Bastille Day 2010

Not long after Americans celebrate their Independence Day every July 4th, the French honor a similar holiday ten days later. This is known as Bastille Day. I could go into the history of why the Bastille is important, (even though the monument in Paris dedicated to this event is tiny and underwhelming just like a lot of things I've experienced lately), but that's not what this post is about at all. Two years ago on July 14th, while the French were setting off lots of fireworks, wearing scarves, and eating patriotic colored cheeses (I'm really not sure how they celebrate to be honest), I was having quite possibly one of the worst days of my life.

That's it?

Let's rewind the clock back to Summer 2010. (*Diddly do diddly do diddly do*) I had basically been unemployed since mid-November, even though I had recently attained an expensive but ultimately worthless college degree. I had briefly worked for the Census, (oh god, the horror!), and was reading scripts for a screenwriting competition at $10 a pop under the table (shhhh!), but still drowning financially. My unemployment checks didn't even cover half of my rent, and I was tearing through my savings just to afford little luxuries like the occasional ramen noodle packet and electricity.

Oh life sustaining yet nutrition less white carbs.
So delicious when you don't depend on them for survival.
 I may have this for lunch just because I can now afford real food.

Thankfully, my parents were able to take over my exorbitant student loan payments temporarily, which was a major financial hardship for them. I was also hugely overweight at the time. Not that this was unusual for me, but it certainly didn't help matters. I didn't really know that many people in Los Angeles, even though I'd lived there for a whole year. So basically I just sat alone in my apartment all day desperately combing Craigslist and other job listing sites for anything to keep the tiny South Central studio roof over my head.

It was a shitty, shitty period in my life. Weeks would go by when the only time I would step outside my door would be to move Stan from one side of the street to the other for street sweeping days. If it wasn't for this simple, yet very important task, I would have had no concept of what day of the week it was. Street sweeping was the only thing that gave me structure in my life. That's why I awoke with a jolt when I heard the obnoxious beeping of the street sweeper at 8am on Wednesday, July 14th, two hours before it was due. I had been planning on moving my car right before 10am, so I bolted out of my iron screen door wearing only a t-shirt and bright yellow happy face boxers. Sure enough, the entire side of the street was empty, and Stan was nowhere to be found. A helpful neighbor sitting on his stoop informed me that my car had been towed.

It's sad when this is the only thing giving your life structure.

This was a first for me. I had never had a car towed or even legitimately ticketed in my life! (Ok, there was that time six months earlier when I got a fix-it ticket for a busted headlight because Stan's cover fell off and lightbulbs always seem to burst). I was flabbergasted, flummoxed, and in all other ways bewildered. Luckily, said helpful neighbor knew where it had been taken and the impound was within walking distance. So I got dressed and walked the streets of South Central to rescue Stan. Remember how I said I was unemployed and broke at the time? I think I had maybe $40 in my checking account and that was it. My credit card practically screamed out loud when I had to fork over $300 to retrieve my beloved vehicle. It turns out that they were paving the street that day, without notifying the residents of Mont Clair St. They did post signs saying 'temporary tow away', but they did not have a date on them and I swear they had been up since the previous week. You know how they tend to leave those signs up for weeks after completion...

Sigh.

When I got to Stan, I noticed that not only was I towed, but there was a ticket on his windshield. SERIOUSLY? I didn't know you could be both towed and ticketed for the same offense. Yup. You can. The ticket was only for $60, which doesn't seem like that much. However, this paltry amount would have literally bankrupted me. I was so depressed that I didn't feel like going home after the impound. So I drove. I ended up all the way in Santa Monica, just wandering the beautiful, clean, smoke-free streets. Until I found the King's Head pub. And proceeded to drown my sorrows with cider and over-priced fish and chips. (Hey, I'd already spent $300 on my only credit card, what's another $30 at this point?). After the pub, I walked around the beach and pier, being all classy and day drunk, wallowing in misery. I had to stay there for several hours until my ill-advised mini-bender wore off and I could go home.

Ye Olde King's Head Pub. 

But I ended up fighting the ticket. I sent in a letter to the Parking Violations stating my case, and waited. And waited. To this day, I never received anything from them. Then my dad gets a letter from the DMV saying that I can't re-register my car until it's paid. Only now it's $154 with the late fee.

"We could certainly party with the Haiti-ans!"

