tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1 2010-07-29T20:16:27Z Movable Type 3.34 tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1300 2010-07-28T08:59:38Z 2010-07-29T20:16:27Z

I'm still "tripping" over my high school reunion. Since I had beacoup servings of alcohol from a very generous bartender, I'm sort of still gathering images of people and bits of conversations that make-up an overall general sense of "Oh,...

Seriously, though, back in my day, we weren't on our cell phones 24/7 and most of my friends dress didn't like Vegas strippers. Ok, so maybe I looked like a Vegas stripper in Junior High, but that's because my parents were living on Planet Neglect. Actually, I didn't look like a stripper, I just, as my friend once said, "looked Mexican." My mother used to stand at the door with a wash cloth and wipe my eye make-up off, but I was like, "Hell, no, Mom! I'm 13 and I have the right to single handedly support Wet n' Wild's line of eyeshadow!" Although, who am I kidding? I deftly lifted most of my make-up like a pro. Why steal eye liner that costs $.99? I wasn't the brightest shoplifter... See, this is what has been happening since the reunion. I'm looking at my yearbook, the one of which I was editor-in-chief (after I stopped wearing blue eye shadow and toxic amounts of Aqua Net) and onto which I shamelessly strew with pictures of myself and my friends - and wondering how I managed that responsibility at 18. I have to say, I'm prouder of that work than most things I've done since. Just for today, I'm old.]]> tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1299 2010-07-28T01:48:02Z 2010-07-28T19:11:14Z

High school reunion. Oh. My. God. Rum. You look great! Now, who are you? (Look at name tag). Oh, my God! Need more alcohol. What are you drinking? Senior prom date recommends a Manhattan. 1st grade group picture! (Or, was...

High school reunion. Oh. My. God. Rum. You look great! Now, who are you? (Look at name tag). Oh, my God! Need more alcohol. What are you drinking? Senior prom date recommends a Manhattan. 1st grade group picture! (Or, was it 3rd grade?). Hugs. Oh, my God! Tears. Another Manhattan. More pictures. Someone stole my Manhattan. Crush from 1st grade toasting. Another Manhattan. First communion crew. People who loved me. People who have known me since I wore bell bottoms (the first time around). Sweet memories. Another drink. Beastie Boys. It's 2:00 am...WTF? What a great night. I loved my reunion! Just for today, I'm happy I went. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1298 2010-07-24T01:26:05Z 2010-07-24T04:41:07Z

My mom's cat is depressed. The vet recommended anti-depressants, and/or this special cat-flavored aromatherapy treatment. I suggested finding a cat therapist intern who needs to put hours in towards getting licensed. But my mom opted for the aromatherapy treatment (...

My mom's cat is depressed. The vet recommended anti-depressants, and/or this special cat-flavored aromatherapy treatment. I suggested finding a cat therapist intern who needs to put hours in towards getting licensed. But my mom opted for the aromatherapy treatment ( the cheap-o route), and, according to her, it seems to be working. The problem (for my mom) is that Donuts meows constantly. But if you pet her, hold her, give her some love, she stops. Funny how that works. Her (Donut's) sister died last year and since they didn't speak, I think it took her a while to start processing her grief. Oh, Donuts, you have no idea...imagine going through this while holding down a 40 hour a week job! God, I wish I was a cat.... Just for today, I hope to reincarnate as a rich woman's cat. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1296 2010-07-22T09:36:29Z 2010-07-28T01:44:08Z

If you've lived in West LA long enough you start to know things that only people west of the 405 know. For instance, except for a few blocks in Venice and Santa Monica, only Mammoth after a storm gets any...

