7:30 AM - Wake-up to the sound of garbage trucks that sound like they're crushing trash in my living room.

8:00 AM - Haven't gotten out of bed. Can't decide if I have a debilitating flu, or just don't want to get up. Decide that I don't want to get up, and so I make flu sounding noises and gestures, as if I'm trying to make someone feel sorry for me. Who? Don't know, since I sleep alone (no comment on that). Maybe God.

11:00 AM - Therapy! I get two laughs from my therapist. One when I talk about the Cancer Causing People in my life (if air and water can cause cancer, why can't people?) and the other when I refer to my "Insert Boyfriend" days when I indiscriminately filled the emptiness of my soul with warm bodies (attention ex-boyfriends who never felt any great connection: so sorry...please forgive). End the session by bursting into tears, and then feel bad that I go over time.

1:00 PM - Lunch with college friend. We compare notes on upcoming college reunion. Don't know if I can withstand the plethora of married college friends and their children. I can only do so much cooing. God, I feel old.

3:00 PM - Stoplight DA Buddy Siting. A woman from DA (Debtor's Anonymous) honks and rolls down the window. "I need a meeting," I shout, even though it's the last thing that I really am feeling a the moment. She makes a downward pointing sign with her thumb and then shouts back, "Meetings suck!" I realize that I want her to like me and I think that by acting like some desperate, my-life-is-a-shambles debtor, that I'm endearing. Boy, am I a phony.

4:30 PM - Coffee at Pete's. Realize I lost my ATM card, menstrual cramps coming on full force, caffeine craving at all time high. Give dramatic recounting of drama around Cancer Causing Person to friend. Realize that I'm only increasing the chances of getting cancer.

5:30 PM - Program call. Healthy friend reminds me that it's OK to love the people I want to love and pray for the rest.

6:00 PM - Prayer session on Cancer Causing People.

6:15 PM - Buy tickets to "Lord of the Rings." (Dreaming of Viggo...)

6:20 PM - Write blog. Read past blogs and am horrified by the amount of typos. Swear that one day I'll clean it all up.

7:00 PM - Actual moment of peace and gratitude (Please last!). Meet friend for movie...more on that later.

It all started when I squeezed myself in between a young girl and a man. I complimented the girl on her purse (which had a picture of a pug on it), because I liked it and so that she would move over so that I could go to work on my coffee creation. Then the guy (on my right) nudged me like I was an old friend. I turned to him and he said, "Look at her shoes, too, she looks like a Hobitt." I thought maybe she knew him, but as she and I glanced at each other we realized that neither of us knew him, and that he had just dampened our happy girly exchange with his odd social graces. Suddenly, we were both faced with the fear of his impending weirdness. I really don't know what to do with people like this except to plaster a polite frozen smile on my face and make eye contact with anyone else around that communicates, "What social reform policy would keep this guy on his meds?" It's not that his comment was harmful, it's more the fear of where the interaction would lead. I suppose he needs love like every other lost soul trying to get a caffeine rush and desperate for some female human contact, but I've had too many experiences where even the slightest kindness displayed turns me into a stray dog magnet. So, I blessed him in my head, and beat the hell out of there.

Just for today, I can let go of my fear of the weirdos at the condiments counter.

There are those (so I have heard) who extort from their companies, fabricate stories for major publications, violate stock trading regulations, and get nothing more than extra-fabulous PR...but get stuck in a California intersection right before the light turns yellow, or fail to see the brand new sign that says "No Turn on Red," or wait before a pedestrian has planted both feet on the sidewalk before driving through a crosswalk, and the state of California shall reign bloody hell on you and your bank account!!! There are no transgressions (lying, cheating, stealing) for which I have suffered more than for failing to properly read street signs in the city of LA.

