a feeling the handle with care tag would go unnoticed.  And, since I didn’t want my bag of vibrators (that part wasn’t a joke) to get bruised, I grabbed Tommy Bahama by the collar, pulled him close, and whispered…
“Alright you got me.  I lied.  I’m not here alone.  Boyfriends in the bag. Fucker couldn’t afford the fare and wanted me to ‘help him get to Antigua.’  Don’t rat us out. We’ve made it this far.”

He couldn’t tell if I was joking, but I thought I’d take advantage of his “thinking” moment and jumped in the van.  He finally snapped out of it and cautiously went to pick up my duffel. I waved at him and cooed…

“Be extra careful with that one!”  Wink wink.


Jan 13 2010

The LA Party Scene, Part 2: Scenesters

Hey Kids.

I find myself perched at a corner table in Katsuya full of industry insiders.  One after another they clamor to top each other with knowledge of the trendy sushi menu and high dollar drink orders.  Every guy wears a pressed collared shirt and tailored pinstripe pants that echo “just clocked out of my very important and high powered job,”  while every girl at the table looks like a playboy bunny or an aging Lauren Conrad.  I’m wearing a leather skirt and zipper booties which would seem quite apropos, but my ass keeps sticking to the lucite chair I’m sitting in.  Usually all I need is a wise crack to defuse such discomfort, but this particular night all my self deprecating humor is concentrated on distracting attention from the deflated mosquito bites posing as breasts on my front side.  I’m not so much self-conscience about my small chest, rather just worried I might be mistaken for one of the guys. These girls aren’t fooling around.  Damn.  It’s like they all built in flotation devices just in case 2012 is real.   I’m so uncomfortable that I loose my appetite.  Yeah, it’s serious.

Now, when I get nervous, I drink.  When I get nervous breakdown, I smoke.  I grabbed the only poser at the table that looked like he was in on the joke and gently requested a stick of tobacco.  No dice, but he was willing to help me track one down.  Which in scenester language is like pulling your seat out or holding the door open.  Ah chivalry.

We went out front and bummed two flavored long stemmed fags off of a euro-trash girl, who eyed me and my boots with firm distaste. Then, after noticing me noticing her noticing me, denied our very existence.   Like she was a celebrity or something.  She wasn’t.

Half a cigarette later, I was ready to go back in (I smoke, but I’m a pussy about it…half a cig gets my head-a-spinnin).  As we mosied up to the table, well I mosied…he did more of a smooth glide, I immediately noticed that every bottle of sake was drained and every piece of overpriced sushi was cleared.  Dinner was over.

And then the bill came.  And THIS is what gets my goat the mostest.  Every baller who ordered the $20 a piece sashimi platter handled the check like it was covered in Swine Flu.   Tossing it like a silky hot potato from douche to douche.  It lands in my lap and I do the math….Um I ate approximately 5 pieces of sushi and had 2 thimbles of sake….  plus a generous tip (obvi) and tax I owe approximately $35.  The girl next to me leans over, sensing my lack of inner-loop awareness, and says “we’re all just splitting it evenly”.  SHWAT?!

The bill was upwards of $1000 and there were approximately 10 of us total. I wasn’t about to shell out a designers t-shirt worth of dough for a piece of black cod.  But, the sense of unity on this decision was overpowering and I didn’t want to be the stand out loser who thought shelling out $100 bucks was a big deal (which it is, isn’t it?).  While everyone else casually tossed some plastic in a pile, I rummaged through freshly outputted ATM bills and painfully extolled three digits worth of dough (no way in hell I was gonna pay interest on this meal).    At this point the “too attractive to be competent” waitress collected the cards with so much hurumph I actually felt sorry for her for being so idiotically beautiful.  It would be a while before she figured this bill out and ran all the cards to success.

Still reeling from the “even split,” I was summoned outside, where a bevy of leased German driving machines purred at the valet stand.  Little luxury chariots waiting to take all of us to Phase II of the evening.