If you've lived in West LA long enough you start to know things that only people west of the 405 know. For instance, except for a few blocks in Venice and Santa Monica, only Mammoth after a storm gets any whiter. You also know that for mysterious reasons the 405 headed north between LAX and Brentwood must remain an under 5 mile an hour zone at any hour of the day or night (going South is different), that only the immediate threat of a Tsunami (I have no idea why I capitalized that word) will send you East of that God forsaken street, Lincoln Blvd, that Baja Cantina is a slimy pick-up scene any night of the week, the 3rd street promenade is for tourists, and there's no way in hell you're going to ride your bike on the strand on the weekends in the summer (unless you enjoy the 405 headed North). You know that the only cheap food west of the 405 is Mexican (even the taco trucks get into $10 range), that straight hair, gym-bodies and an unnaturally even tan can be found at Beachwood, that Abbot-Kinney is Artsy Wealth, as opposed to Montana which is Wealth Wealth and and that the Santa Monica farmers market is where you go if you want to be around the bold and the beautiful, and get really, really, depressed (and buy a $4 peach). You know that the Peete's on Main Street is where you're likely to run into a movie or television star (so rumor has it, though, thus far I've only seen Chad Lowe and Joe Pantoliano), but you're also less likely to get any work done with all those aging hippy artists breathing down your neck and asking you about what you're screenplay. You know that Culver City is where you go to get a breather from West LA, as it seems to come from another part of California. You wonder why Venice has managed to maintain some authentic funk, even just a few hundred feet from Santa Monica (I can actually feel the energy shift after Rose), and about the appeal of an off-beat drum circle ruckus. You know that if there is a short dark-skinned man at any bar or club, he is surely bussing the glasses and plates. And you know that all the hard-driven, ambitious, people has to have some corrosive effect on your soul....and, yet, you still don't want to live anywhere else. ...or, at least that's what I know. Just for today, I live in West LA. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1297 2010-07-21T09:49:05Z 2010-07-24T04:40:02Z

The other night, while riding down the bike path, I ran into a guy who had been dating a friend over the past year. "She's a wonderful girl. I have nothing but kind words to say about her. And she's...

emotion. Did I make an impact? Am I less influential than an Oprah endorsement? "It was great, she's great, but it's not the right time." "Well, you sound great." I haven't talked to her, yet. Maybe she's fine, too. Though, if my own experience is any indication...probably not. Just for today, I don't understand men.]]> tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1294 2010-07-19T00:45:38Z 2010-07-24T04:46:40Z

I spent yesterday with two friends who have known me since the days when we wore our white K-swiss, X-Large college sweatshirts, and another X-Large sweatshirt tied around our waists to hide our healthy-sized billowing behinds. No, wait...they've known me...

I spent yesterday with two friends who have known me since the days when we wore our white K-swiss, X-Large college sweatshirts, and another X-Large sweatshirt tied around our waists to hide our healthy-sized billowing behinds. No, wait...they've known me since the days when I wore Guido amounts of eye-liner and Wet n' Wild 528. No, wait,...they've known me since we belted out Lionel Ritchie from the backseat on our way to a John Hughes movie. Anyway, the point is that they've known me a "long-ass" time, as we used to say. I would love to insert "long-ass" or "big-ass" in front of every noun, but people tend to regard 38-year-olds who speak like 13-teen-year olds as unfit for adult conversations about organic arugula. Now we're all fifteen pounds lighter and, at least two of us, more prone to show the shape of our behinds (though, as the weather has gotten nice, I've come to realize that it's pointless to adopt wheat free diet if you drink dark beer and eat frozen yogurt every other day). Still, middle age has changed since my mom started pushing forty. I will see them them and a whole other posse of old friends at my 20th high school reunion. Help... Just for today, I can connect with old friends. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1292 2010-07-15T23:24:19Z 2010-07-16T01:32:55Z

Just ran into the same guy for the hundredth time in a coffee shop. "This must mean something!" he said. "It means we drink a lot of coffee and both live in West LA," I replied. "Well, if you want...

Just ran into the same guy for the hundredth time in a coffee shop. "This must mean something!" he said. "It means we drink a lot of coffee and both live in West LA," I replied. "Well, if you want to simplify it," he answered. No, I'm not interested. I know in the movies and television when people keep running into each other it means that they're supposed to have sex, but in, well, in my life, it means that I need to get out of my hood more often. It's kind of embarrassing, really. Am I that predictable? Why can't I run into people I know in a Parisian coffee shop? On a ski lift in the Alps? At a market in Guatemala? Just for today, I need to get out of town. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1291 2010-07-13T05:27:23Z 2010-07-21T18:49:58Z

2010 has been a roller coaster. Not so much a Magic Mountain one, as that traveling rent-a-ride my friends and I made the mistake of going on in the 8th grade. The girl in the car in front of us...