That said, I am not the first to notice that our prison systems are not filled with people who have committed offenses such as breaking silly laws about insider trading or staging mass scale wars based on highly suspect stories about mysterious objects being capable of creating "mass destruction" (can we get anymore dramatic?) ...The point is there is no such thing as equality or fairness when it comes to Americans response to wayward behavior, it's all really a matter of where you fit in to the story of American life and if you have a decent stock portfolio to dip into for those days when you lose your driving vigilance.

Just for today, I observe the laws of the fascist state of California.

I know I'm a big drama queen, but all my fantasies about living in Seattle or anywhere north of Fresno (or anywhere with seasons, for that matter) are pretty much shot after enduring the last X amount of rain here in (once) sunny Los Angeles...But I am a big drama queen because as I was running in and out of my car this morning getting soaked (for some reason, my umbrella is always in the place I'm rushing to, i.e. house, car, etc.), I actually had illusions of "roughing it." Such grandiose thoughts were popped with a pin of guilt and self-loathing, when the young woman working the cash register at Baja Fresh told me that she walked two miles to work in the rain after taking the bus to drop off her six-month-old baby at the babysitter's house.

Just for today, I feel grateful for my car.

I decided to write in a coffee shop this morning because I wanted to christen my new computer with the computer cafe scene vibe. Anyway, I totally forgot that it was Sunday and that most cafe's are filled with people eating breakfast and talking. So while I pretended to write, I secretly listened to the riveting gossip that was, basically, being broadcasted right into my ear. Two women were eating next to me and one of them shared her fascinating life story; three marriages, Betty Ford, a few daughters, one sex-addict husband who slept with all her friends, and some scandal about him buying his Swiss girlfriend a Saab...wow, am I boring or what? She had the energy of someone who was facing her demons in a very public way (i.e., 12-step programs), and was comfortable with strangers listening to the way the chips of her life fell into a Las Vegas gutter. Her face was a little leathery and all, but she looked like she had lived, like her life might make a good CBS mini-drama. I felt very boring in comparison, my life story wouldn't make a good Dilbert panel. Still, chances are that I might be on a road to happiness....

Just for today, I'm grateful to be boring.

What is Govindas, you ask? It sounds like chocolate, but no. Govindas is a yoga instructor whose real name is Ira. I guess Ira didn't quite sit well with the (now) Govindas. Ira isn't a name for a yoga guru connected with the divine. Ira is a science fiction addict who eats In n' Out french fries in the library. Govindas. Now there's a yoga guru.

Govindas helped me find a spot to lay out my mat where I could compare myself to everyone else in the class. Yes, I know that yoga is not about comparing my flexibility or muscle tone, or ability to find inner peace with anyone else in the class, BUT GET REAL GOVINDAS, THIS IS AMERICA AND I WANT TO WIN! So, I spent a good deal of time staring at the pretty ladies who could do the (INSERT YOGA SANSKRIT WORD) pose without wobbling as much as I do, and feeling like I lost the race to inner peace. The highlight came when Govindas came over and HELPED ME WITH MY POSE! I felt very special, like a cult member who has been chosen to have sex with the leader.

At the end Govindas sang a song and I went into either a deep meditation or sleep, I'm still not sure what it was.

I didn't find God at PowerYoga on second street in Santa Monica, but I did feel like an official resident of Los Angeles, now that I have adapted yet another LA cultural cliche (the first one was getting blond highlights streaked in my hair). I think culture is like air, you just breathe it and then it's inside of you.

Just for today, I like yoga.

The "yogi" I go to most often likes to rattle on about whatever is going on in her mind; Eckart Tole's "The Power of Now," the U.S. constitution, anatomy, etc. It's not so much yoga, as a creative mish mosh of yoga poses, new age religion/spirituality, health/nutrition, entertainment, and political history class. She lights candles, plays music that I used to get high to, turns down the lights, and then in the middle of Warrior II, she'll launch into views on the economy, all while reminding us to breathe throught the pain. I really do feel more at peace while doing yoga. But it did take me a little out of the moment the other day when she told us that our founding forefathers were "mystics who practiced yoga..." The idea of Thomas Jefferson in downward dog while his slaves toil outside, got me me a little confused.