Phase II was a “Hollywood Party” at a “Hollywood Hot-spot.”  Note: the hot-spot is only an effective scenester hang if there is a list of some sort.  After making it through the list entry, we sashayed back to the VIP area.  There I found an increasing amount of threatened girls, all looking each other up and down with the great paradox of  judgement and insecurity.  I told one wild eyed know it all slut who spilt her vodka on me, that she looked like Nancy Pelosi on Spring Break.  Watching her try to process this was hilarious enough, but the topper was when she finally spit out a response:

“Ummm I’m Leila, not Nancy.  I think you have me confused with someone else (giggle giggle gawd).”

As I sipped my drink….I threw in this “I just meant you look like a well placed train wreck.”

“WHAT did you say?” She snapped back with territorial defense.

“WHAT!?  I’m sorry I thought you were someone else.”

So I suck at confrontation, but she had acrylics on and I have a personal motto about cat fights and fake nails.

At that point my home-girl Pork Sausage sauntered up to me, just in time, and joins the WTF moment taking place behind Leila/Nancy’s back.

“Oh I know her!  This is her party” Says Pork Sausage.

“Well I just made a lovely first.” I assured her.

PS insists that a little TLC and inflated compliment will surely clear the air.  So, she approaches Leila with joy and good intentions (that’s PS for you). Leila drains her vodka soda, looks PS up and down, and says…

“Oh, you mush be my present.”

“Pardon me?” PS honestly says this with the manners of British Royalty, minus the British accent.

“You came with the boys right?  They’ve got such a sense of humour, getting me tramps for my birthday. Well enjoy the open bar (giggle giggle gawd)”

“Ummmm no, I used to work with you.  I’m Pork Sausage.  I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.  This is my friend Burrito.”

“We’ve met” she says

“And it was such a pleasure.” I add.  BTW It wasn’t an open bar.  Cheap bitch.

“We’ll okay.  I don’t think I know you, but tell the boys hi (giggle).”

PS looked at me with her “did that just happen?” eye (that’s her right one). I drained my drink and said I had to make a phone call.

Spam was there within 10 minutes to chariot me away in his oh so normal Toyota Corolla (thank God).  Phase III usually consisted of late night clubbing. And if $100 tabs and snooty bobble heads were going to continue to be on the agenda I had to bail. Felt bad for ditching PS, but she had her man there and frankly I think if he hadn’t had a full drink, they would have jumped in the trunk.

I ran out from the club, passing a slew of C-listers hugging the velvet rope that had magically opened for me a mere hour ago.  It all seemed far less important now than sweatpants and a PB and J.  I was broke, hungry, and feeling very self-conscious about my breast size/worth as a human being.  It was then I realized that this cultural trifecta meant I had successfully completed a bonafide scenester evening.   I smiled, and then puked a little in my mouth.


Oct 13 2009

The LA Party Scene, Part 1: Hipster

Hey Kids!

Lemme tell you something.  After living in Los Angeles for over 8 years I STILL don’t feel comfortable at your typical LA soiree.  When most people think of a social scene in the City of Angels, they conjure images of Lindsey Lohan making out with a girl in a DJ booth or the cast of “The Hills” clasping champagne flutes in a VIP lounge. While these are very real images, they only represent a small faction of partying that is distinctively Los Angeles.  I have decided to spend the next few entries telling you about my experiences with all of them…and giving you the blow by blow burrito style, naturally.

Party Type #1: Hipster

This weekend I had the pleasure and horror of experiencing one of the most trendy types of partying currently sweeping Los Angles right now: the hipster party. This invite came via my boy Spam.

Spam is a bit of a hipster.  He makes no effort to hide it, and frankly I find his shameless pride charming. I’ve commented on the plunging depths of his v-neck t- shirts more than once and instead of squirming with humility, he looks me dead in the eye and proclaims my mockery is rooted in “jealousy of his large chest.”   I’m a 34A, so touché.    Whenever I hang out with Spam and his crowd I expect a certain vibe.  Everyone will be a bit gangly, a bit poetic, a bit eccentrically self-indulgent, a bit high, and a bit young.  Most times I can just throw on my skinny jeans and blend right in.  But this particular Friday was a little more hard core than the burrito had anticipated….