2010 has been a roller coaster. Not so much a Magic Mountain one, as that traveling rent-a-ride my friends and I made the mistake of going on in the 8th grade. The girl in the car in front of us puked, and in lieu of cleaning it up the I'm-sure-shittily-paid attendant threw some disinfectant on it, hit the "On" button, and let winds of motion blow puke in our young faces. {Note to self: remind friends of puke ride at 20-year-high school reunion]. It's not that I feel like puke is being thrown in my face (right now), so much as the sense of being on a moving apparatus that I can't stop or get off of. I'm on my third job this year and tenth career in my life. On alternating weeks I'm a ambitious writer, dejected blogger, unemployed Target addict, or web professional. During January and April the fires of creativity burned like a giant oil spill, but since May I have felt about as inspired as a network line-up of reality shows. Last week my father flew in for another whirlwind visit before he leaves for South East Asia to (I'm guessing) find himself. Plans take tangential turns when he's around and somehow we ended up in gay bar playing pool. How did I not know that I'm good at pool? For a second I thought I had a hidden talent and then I remembered that mid-90's dot.com job with a pool table in the conference room. Guess I didn't work much at that gig. But I can play pool! Who plays pool? Dudes! And not in gay bars. I thanked my father for dinner and for helping me rediscover a passion that could help my social life. Just for today, I'm going with the flow. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1290 2010-07-06T06:17:55Z 2010-07-06T07:23:10Z

My brain has been occupied by a new line of work and a recent emotional shit storm. I predict clarity, a positive upturn, and a flurry of writing in the coming weeks. But for now, all I have are the...

Foucault-ian." Interesting idea. Not quite a blog entry. 3) People who stay stuck in the decade in which they felt the hottest. I'm still waiting for my decade. 4) A meditation on why people love to go to a beach front property on the 4th of July, drink lots of beer, and scream, "Woohoo!...Happy 4th of July!" Just for today, I vow to start blogging regularly. ]]> tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1288 2010-06-27T23:24:47Z 2010-07-24T04:50:02Z

One time, during a JV Basketball game in high school, one of our five person team got fouled out for calling the ref a "fucker." I'm sure he was, but you can't really play against a five-person team when you...

One time, during a JV Basketball game in high school, one of our five person team got fouled out for calling the ref a "fucker." I'm sure he was, but you can't really play against a five-person team when you only have four players. I believe we were already down by God knows how many points. The ensuing humiliation went beyond reason, to the point where I hoped all those girls experienced the karmic repercussions of shoving our faces in deeper cow caca. It hurts to lose. It really hurts to lose really bad. It really hurts to lose to guys with long hair. Just for today, I feel your pain, Mexico. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1287 2010-06-27T07:11:29Z 2010-06-27T07:27:15Z

I was really tired early in the week and couldn't figure out why. Was I coming down with cancer? Chronic fatigue syndrome? Was that dead fish stench coming from the ocean a sign that the oil spill has killed off...

I was really tired early in the week and couldn't figure out why. Was I coming down with cancer? Chronic fatigue syndrome? Was that dead fish stench coming from the ocean a sign that the oil spill has killed off all ocean life and now emitting noxious fumes? I thought back to my past week to see if I had done anything tiring. Let's see, I went dancing on Thursday night, swimming on Friday, dancing on Saturday, and dancing on Sunday night (did I mention I dance salsa like a man/woman dying of thirst at the 7/11 soda dispenser?). Why would I be tired? I refuse to be human. More importantly, I refuse to stay home. But I really refuse to be tired. But then today, I realized something amazing; even the USA Soccer team gets tired. These guys could pump my car tires with one pulse beat. And, yet, they looked kind of straggly (if that's a word) out there today (God bless them and their awesome bodies). Of course, I haven't been winning any World Cup Games lately. But still...we (humans) aren't machines. I hope the USA team recovers emotionally and physically. Just for today, I'm resting. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1285 2010-06-22T05:29:20Z 2010-06-23T02:16:38Z

The other day I had to talk a friend off the ledge over her fears that she can't get pregnant without spending a certified per-owned Honda Civic on in vitro fertilization. It's only in western countries that people believe you...

The other day I had to talk a friend off the ledge over her fears that she can't get pregnant without spending a certified per-owned Honda Civic on in vitro fertilization. It's only in western countries that people believe you can't have children after 40 without the aid of very expensive medical treatments. My mother had my sister at 43 and my step-mother her son at 43. So, it makes sense that I always figured I could wait until the last minute...which is no surprise seeing as that's how I function in the rest of my life. Sure, I don't have the husband or the house...but who needs all that baggage? I'm the one with the important equipment. However, talking about having children when you're not even trying is sort of like judging Pau for missing a free throw. I'm not under that pressure. Still, I can't say that my friends who are struggling to get pregnant are of the relaxed variety. I have yet to meet a really laid-back person who can't get pregnant. Babies aren't television programming, and don't like to appear on demand. Conversely, they seem to thrive off the most inconvenient circumstances. It kind of makes sense. Who wants to show up at a party where everyone is forced to be there? Baby-making sex sounds about as fun as my last trip to the gyno (see below). I say take a few weeks off of your high-paying stressful jobs, go to Mexico, find a really great bartender, tip him well, and let nature takes it's course. I'm not condoning the use of alcohol as a fertility rite, I just know that I wouldn't be here without it. Just for today, I'm remembering to have children. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1284 2010-06-17T07:20:29Z 2010-06-28T18:06:53Z

I used to rage against Bush/Obama/Anyone that I could only afford a ghetto health insurance plan. However, after several positive experiences, I realized a great universal truth: there's love in the ghetto. I wouldn't go with any other insurance if...