Just for today, I can tune out my yogi.

Did the original "yogis" think about where to buy cute yoga clothes, while in the middle of Warrior II? Also, if you're going to call yourself a "yogi," then don't leave the lights on so bright while glancing at all the cute girls in the room.

Just for today, I'm kind of over yoga.

I spent last night babysitting. Between a robust game of dodgeball and trips to the bag of Trader Joe's carmel popcorn that I "accidentally" opened, I watched the SAG awards. After about an hour I came to the tragic realization that I no longer care for awards shows. As a child and teenager, I lived for awards shows. And when I say "lived," I mean I remained hopeful and alive because of the distinct possibility that if awards shows continued to exist and I continued to exist, a day might come when I too would win (or be nominated...same thing) for an award for something (God knows what...but it never really mattered, so long other people found it fabulous, and I seemed fabulous for winning it). Because THEN, all the crap that I endured, the divorce, the loneliness, etc., would somehow be redeemed. It was sort of my own personal, evangelical belief system, except I substituted the idea of Heaven, with a televised awards show and people clapping, and tears, and maudlin feelings for my mother, father, dentist, mailman, and kindergarten teacher...AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, everyone was watching. So, I had to be actress, or writer, or director, because after all, who watches awards shows for librarians or machinists? What chanel are those shows even on?

Last night I watched Hilary Swank proclaim Clint Eastwood to be the second coming, and while she's beautiful and her job is cool and given the same set of circumstances I would probably say the same things, NONETHELESS, I'm grateful not to be in the awkward position of being raised above society so high that I have to projectile vomit praise and acclaim just to feel comfortable.

Just for today, I don't have an award, and it's OK.

I went hiking with some people I didn't really know today. At the top of the mountain we came out upon a view of all of Los Angeles. Nearby there was a memorial with some flowers on it. When I saw it I said, "Did someone get killed up here? Wow, I didn't think it was that dangerous." Everyone looked at me like I was the devil and someone said that we shouldn't make bad jokes about dead people. Apparently, someone in the party knew someone who knew someone who had placed a memorial at the spot because it was the deceased's favorite place. Everyone acted very solemn, and I felt like an ass.

Just for today, I can make friends on hikes.

Due to various circumstances in my life (i.e., a current lack of regular employment) I have begun tutoring to pick up slack between writing gigs.

I am tutoring a very sweet young girl whose family lives in what appears to me to be a mansion, but which is probably just another house on the block to her. The other night, I asked her to use the word "abundance" in a sentence and she came up with, "I have an abundance of animals." When I asked her what animals she has she replied, "A dog, a horse, a couger, and a leopard..." I had to ask her to repeat that last part because I was under the impression that leopards weren't domesticated animals. She said that her cougar and leopard are kept in a sanctuary. I felt relieved that I wouldn't be greeted with a roar as well as the barking (of her dog, she doesn't bark) when I entered the gates next time. While I pet the dog (who now likes me)she mentioned that the dog's masseuse would be coming the next day. I thought about mentioning that I hadn't had a massage in quite some time and maybe the dog masseuse could take five minute to work on my neck,but I thought that might be inappropriate.

I'm wondering if I do get a dog if he/she will feel deprived or less than about not having his/her own yard, let alone a personal masseuse.

Just for today, I have an abundance of interesting stories.

My boyfriend and I were naiively looking for a something to buy (at this point, a tent would do fine) near the beach (hahhahahha) when we stumbled upon this adorable $750,000 two bedroom condo that would be just PERFECT. Anyway, there are calculators that allow you to figure out how much your mortgage will be given a certain down paymet...and, well, let's just say that it's ALOTA money.

Just for today, I need to make some more money.