WHAT THE HELL????!!! I had to call in three separate times and wait on hold for them to determine that they sent the letter with the decision that the ticket was valid (B.S.) to the wrong address. Luckily, I was able to sweet-talk them into waiving that late fee, "totally based on my powers of persuasion." Cher Horowitz would have been proud. And since I now have a job (though I still manage to be broke all the time), it's not quite as painful to shell out $60. But since the registration deadline is ticking, I had to make sure that the check got mailed today. Because naturally this is the one case where you can't pay over the phone or online. Argh. So I literally chased down the mail man, who happened to be driving by. He was very friendly and took my letter for me. He was also a champ and didn't laugh when the back full of donated clothes I happened to be carrying split all over the road. (I was going to make a pit-stop at the Salvation Army barrel thingy). It was quite the slapsticky sight to see.

Clearly Sadie has a "Stan" of her own!

Super long, depressing, and boring story short, this was one of the worst days of my life. The only thing that got me out of my funk was that my adorable, spunky niece Miss Sadie was born the next day. So even though my life was still super crappy, I realized that being an aunt makes it all worthwhile. (Cue the Awwwws here!)

Riding on the Metro-o-o!

I don't have a lot of time, since I only have access to the internet on my lunch at work. It's still not set up at my new place, which has really grown on me since I first moved in. Now that most of my stuff is set up, I'm super stoked. My only concern is that I don't have any sort of blinds or curtains so if one of my neighbors looks up at the wrong moment, they could get an eyeful...

I would like to chronicle two of my achievements in the past few days:

1. I drove a U-Haul all by myself. Having driven nothing bigger than a mid-sized SUV a few times in my life, this was a big deal. And driving in LA is a beeyotch no matter what you drive, so in a ramshackle behemouth like a U-Haul, 15 miles deserves an internet high five. This was also the first time I moved without the help of my parents so it was very much a milestone in adulthood.

2. I rode the Los Angeles Metro for the first time last night. Also by myself. I've ridden subways, metros, and trams all over Europe, Australia, New York, and San Francisco. But the idea of an underground railroad in LA just seems preposterous. But I got complimentary tickets to go see Beauty and the Beast at the Pantages Theater last night, thanks to the Bean, and parking in Hollywood is a very expensive, time-constricting near impossibility. Even though the train was late and I just barely made the 7:30pm curtain, it was awesome that I spent 3 bucks as opposed to 15-20 for 3 hours of valet only parking you have to wait in line for in and out. This is the secret to avoiding those bad parking situations I loathe so much. SCORE.

Beauty and the Beast was pretty sweet. A little over the top cartoonish, but that's kind of the point I guess. Great for kids. When Belle came out in the giant gold dress that is every little girl's fantasy (minus the hairy hunchback dude with the tail), my inner child started jumping up and down in the seat. And I won't lie, a little tear rolled down my cheek at the very end when I heard that music that was so influential in my formative years. The theater geek in me noted that Belle's voice was all over the place pitch-wise, and Lumiere sounded more like Borat than a Frenchman. But Gaston and Lefou were a treat. A very violent, heavily slapstick-laden treat.

Ok, gotta go...So many people yelling at me, so little time.

The Bad Writers Club

One of my favorite subjects to write about is how much I hate writing. Actually that's a lie. I don't exactly hate it, I just never seem to do it. How can someone who claims to love something so much never get around to actually doing it? It's one of life's great conundrums. Ever since I graduated from school, I've had no one to hold me accountable for writing. I need deadlines, structure, and pressure from external influences. That's how this blog came about. But now that work has been crazy and I haven't had a lot of free time, it's been so easy just to watch Saturday Night Live on my Netflix, drink a pink lemonade vodka tonic (a cocktail I invented and call WHITE DIAMONDS!! which is a 30 Rock reference and not an homage to Elizabeth Taylor) and go to bed early.

WHITE DIAMONDS!!

Luckily, the other day I was purging my spam e-mails (as I am wont to do when not writing), and I discovered a notice from Meetup.com (which is not a dating site even though it totally sounds like anonymous kinky sex). They send me junk mail all the time because I'm too lazy even to unsubscribe. If you've never heard of it, it's how I discovered the Sally Tomatoes, my a cappella singing group which kicks complete and total ass. Whatever you're interested in, there's a group for that. It's great for when you just move to a city and don't know anyone and therefore have nothing to do. Usually the e-mails are about groups I have no interested in. Like the West Coast Custom Grill Enthusiasts Club, or the Batty Old Ladies Knitting and Competing over Grandchildren's Accomplishments, or the Skanky Sluts in Tiny Cocktail Dresses who Get Drunk on Smirnoff Ices and Say WOO a Lot. But this group was called the Bad Writers Club for LA Television writers. Whoa (not woo)! That's me! It's for writers with bad habits. Like not writing. Or not finishing what you start. Or getting distracted like a kitten with a bit o' string. I have all of those bad habits! These are my people!