Look, it’s my fault really.  The party was being held at a warehouse in Silver Lake.  If that wasn’t a big enough red flag then I should have been tipped off by the couple of American Spirit smokers just outside the entrance: The girl was wearing a tutu and chucks and the guy was wearing sear sucker pants, suspenders, and a fedora.  His shirt plundged to new depths even Spam hadn’t dared to go.

When I passed the threshold it quickly became clear to me that there was definite illegal activity taking place in this warehouse.  For the first time in years I felt genuine danger that the cops were gonna bust the joint and I was going to have to call my parents in shame.  And not for the pot I had been smoking.  Nope.  I was fearful that the cops would come because everyone in the room looked 15.  They acted like it to.  Coyly stealing glances at the keg like it was a b-list celebrity, congregating in cliques, gender divided on the dance floor.  It was like middle school, but with more homosexuals.

As soon as I walked into the joint, all of their beady eyes and heavy lids stared at my old ass in awe, like they were seeing a mythical creature.  I watched a few of them try to make sense of me.  For a second I considered faking Benjamin Button Syndrome.  Instead, I sucked it up and decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.  Needed time to step back and consider that my age paranoia may be do to the canibus haze.

But, after 20 minutes of trying to fit in and 2 dixie cups of foamy booze, it all seemed futile. My skinny jeans just weren’t going to cut it in this crowd.  I tried to stop freaking out about everyone’s age but it just kept scaring the shit out of me.  A) because I realized how old I was getting, and B) because I was seriously concerned that the cops might show up and charge me with providing to a minor just for asking some girl in a bikini to hold my Busch Light.

Spam took me outside for some fresh air and the weed began dissipate…slowly.  In a new state of lesser paranoia, I made my way to the dance floor to shake it off.

Jesus Christ.

I entered the threshold to an industrial space banging with Emo music and gyrating with head to toe hipsters.  It looked like Americn Aparrel was having an earth quake.  I stared at them in disbelief.   “How did I get here?”

Spam and his clan seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly and they were my ride so I knew there was no chance of bouncing in the near future.  My motto at awkward parties is always nut up or shut up.  If you’re having a shitty time, do something to make it fun or shut the fuck up and wait for it to be over.  DON’T be naggy and ruin everyone else’s good time.

So, I decided to have a dance off with the most outrageous looking of these babies.  I stripped down to my oh so boring strapless dress and zoned in on a girl in spandex pants, neon pink suspenders, and a zebra printed sports bra.  She was swinging from an indoor swing…. You heard me.

We fought and after 2 consecutive songs of flash dance moves, I won.  Shocked?  Look, I NEVER enter a dance-off I don’t feel 99% sure I can win.  I learned that during the Britney Spears/ NSYNC craze of 2000.    I’d prove it to you by posting a video of me doing “Bye, Bye, Bye” but this blog is anonomys for a reason.  I wasn’t born yesterday.

Spam and crew rallied soon after that.  I think it was more out of embarrasement for me than a genuine desire to bounce, but who cares.  They waved the white flag, not me.

I was almost home free (save for the improptu jam session to the car radio with Spam’s random back seat percussion instruments), when the crew decided to stop for taco bell.  HOW DO THEY DO IT?  All of these hipsters are size -0.  EVEN THE BOYS!   And all they do is eat junk food and drink coffee!

“Burrito!”  The driver yelled out.  “What can we get you as a prize for winning the dance off.”
“Ummmmm, whatever you’re having”
“Beef taco it is then.”

Spam interjected like I’d just given the go ahead for nuclear war.

“NONONO.  She’ll just have a cheese quesadilla.”