There's something about my mom and sister coming to town that makes famous people come out of the woodwork (I know they actually live in houses and I'm not even sure what woodwork means, but anyway...). My sister and I are convinced that my mom is having a love affair with Alec Baldwin because on two separate occasions (once in church and once at a sushi restaurant) the King of all Baldwins has appeared out of the ether. Not being a Los Angeles resident, my mother did the whole full-body turn and face-off stare. I must have shamed her because after the second Baldwin-sighting she mirrored my stoic lip-locked FBI impersonation.

Tonight, I was at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf with my sister and her teenaged-angst-ridden friends when John Cusack came in to get a latte. I sidled up to two of them and did my whole FBI-talking-out-of-the-side-of-my-mouth routine. They all started to giggle and become hysterical except for my sister who cooly turned to him and said, "I know this is rude, but I just wanted to let you know that I really like your movies." He said a polite thank-you and picked up his double soy latte, or whatever he drinks. My heart swelled with love for her. Without resorting to gushing people-worship she was able to offer her praise.

Just for today, I am proud of my sister and her pro star-sighting skills.

The trauma actually came when I realized my bill came to my monthly budget for groceries. I told my boyfriend and he pointed out that Whole Foods is a fashion statement that my bank account isn't ready to make. It's not that I don't like to spend money that I don't have, because I do. But if I'm going to be flashy I'd rather it be on a status symbol that I can show off for longer than just from my car to the kitchen. But for the moment I am enjoying my $12 pears and $10 tampons (the organic cotton really does make a difference).

Just for today, I'm shopping at Trader Joe's (the frozen chow mein is fan-tastic!).

I was looking for a phone number while stuck in traffic. I realized it was on my computer and so I opened my computer to find it. While on the computer, I saw that I had a wireless connection and thought, "maybe I should check my e-mail..." And then the light turned green and I realized, I have a problem. It's not an addiction to e-mail, so much as doing anything else that I can while driving: make-up, cell-phone, process feelings, balance checkbook...

It just seems like such a waste of time to JUST drive.

Just for today, I'm a road hazard.

After a long day of work, I road my bike to the Santa Monica pier to listen to some of the outdoor concert. That place is turning into a huge party scene. From my very sober, very purified physical state (no caffeine, no alcohol...), I like to look upon groups of people holding wine glasses (presumably, filled with wine) and wonder, "how are their bladders holding up?" I rode home an hour later amidst the sounds of crashing waves and enjoyed the warm night air (life on the beach is more than just a swarm of alcoholics). When I got near my apartment I saw a giant light in front of me. I thought perhaps a movie premiere was going on near my street (despite the fact that I live five miles from the nearest movie theater...) when I realized that it was the moon! The moon looked like a giant movie premiere light (uh...what do you call those things?)!

Just for today, I love summer.

It wasn't until she walked back to her car after eating Thai food that she noticed a car parked several yards away from the curb. "Funny," she thought, "how similar that car looks to mine...."

She was fond of the theater, but all she could remember of the play she had seen was the lovely floral print rug the set designer had chosen for the bedroom. If only she could afford a rug such as that...

And, yet, it seemed that, though it might be powerful and strong and necessary, in the end bleach was a terrible thing and there was no way she could get near it without destroying an item of clothing...

I know it's been a while since I blogged, but I temporarily lost my power cord, which led to NO COMPUTER ACCESS! Oh, the horror, the horror!!

In my latest earning incarnation, I have turned into a rapid fire note-taker for focus groups. I get to sit behind a two-way mirror with marketing professionals while they make snide remarks (oh, yes, they do) and type every last minutia about what Barbara from Encino thinks of Gucci handbags. It's fascinating to see how people live...especially, people willing to spend $1,000 + on handbags about once a year. What I have come to realize is that handbags are to many women, what cars are to many men. An addiction to a status symbol that I might well indulge if I could afford such addictions (whoops...I'm not allowed to ever say "I can't afford...." Rather, I CHOOSE not to indulge in luxury handbags as my addiction of choice, since caffeine and sugar are so much cheaper). I know that the last time I went bag shopping (I spent a whopping $100 - which I'm grateful to have had to spend), I noticed that these intensely pocketed, giant monstrosities sitting side by side inside the cases posed a striking resemblance to a row of SUV's in a parking lot. Anyway, the point is this: I'd like to make enough money to even consider blowing a grand on a freaking purse.