Self-Portrait.

So even though I'm no longer a joiner by nature, after having burned myself out on extra-curricular activities in high school trying desperately to get into college, I joined the ranks of the Bad Writers. I might as well, seeing as I am their Queen, Pope, and Magistrate. Today is my first meeting with them at a "Coffee and Bitch" session in Westwood. But now that today is today, I'm kind of feeling over it already. After a long week which I can only describe with the terms, "Witness Protection," "Saudi Princess," and "Tila Tequila," I just want to retreat into Saturday Night Live (my current obsession and future goal to be a part of, whether it's host, cast member, head writer, sporadic contributing writer, or even just audience member). But the number one reason I don't want to go is because parking is a bitch in Westwood. I used to work there, so I know. And I won't go somewhere if I know parking sucks. Even on Sunday when I think the meters don't apply.

It's a rare occasion that I get to type these words.

So being lazy is preventing me from going to a meeting about lazy people. I'm procrastinating the meeting of Procrastinators Anonymous. I'll probably end up going because I made such a big deal out of the Bad Writers Club and how this is just the thing to get me off my ass and start writing. And I'd hate to disappoint my public (*waves condescendingly).

Sally Tomatoes out on the Town

I have managed to stave off the boredom of unemployment for a few days now, celebrating my freedom instead of lamenting it. Friday night I set aside my deep abiding hatred for all things that end in 'z' when they should end in 's' and hit up Popstarz (shudder) night at the Factory in West Hollywood. This marked the second time the Sally Tomatoes have painted the town in our own special shade of red (the first being our kickass karaoke excursion last month). And WeHo will never be the same.

As with any time I ever try to leave my house, I got lost on the way to pick up two of my friends, Eric and Michelle. I'm probably the only person who gets consistently lost even when I've been to the destination several times before. It was around ten when we finally pulled into the valet parking lot. Normally I'm against valet parking, and paying to park in general when it can be avoided. But in West Hollywood, you can waste half the night hunting for street parking, and then the other half walking to and from the club (in painful shoes no less). So I bit the bullet and handed over my baby to the valet guys, uncertain that they would understand how to operate a delicate automobile like Stan.

We finally entered the Factory, a hip gay club off of La Peer, 20 minutes later. Not because we had to stand in line with hoards of other sequined revelers. But because we couldn't find the damn thing. Seriously. There were at least three clubs that shared the same building. We asked at Ultra Suede and some cool nameless club with a red carpet (which I thought might be the Factory, but Eric was scared of the intimidating black folks outside and insisted that that wasn't it. Sidebar, Eric happens to be black. I'm more ghetto than he is.) So we wandered around the building, going through some sketch looking alley and another parking lot and finally found our Popstarz night.

The Factory

The organizer of our get-together had the foresight to have us sign up to be on the guest list so we could get in for free. God knows I love free. And the fruity delicious drinks like my pomegranate cosmo were only three bucks! Now this was my kinda place! (Most other clubs/bars in WeHo and LA in general are so outrageously expensive, that I tend to stay at home and mix my own vodka tonics). Armed with our pink cocktails, dangly earrings, and sparkly shoes, the Sallys (plus Eric) hit the dance floor. Normally I'm not a big fan of pop top 40 kind of music. I'd much rather listen to Social Distortion, Dropkick Murphy's, or classic CCR, etc.. But Popstarz night means they bring back all our old favorites from middle school. So there we were, eight twenty-something grown women (plus Eric), rocking out to Britney, the Spice Girls, 'N Sync, Backstreet Boys, and Destiny's Child. That's my idea of a party. And naturally because we're all choir geeks, we were singing our little hearts out, the lyrics still memorized from ten years before.

Sounds of my childhood.

Serious nostalgia, combined with deceptively strong cosmos, and the wild abandon that accompanies dancing at a gay club where you don't have to feel self-conscious or impress anyone, made for one stellar evening. Whenever a song came on that we weren't a fan of, we'd run over to the second dance floor to hear more contemporary girlie anthems from Rihanna, Lady Gaga, and Kelly Clarkson. Later on, we even braved the raised platform and performed our best 90s moves (including the Running Man and the Humpty Hump) for the crowd of adoring gays and the girls that love them. Sadly though, I brought it so hard that I think I pulled something in my knee. I rocked out so hard I injured myself. The very definition of go big or go home. So I had to take it easy the rest of the night.