I used to rage against Bush/Obama/Anyone that I could only afford a ghetto health insurance plan. However, after several positive experiences, I realized a great universal truth: there's love in the ghetto. I wouldn't go with any other insurance if it were free (unless I ever need surgery or to spend the night at the hostpital). I adore the receptionist at my gyno's office. However, I can't say the same for the equipment. "Um, just so you know, your scale is broke." I figured, that's another downside to a ghetto insurance plan. "No, that's right, baby." Did my jewelry weight five pounds? How heavy is a jean skirt? I had a talk with the doctor it. "Just so you know, your scales are broken," I told him. "You're probably right," he replied, while getting all up in my bidness (literally). "How is everything?" "Everything is fine. However, I'm having some issues in another area. I don't know if you can help me, but I just have this toe fungus." Apparently, gynecologists get tired of looking at the same anatomy. He talked to me about some very overweight clients, and got me a prescription for my toe fungus. Just for today, I had a great office visit. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1283 2010-06-10T19:49:33Z 2010-06-28T18:08:53Z

The Cheap-O-Contractor hired to fix the holes in my kitchen brought a posse of Guatemalan cousins to do the work. He refused to paint any of the walls that didn't have holes in them. So my kitchen became four shades...

The Cheap-O-Contractor hired to fix the holes in my kitchen brought a posse of Guatemalan cousins to do the work. He refused to paint any of the walls that didn't have holes in them. So my kitchen became four shades of creamsicle. However, they also fixed some moldy areas, and overall my kitchen looks a thousand times better. However, later, the posse of Guatemalans silently disagreed with their White Boss Man (Cheap-o Contractor) and secretly came back to paint more walls. Nonetheless, they wouldn't accept any money from me. Just for today, I am humbled. tag:www.searchforsanity.com,2010://1.1282 2010-06-08T22:48:50Z 2010-06-23T18:32:55Z

In the sixth grade, my best friend and I became Crossing Guards at Columbus Elementary School. Besides wearing a sweater with stripes, and leading a brigade of 10-year-olds carrying rifle-sized "Stop" signs, we got a free pass to the movies...

In the sixth grade, my best friend and I became Crossing Guards at Columbus Elementary School. Besides wearing a sweater with stripes, and leading a brigade of 10-year-olds carrying rifle-sized "Stop" signs, we got a free pass to the movies on Saturday afternoon. I remember experiencing my first excruciating menstrual cramps while someone's mom drove a posse of budding estrogen to the theater. On those Saturday afternoons I saw the greatest "teenage" movies ever made and that I still cherish, including, "Sixteen Candles," "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" and "Pretty In Pink." If fortune reigned anything down on my adolescence it was to have me become a teenager in the heyday of John Hughes' career. His movies are the mashed potatoes and frozen yogurt (comfort food) of my cultural consumption. I had no idea until recently, maybe when he died, that his films might have helped sustain my innocence and faith in my feelings just a little while longer before they got crushed by the jackhammer of the adult world, one he perceived and expressed with the same sense of excruciating sadness. I watched "Breakfast Club" again last night on Netflix while lying in bed and trying to fall asleep. I kept thinking I'd stop, but I had to watch it till the end. Molly Ringwald and Anthony Michael Hall brought so much authenticity, I think their performances got written off as being themselves. Teenagers cutting through the crap of life and bonding around genuine feelings, ones they probably really felt at the time, and fears. Are movies terrible now? Are we so accustomed to drug-addicted actors and reality television stars who are so intoxicated by their own celebrity they couldn't access a vulnerable feeling in a thousand years of therapy? Or, has our culture so numbed out on technology, sex, and crappy food that we can't even remember what connection with another human being really is? I walked out of the "Breakfast Club" as a 12-year-old feeling a vague sense of hope for my life. It had nourished me, gave me faith, and some support in accepting my own humanity. Maybe I wouldn't have to be beautiful and genius to find love in the world. Maybe I could love my wounds and scars and let them guide me to a life that meant something. And then I grew up. Just for today, I am grateful for John Hughes.