Just for today, I can observe people.

It's cold in LA. After living here for eleven years, this is strange. I go out to bicycle on the beach and enjoy the sun and, what the hey?...it's friggin' cold! However, because it's been raining the sky is crystal clear and free of smog and there's no better time to ride along the famous "strand." I was yesterday when this guy on roller blades (total stranger) came up to me and asked me if I would pull him. In a rare moment of expansion, I actually said, "yes."

"Do you normally say yes to pulling total strangers?" he asked.

"No, never," I replied.

So, with that bit of honesty to forge a momentary relationship we rode along for a few hours and talked about our lives, careers, and LA weather. I got his phone number, but I don't think I'll ever call him. It was just a nice knowing that perfect strangers can make nice conversationalists on a beautiful day in LA when you're riding on the strand.

Just for today, I can talk to strangers.

I went on a hike on Monday because it was so amazingly beautiful outside I couldn't stand it. I could actually see one of the Channel Islands (I don't know which one). How could anyone not love LA?

While I was hiking I saw a family walk by with a boy who was collecting rocks. When I was a kid, my father used to take me on grueling backpack trips which I blame for my ten-year hiatus from nature (I refused to do anything associated with trees, mountains, or grass, and I even had problems with some plants). Anyway, on these grueling backpack trips, I, too, used to collect rocks (perhaps, in my burgeoning masochism, I was finding a way to make the hike more grueling). By the end of the weekend, my backpack would weigh double whatever it did on the way there. As I learned while hiking, collecting rocks wasn't an obsession that was unique to me.

After I passed by the kid with rocks I started thinking about my other childhood compulsion, giving my money away. My mom says that when she took me to Mexico on vacation I always wanted to give my spending money away all my money to all the impoverished families on the streets. In my innocense I didn't understand why everyone didn't feel the same.

And with these two compulsions, giving away money and collecting rocks, I entered adulthood. I'm still working on hanging onto my money, and not picking up anymore rocks (although, these are emotional ones).

Just for today, I can go hiking.

So, it's a little warm out... And, no, I don't have air conditioning (pause as I respond to look of pity). It's OK! They didn't build them into apartment units in 1924. It's not so bad, just another opportunity to get creative and come up with "10 Things To Do To Keep From Thinking About How Damn Hot It Is!"

1) Sleep with all doors and windows open (for those of you who have air conditioning...just try it and save some energy for Godsakes!). If someone happens to break in, or your creepy neighbor waltzes in under the pretense that he's looking to borrow some measuring tape to start on his new kitchen shelving project (total lie), invite him in to experience the sauna-like air of your apartment. He won't stay long, trust me.

2) Jump in the ocean (but try to not get ocean water in your mouth...it won't taste good, and you might start thinking about what type of water constitutes the "ocean" in your beach community).

3) Stick head in freezer. Call a good friend, make yourself some ice tea and just spend some quality time studying the innards of this treasure trove. Who knows what you might find? An old tamale, Trader Joe's pizza from 2002, or a rock solid frozen chicken thigh...you may even get inspired to make a soup.

4) Don't cook! Make your chicken soup in the Fall.

5) Go see Pirates of the Carribean in a refrigerated movie theater (bring a sweater). Enjoy this extremely entertaining adventure and try to not get grossed out by that octopus thing at the end that looks like a giant vagina. If you don't believe me, go see the movie again while holding up a Georgia O'Keefe painting.

6) Watch the lightning storms and ponder global warming and the inevitable self-destruction of our civilization as we know it until you are in such a deep depression that your blood pressure slows down, thereby making you cooler. Watch Al Gore movie for bonus refrigerated theater effect (don't forget sweater).