I tried to raise one eyebrow in question but then realized I didn’t posses this skill and probably just screwed my face into a look of constipation.

“You don’t want to eat their meat….believe me.”

He shot me a smooth wink and smile.  I melted.  It was like he’d just ordered for me at La Tour d’Argent in perfect French.

I passed out in a greasy coma knowing I’d have to wake up early and work out for 2 hours the next day if I wanted to break even for that dang quesadilla, but I didn’t care.  For the first time all night I was surrounded by something familiar, something that didn’t judge me, and made me feel safe: food.


Sep 13 2009

Six Rules for Flying Solo

Hey Kids-

So I was just in Scotland checking out the Edinburgh Festival. The burrito is pretty good at traveling alone. Actually, I prefer it. You always meet interesting new people and have interesting new experiences (basically because your alternative is to be bored out of your mind and alone). So, there you go. It’s like quitting a job so you’re forced to find a new one. If you want a guaranteed adventure, go it alone.

Now, I’ve been everywhere from Austria to England to Italy to good old NYC all by my lonesome. And I’ve realized that there are guidelines to being safe that still allowing you the freedom of possibility. I’ve compiled a list of rules here for your perusal and examples to how these rules came about.

Rule #1: Cash

You can get out of or into any situation you like with cash. So have a lot of it on your person at all times.

*I once got lost jogging in Milan, ended up in a bad part of town, and couldn’t find a cab to save my life. When I finally did, he was off duty. Cash Euros upfront: the cab was back in business and I was back at my hotel. On the flip side…THE hot play was sold out in Edinburgh for the ENTIRE run. Two tickets got turned in at the box office when I happened to be in line for another show. They said first come, cash only. The two suckers in front of me only had credit. I got in and had a “hard to say no to invite” for any potential new friend.

Rule #2: Reputable Hotel Accommodations

The big key to all of this, especially if you’re a single woman, is to stay in a reputable hotel. It’s imperative to have a home base. Preferably a home base with an attentive staff so that they can keep silent tabs on you: i.e. service your room, play gatekeeper, etc. It’s like having a little secret service …except much more engaging. This way you appear to be un-hinged but in fact have a whole family waiting up for you. No hostels, no crashing with a friend or friend of a friend, no motels. I trust you’ve seen enough 5 o’clock news and torture porn to understand why. Only white color criminals and public figureheads get murdered in a nice hotel. So unless you’ve got ties with the KGB you should be just fine. AND since you’re staying in this fabulous hotel… NEVER shack up with strangers. Drink with them, smoke with them, let them buy you dinner, end of the night say you’re staying close by and jump in a cab. You come across mysterious and accounted for: man whores and rapist beware!

*I once made the catastrophic mistake of letting a guy I’d just met walk me back to my hotel. He tried to follow me up to my room, but I alerted the front desk to keep an eye on him. They said he came by three more times over the next few nights asking about me and got rid of him finally by saying I’d checked out. This incident could have been problematic, instead it was just annoying.

Rule #3: Appear Single At All Times

If I have to explain this, I’m ashamed that you’re reading my blog. But, for posterity sake, I’ll indulge. Your best shot at getting the local treatment is to be some guy’s arm candy for a day or two. He introduces you to his friends and all the sudden you’ve got a new gang. Always walk the line of flirtation and play coy. (I like to act like that cock tease friend we all have who hogs the hot males on girl’s night out, even though she totally has a boyfriend and would never cheat.) The second he suspects you’re NOT a free agent. The hospitality will cease. Believe me. And don’t think his best girlfriend who gives you the old “you can trust me” in the bathroom is gonna keep your secret. Appearing single at all times means even when you think you’re off the clock. And dear GOD remember: he’s a kind local, not your John. NEVER get physical with your new host…at least not until right before you leave.

*The owner of my hotel in Venice sent over a complimentary appetizer when he thought I was a lonesome beauty, after asking me “where your boyfriend iz?” and getting a churlish response I had a three-course meal, a bottle of reserve prosecco and his burly company at a premium canal-facing table.