Promoting the new Cher/Christina Aguilera film "Burlesque" to the only audience who will appreciate it, was the group Barbie's Addiction. I didn't catch her name, but the drag queen in Ke$ha garb with wicked lip liner issues, owned her lip synch number of Rihanna's "Only Girl in the World." She pranced about surrounded by adorable, scantily-clad boy gogo dancers who seemed to worship the ground she strutted on. One of the gogo boys was especially mesmerizing. Wearing only what could be described as 'man panties,' this guy was a vision in spandex. He moved with a ballet dancer's grace and a stripper's sensibility. We think he might have been half-asian and half-black, which made him strikingly beautiful and exotic looking. Whenever he was onstage, the crowd could look at no one else. He seemed to be so lost in the music that you just wanted to lose yourself right along with him.

As the magical night wore on, however, things started to go downhill a bit. It's my theory that the club kind of wants you to leave as it gets closer and closer to 2am, the Cinderella hour. The music starts to get even more generic. The sweaty, stinky sensation from dancing hard for hours on end becomes unbearable. The crowd becomes suffocating as people push and shove their way past you with their full, icy drinks perilously perched in their unstable grasp. I can't dance if I don't have space. That's why it was so fun at the beginning. The Sallys dominated the floor, inspiring the wallflowers to join us in our revelry. But when you're packed in so tightly that you can barely move (and it hurts to move if you have a hurt knee), it's no longer fun. Not to mention, I usually go to bed around 9:30 and it was past 1am. I finally dragged Eric and Michelle away from the floor to go pick up my car from the valet.

Exhausted, in pain, freezing, hungry, and in all other ways crankypants, we limped back to the parking podium. But no, you can't pick up your car where you dropped it off. So we had to walk what felt like two excruciating blocks to the pickup station. Waiting in line in the cold, we saw a group of girls stumbling towards their car. The driver was a girl who was probably my size (read, not small) in a dress so short, her vajajay was completely hanging out. Seriously. She was wearing underwear, thank god, but we were scandalized. Women of any size should not be walking around with their junk out in the open, but this was just wrong. If you don't even notice that you're feeling a bit too free and breezy, chances are you aren't sober enough to drive. But she got into the car and drove away. We wanted to tell someone, but what can you say? Open vajajay isn't strictly proof of inebriation (at least not in this town). So we were glad that it took forever to get Stan back, just for safety's sake.

This is more my style.

I dropped off Eric and Michelle and headed back home to South Central. I was terrified that I was going to get pulled over for my busted headlight again. Unlike vaj-girl, I was completely sober, having danced all of the effects of my cosmo out hours before. But I made it back sans-fix-it ticket and all was well. So even though it started and ended kind of rocky, Popstarz night was a resounding success. Normally I'm not a big fan of clubbing. I'd much rather spend the evening as I did on Saturday, hanging out with my friends, playing rock band and holding a Freaks and Geeks marathon. But with the free entry, cheap drinks, and infectious (the good kind) atmosphere, I'd definitely hit up Popstarz again. Just leave early and beware of exposed vagina.

Homebody

It is my friend's birthday today and he just invited me to come hang out with his friends at the Edison Lounge downtown tonight. My first instinct was panic. The following are my reasons:

1. The Edison sounds swanky. Which means I will feel like a homely midwestern cousin (who's actually from Northern California) that they take pity on in my $20, three year old dress from Target that is a smidgen too small. If they let me in at all.

2. Though I just got paid, I'm still recovering from my recent bout of unemployment. And awkward social occasions require at least one glass of overpriced wine for me to loosen up and be my sparkling self.

3. Downtown parking, if you can find it, is a pain in the butt. One of my charming idiosyncrasies is that I tend to avoid situations in which parking is difficult. It stresses me out way more than it would the average non-neurotic person. Plus I always get hit on by black homeless guys named Tiny who play the jazz trumpet, while walking to/from my car.

4. I don't know very many people here even after over a year, and I should use this opportunity to expand my social network. (Brief shout-out to the random yet brilliant team of David Fincher and Aaron Sorkin). The problem here is that I don't really like meeting new people, being a stodgy misanthrope.

5. Sad as it is, I really just want to do nothing today. My big plans were to watch old episodes of Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place (I'm on a Ryan Reynolds kick right now). I should be writing my Great American Novel, but I'll probably end up spending the weekend with a slightly obscure late 90s sitcom.

But I would like to see my friend again, and it has been too long since I interacted with normal people (outside my office, that is). So I may force myself to shower, straighten my mutinous hair with the savage yet effective In-Styler, and drive all the way (10 minutes) downtown to celebrate the birth of my former writing partner and UC Irvine cohort with a delicious yet bank-breaking glass of merlot.