7) Yell at downstairs neighbor for smoking you out of your apartment with their barbecue in the middle of a heat wave. (This may not make you cooler, but you will feel a lot better).

8) Buy a $.99 ice cream cone at Rite-Aid. Best deal in town.

9) Go somewhere and sweat (bikram yoga, salsa dancing, etc). This works more as reverse psychology. Rather than schlep around in a sauna-like apartment, go do the most sweat-producing activity imaginable until you're soaked to the degree that you were in the middle of the JV hoops game you played in 10th grade where everyone fouled out until it was you and three other midget sophomores left to endure a humiliating defeat to Amazon girls from Marine....once you lose all your bodily fluids and succumb to exhaustion, you won't think about the heat so much anymore...

10) Stare at the ceiling fan in a coma-like trance and be grateful that you don't live in the Valley.

Just for today, I can stay cool in the middle of a heat wave.

I can't believe that I've wasted everyone's time with all my whiney crap about not being with child(s) when all I had to do was go to downtown LA, rent some old, worn out, 1950's ice skates for $2 and get snow ploughing on an ice rink the size of my father's back porch, to wake up and smell the exhaust off the 110 and realize that life can be fun. Pershing Square in Downtown Los Angeles has this miniature (kind of wannabe...but who cares) Rockefeller center-ish plaza with this pint-sized ice rink that the public can skate around in. It takes all of five seconds to get from one end of the "rink" to the other, not to mention the 405-like traffic jam created, but it was a great time.

Just for today, I can ice skate in LA.

I moved to Los Angeles when I was 22 and have, consequently, spent the entirety of my adult years in this Godforsaken, f---d up, totally addicted, insane, never boring, totally engrossing, inspired, undulating (cool word, eh?...it'd be better if I knew what it meant), crackety-cracked up (as in high) city of Los Angeles. In the past twelve years I have had well over a hundred job and have participated in an assortment of cults (yoga, 12-step, Meisner, etc). If there is one thing that I have learned about relationships in this city is that there must be a God because despite the variedness of my life, certain relationships have stuck to me like static cling. No matter how I think I change and grow they are still in my life like the "Thelma n' Louise" movie poster that won't leave my apartment (it's throwing off my whole adult vibe). It just belongs.

Just for today, I can have old friends.

An ex-what...I can't say, as this was almost ten years ago when I picked relationships based on how high the guy ranked on the Lost Puppy scale [unlike now when I pick relationships based on on how high the guy ranks on the Lost Puppy scale, BUT...I'M CONSCIOUS OF IT...even while it's happening (how this helps me, I'm still not sure...but I can definitely credit therapy for this ability)].

Anyway, the point is, why do these guys continue to turn up? I live in a big anonymous city so I can shuck the past along with last year's Gap jeans. At least my last boyfriend had the decency to move out of LA (actually, according to my friends I "cast a spell" - which I was not aware of - that made him disappear into the ether...I must say, if I have this sort of power, it really might be worth my while to learn how to harness it and use it on Evil Health Insurance Companies, people who talk on their cell phones while checking out at Trader Joe's, and, yes, ALL guys who know me in a biblical sense...). But anyway, while I can make peace with the past, I'm not sure how I feel about it coming up in my face while I'm picking out an onion for my enchilada casserole...

Just for today, I can have an ex encounter in the produce aisle.

Not sure if it was the Sex and the City movie anticipation, my short but brain-fryingly intense re-entry into the work force, my presence at the dysfunctional salsa congress (latino time and organization), or my recent trip to the gyno (do such visits count as play?)...but I've been going at warp speed for the past two weeks and have neglected to give my blog some love...so here's the quick recap:

1) Sex and the City - Ok, I get it. The affluence and ostentation of this NY fantasy world is a little over the top. But come on, if Indiana Jones can run from boulders in his geriatric years, then Carrie Bradshaw can get photogaphed in every top designer's bridal dream dress. It's called suspension of disbelief. And while I can't say that I totally swallowed the romantic resolutions to Mr. Big's chronic abandonment (am I giving it away?), and while the clothes, as creative and fun as they are, seem to take away from the believability of the characters (I think even Carrie would have her ugly t-shirt and jeans days), I'm still looking forward to SATC VI when they're in their sixties and seventies and commiserating in Florida about advanced Viagra and plastic surgeons.