Rule #4: Play Like a Tourist, Look Like a Local

Fanny packs, oversized cameras, maps, etc should be BURNED. Instead, carry a large fashionable bag big enough to hold all your daily accoutrement and a sensible camera (which you will whip out swiftly and tactfully when the moment presents itself). Download a map on your phone (it’s the digital age people…. get with it). ALWAYS look like you know where you’re even if you’re just aimlessly walking the streets. This sounds like work, but it’s worth it. Cause when I say play like a tourist, I mean just that. Wander the city, hang in famous bars, see the sights, frolic with abandon. It’s super fun, whimsical, and since you look like a local you almost always get special treatment.

NOTE: There are exceptions to this rule. But they involve an alternative tactic that I call the “saccharine visitor.” This involves creating a personal back-story that puts you in that particular city for work or study. You’re not a tourist, you’re a temporary local and therefore in a different league. People will take you more seriously. I know, but it works. Deploy this alternative when you have an immediate end goal like time sensitive reservations, bathroom emergencies, etc.

Rule #5: Dress Like A Movie Star

I met Elton John in Venice and was on the local news because I looked like I just stepped out of a Fellini movie. True story. You wanna be treated like a movie star? Don’t shy away from looking like a million bucks.

Rule #6: Document

Keep a journal. The main reason we travel in packs is to have someone to share our good times with. If you write everything down you can always relive it. I was just moving and found my old journals from a trip I took years ago. Reading one existential entry got me feeling like I was back in Amsterdam being lectured on hash by a local coffeeshop owner all over again. A goofy guy I couldn’t shake at a London pub wrote down his name and number in my journal so we could “stay tuned.” I bolted when he went to use the loo. Just seeing it written down brought back the entire comedy of errors. PLUS you always feel bohemian and artsy sitting in a café with coffee writing in your journal. It’s the best date at a table for one. AND it’s not off-putting like talking on a cell. People still approach you when you’re writing in a journal.


Jogging: Go for a jog in the morning around an area you want to hang in.  Note bars that look cool, streets that look dangerous, shops that look useful, etc. It’s a quick way to get the lay of the land and it helps you break even on the calorie tip.

Accents: Being a foreigner makes you mysterious.  Don’t try to talk like them.  You love a hot guy with an accent, right?  You could be that hot guy….  Just think it over.

Company: Avoid other travelers like the plague.  You want to be the one outsider.  The one outsider gets all the attention.  In this case two is company.  You’re traveling alone for a reason.   Don’t forget that.

Shopping:  Keep it to a minimum.  Put your money into the travel, not the trinkets. Believe me.  If I can show restraint…so can you.

Okay kids. Now that you’ve got the basics don’t be afraid to hit the ground running. And if my rules seam financially exuberant, deceitful, unsafe, and self involved… that’s because they are. Enjoy!


P.S. If you have any fun loner travel stories of your own. Please share them in the comment section.

Aug 27 2009

Freaks on Parade

Hey Kids!

So, I get to a party for the NYC Fringe Festival and its totally living up to everything I expected.  Freaks on parade.  Don’t gimme wrong.  I’m at the party too, but lets be honest.  There are actors and there are thespians.  Those kids at school who did theatre and those kids in school who were theatre.   I’m not saying I’m too cool, I’m just saying I showed up with a leather jacket and a few postcards to network and they showed up in sequined tuxes and a few puppets.  I ordered a grey goose soda, they ordered something “fruity and cheap.”  I actually heard a 40 something year old man with wire glasses and a back pack say this.  I assumed he probably wrote and directed some musical about fairies in the 18th century or was the uni-bombers gay cousin.

BUT, I gotta give it up.  One thing those crazies did have going for them was shameless hawking.  While I showed up with a couple dozen postcards, they showed up with a couple hundred thousand.  I soon realized that I may drink nicer vodka, but those losers had me beat on the marketing tip.  T-shirts, posters, postcards, cup holders, signs.  I tucked into the bathroom to brainstorm a last minute marketing ploy and emerged with a carefully nestled postcard squeezed into my sparse but nicely tanned cleavage.  About that time I turned the corner and ran smack into foxy guy.  He and I looked like we belonged at a different club.

“Nice digs,” I said noting his leather jacket.
“Nice sign,” he said noting my boobified postcard.
“A thank you very much!”
“What you drinking?”
“Vodka Soda.”
“Up for another one?”

I liked this guy: always drinking, always buying.

“Sure,” I said with lackluster flirtation.  I could slack in this crowd.

After another drink we went outside to smoke a cigarette.  God bless a man who smokes the occasional cigarette.  I hate full-time smokers, I am not a full-time smoker.  It smells and is generally disgusting.  BUT well placed, a social cigarette can make a night. Mainly because It  breaks up the monotomy of drinking.  This has several benefits: a) It slows you down on the tipsy scale, but keeps you from looking like a pussy b) If you only smoke occasionally then you are sure to get a little nicotine buzz…which is nice. c) It serves as a perfect excuse when you want to get away from someone annoying, but most importantly d) it serves as a perfect excuse when you wanna get QT with someone who is on your radar.  This time we made sure to swap numbers.
Yet,  as we were standing on the even keeled sidewalk of New York’s Gay Ass Chelsea neighborhood, I noticed something crucial.  He was a bit short.  I never intended on making anything out of foxy guy, but still.  Somehow after numerous years of bad relationships with short guys (I can say this because I really gave ‘em a go), I have to say I find it a bit unattractive. Not in a personal way, I’m just tired of feeling rude just because I want to He tried to coax me out for a late night hang, but I’d already made up my mind.

I fought off two drag queens and a zombie puppeteer to get a cab, but made it back to the hotel in time to get a solid 6 hours.  Just as I was about to drift off I recieve a text from foxy guy that read “Good to see you again.  Too short though.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.


May 10 2009

Burkas and Bones

Hey Kids! 

Watching Meet the Press.   Afghan President Hamid Karzai is being interviewed.  Yipes!   Did you know 60% of Afghanistan’s GNP is opium?  93% of the world’s opiates originate with Afghan poppies.  SHIT I had no idea those Afghans were so hard core.   No wonder there is so much crap going down. They’re all on one big heroin trip!  Why else would you make your wife dress head to toe in black sheets, beat her, tell her she couldn’t leave the house, and then be shocked when she wasn’t aching to mount the high hard one? Outrageous right!  So outrageous  it seams that they democratically passed a law in Afghanistan making it legal to rape your wife (as if they need one).  AND this didn’t happen years ago it happened last month.

“As long as the husband is not traveling, he has the right to have sexual intercourse with his wife every fourth night,” Article 132 of the law says. “Unless the wife is ill or has any kind of illness that intercourse could aggravate, the wife is bound to give a positive response to the sexual desires of her husband.”

Riiiiiiiiiight.  Yet another reason why marriage is becoming less and less appealing to me these days, but I won’t get into MY issues.  You can’t say this law is completely without regard for the ladies, though.  It protects their right to get nookie too with this little prevision:

“man should not avoid having sexual relations with his wife longer than once every four months”

To be quite honest, once every four months is probably enough for most wives.  But, I don’t know what the Afghan’s view on vibrators and dildos are…I’m assuming they probably aren’t as encouraging as we westerners.  So, sans the toys I’m gonna have to say if you’re gonna throw the ladies a bone…let ‘em play with it more than 3 times a year.  

Look, at the end of the day I’m not one to tell the Afghanistan government how to run it’s shit.  Quite frankly I’m still wondering what the hell the US Government is doing telling them how to run their shit.  I’m no history buff, but if Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Great Britain, and the Soviets are any indication, they don’t seem to respond well to outside influences… just an observation, I could be wrong.   