2) Job - Ever notice what happens when the popcorn bag is left inside the microwave for too long? (A frozen burrito might serve the same metaphorical purpose...).

3) Salsa Congress - As a recovering Project Manager, I don't understand events or projects in which things don't function. Really...Albert Torres, could you stand to cough it up a little for an IT and sound guy/girl...?

4) Gyno - No matter how old I get, I don't think I'll ever understand the mentality of male gynocologists (I don't care what color crocs he's wearing).

Just for today, I can give a download during busy days.

Where is the June gloom? It's supposed to be foggy and overcast, and us Beach People are supposed to stand around and say things like, "Sure, doesn't feel like summer, but at least parking isn't a problem..." But no, it's still only June and already my apartment is a brick oven. Who were the geniuses in 1924 who thought to build a brick building on the beach?

Even if I was capable of concentrating in my apartment and wasn't tempted to raid the refrigerator for Trader Joe's trail mix every five minutes, or make another shot of espresso, and I didn't live in a neighborhood where every every home owner didn't insist on a high-powered leaf blower, or having their hard wood floors sanded every other year, or just having someone employed using a tool with a chain-saw-like sound, I would still wilt from heat exhaustion like my poor plants (they looks so sad after hot days).

I suppose I could try to install an air conditioner, but that would probably screw up the feng-shui...so hard living in LA.

Just for today, I'm ready to move inland.

I'm at Peete's Coffee on Montana Ave. in Santa Monica, Land of Little Dogs, Babies, and General Overall Fabulousness. I think the jeans worn by the average woman walking down the street costs more than my entire wardrobe. Ok, make that the average ensemble (sunglasses, shoes, jeans, and $150 tank top) - not including The Bag, which is probably worth the blue-book value of my Honda Civic.

I came here because I thought I might meet a better quality of Single Guy than at Coffee Shop Land. Nothing against D&D playing screenwriters, but, really, there's only so much I can talk about British TV shows.

Still, while the guys (and girls) walking around Montana Ave. are way hot, I'm not sure I can hang with this scene. I think the dog yapping is enough put me back on meds. Forget about the inferiority complex triggered by an abundance of flab-less thighs and fine-quality foot-wear.

Just for today, I can spend time in the Land of The Fabulous.

I miss Mexico. I miss the sweetness of having pleasant interactions with people on the street and in stores. I'm very depressed to be back in the land of bankruptcies and people who don't say hi to me. Depression is hatred turned inwards, so in the name of my health I'm going to turn it outward, where it belongs, towards Los Angeles.

I don't know what you call this...when you hate everyone, even the girl holding up the photo printing machine at Target. Who cares about pictures of you and your friends dressed in slutty outfits and getting drunk at some sleazebag's condo? I've got ART in my camera! Why are you and your friends dressed like hookers, anyway?! Have some self-respect.

I hate the cars here. Why is everyone driving so fast? Are you so important that if you don't get to Hooter's on time the waitress' boobs might deflate?

I hate the salsa dancers here. You're a salsa dancer, not an extra on Fame, not on dancing with the stars. Stop whipping me in the face with your hair, and taking up another piece of dance floor with your hair. Or, at least say you're sorry when you do. Say "Excuse me," when you ram your partner into me, that's what people do in Mexico. Where are the manners?

Did I mention that I hate it when people don't say hi. I hate it when a person knows me and doesn't acknowledge it, but I even hate it when strangers don't say hi. Would everyone please just say "Hello!" Can you take a second out of your life to acknowledge a person?

Just for today, I can indulge my self-pity and drink the haterade.

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 your 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 (fortunately, the police kicked them off the strand and now they are closer to the beach). 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.