Political agenda aside, I’ve culled an extremely eye opening new vision of Afghanistan this morning.  And the more I learn, the more this vision becomes strangely similar to the Wizard of Oz.  SERIOUSLY! freakin poppy fields everywhere, the wicked witch is sporting a burka, the landscape of the emerald city looks just like the Tora Bora, and you don’t have to admit it out loud but take in the Afghan hat/robe fashion motif and then google image “flying monkeys.”  Fascinating to watch, but definitely some place I’d ever want to visit.  No wonder Dorothy was so eager to get home.  


Apr 26 2009

The Cause

Hey Kids.

OUCH.  I bit the hell out of my lip the other day driving down Wilshire.  And you all know how you keep biting it after that.  I got pretty  in there.  Looked like one of those botched plastic surgery job pictures that they use to worn people against getting vanity procedures done in Mexico with.  How?  Shoot.  I wont lie to yall.  I was eating frozen yogurt while driving. Pinkberry with chocolate chips to be exact.  Eating and driving is always a hazard.  So I accept the occasional consequences.  Though, it would have been cool if I had been doing something feisty like passing out at a bar face first after having a shot drinking contest a la Marion Ravenwood in Indiana Jones.  But, ALAS!  It was another casualty of fatti-ism.  

Adding insult to injury, after laboriously finishing off my pinkberry (which is infinitely harder to do with a fat lip btw), I get close to my destination and find BOOM protest going on, must divert.  DIVERT?!  Diversion no good.  That protest was going on right in front of my final destination!  I pull off road and park a few blocks away.  I had an errand to run and I didn’t drive all the way to shotty miracle mile, fight my way through a large pinkberry (okay YEAH it was a large, suck on it), and severely alter my physical appearance to just give up.    I got out of my car and prepared to walk 3 whole blocks on my Cloe platforms.  Ewww.  Walking in LA.  I put my aviators on, tilt my head down, and pushed through the impending crowd.

It was crawling with Armenians.  TONS of Armenians.  Waving their flags, honking their horns, chanting, dressed in black, and angry. I looked around for an alternative route to my destination.  There was no apparent alternative, at least not one that involved less walking.  I had to join the march cause the march lead directly to my point of interest.  I melted into the crowd and tried to blend in, but this was a bit difficult seeing that #1 I didn’t have a flag or shirt or any distinguishing paraphernalia, and #2 I wasn’t Armenian.  

The crowd was moving at a moderate pace and if I could avoid the news crews and professional photographers it would be like it never happened.  That’s about the time an old Armenian woman grabbed my forearm looked me deep in the eyes with that sole stirring old-person stare and urged me to join her in chanting “Turkey must pay for the genocide!”  Genocide?  That sounded bad.  Someone else thrust a sign in my hand and I felt a push from behind.  ”Turkey must pay for the genocide! Turkey must pay for the genocide!” I kept chanting and moving.  Too involved now.  Cameras clicking.  Yipes.  If I end up on the front of some local paper, no good?   I got to the end of the line where the march circled back around.  My target was in sight.  I dropped the sign and ran.  As soon as I got inside the sliding glass doors I trotted up to the receptionist.  

“Dude!  There’s a protest outside.”
“I know.  It’s the anniversary of The Armenian Holocaust.”
“OH!  Like the one that happened 100 years ago!  Phew. I thought those Turks were at it again.  Wait, they’re still upset about that?  Way to hold a grudge Armenia. Welp.  CU later.”  

I finished my errand and walked back outside.  Looking at the growing mass, I contemplated walking the 12 block detour to get to my car without heading back through the crowd.  My shoes were holding up, but my nerves weren’t (plus my lip was starting to throb a bit).  I mustered my Armenian mojo and charged forward.


Ah crap it was my printer.  He totally recognized me from the day before when we had an impromptu heart to heart about good customer service. He approached me with his entire family.  I mean the guy was pushing a stroller.  I couldn’t pretend like I didn’t see him.

“Burrito, this is my family.  I did not know you were involved with the cause!”

Yeah.  Neither did I.


Apr 21 2009

Texas BBQ

Hey Kids.

I gotta tell you I’m getting pretty antsy being home. Missing LA, which is something I never thought that I would say and truly mean. BUT I do. 

Last night was a real zinger. While in Florida I saw some beautiful sand hill cranes moseying cross a golf green I was chillin on, and Chimi said something like “they make good eat’n.” I was all “you shoot those things?” And he’s “oh yeah! There’s a four month hunting season for them in Texas. That’s why you don’t see them just walking around like you do here.” 

Hmmmmm. “Well, what do they taste like?”
“Kind of like speckled belly goose.”
“Sounds delicious. Got any at home?”
“A few, want me to grill some up?”
“What does that mean?”
“Um, yeah Dad. Lets grill some when we get back to Houston. Early next week.”

So, I can mention like a bazillion things to Chimi. His memory is pretty spotty usually, except when it pertains to two categories: money and grilling. Monday morning he was defrosting two sand hill cranes to be marinated and prepped for a ceremonious grill the following night. 

And it WAS ceremonious…as all wild game cooking is with Chimichanga. You know, it took ’til I went away to college in California to realize that not everyone grew up eating the same food I did.  It just didn’t seem out of the ordinary to be served protein with pellet shots in it. I guess when I got shunned for tasting dog on a school trip to China, I should have figured out that my family’s eating habits were a bit more…exotic. Even when I did realize though, it wasn’t ’tilCarne Asada brought a Tiger tenderloin home the summer after my junior year that I had to put a foot down. (After having some of the worst night terrors of my life following a Bear sirloin two nights before, I was actually starting to take the whole “you are what you eat” thing to heart…then again it would be pretty cool to be a Tiger, dang it!)  So my point is, sand hill crane for dinner is not out of the ordinary ’round here.

Chimichanga cooked that thing to perfection. It was delicious! Very dark meat. So dark that he confused it with a venison back strap at first. It was gamey and complex and ridiculously lean. Not an ounce o fat on that wild bird. I mean talk about cage free! This thing was slaughtered migrating over a rice patty field. I enjoyed every bite. Now, for those of you who don’t know what a sand hill crane looks like, google it. They are pretty big and have legs as long as a flamingo, but meatier. I was going to town on it when…. 

Our fire alarm suddenly went off. Not a fire in sight, but the key pad claimed it was coming from a secret upstairs closet. The fire department showed up along with the neighborhood cops to interrupt our diner and clear the house. They kept asking us where the secret closet was, and we kept saying the alarm company had labeled it wrong cause we didn’t have a secret closet. 

“Dude, we don’t have a panic room if that’s what you’re getting at” I said as I clutched ourdipshit dog who was chomping at the bit. I’m not a racist but unfortunately our dog is, and this guy was Djimon Hounsou black. 

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. You have a basement.” 

See we live in hurricane country. Swamp land. The Gulf Coast. Our house is technically a museum in US age and whatever Victorian idiots plopped down in Houston and constructed it were sadly without a doppler radar, cause they put in a basement…and every time there is a little rain, that thing floods. Brilliantly my parents use it as a work room for the Mexican housekeepers. 

The team continued to look around the house for a suspicious fire although we all agreed it was probably a low battery sensor. Still, on a night shift these guys love to stretch out a nice neighborhood visit by snooping in every room. When we got to the kitchen ‘ol Djmon noticed the huge ass bird leg sticking out of our serving dish. “Oh, yall bbq some chicken tonight?”Chimichanga was quick to correct him.

“No! no no, that’s sand hill crane.” 
“You’re eating crane?”
“Wow. WELL! Looks like we’re done here.”

You’d think that bird had AIDS on it. Djmon and crew were out the door, our dog chasing behind. After the door slammed behind them Dad summed up the night with this juggernaut….

“Wait. Maybe the secret closet is the gun closet. I can’t remember if I locked it.”

Don’t mess with Texas, Kids.