My First Earthquake!

I feel so southern Californian now: just about 10 minutes ago, a magnitude 5.8 earthquake hit here in Los Angeles. And it was fucking amazing. 

Christin and I were just sitting here in Los Feliz at this little coffee shop called Psychobabble–both of us on our respective laptops–when all of a sudden, everything started undulating beneath us like we were on an amusement park ride. At first, we just looked up from our cyber cocoons, startled and wide-eyed. Then, Mother Earth gave out a really big tremor, and that's when half the coffee shop quickly got up and walked outside. True to their city, the other half of  jaded Angelenos in the place just sat there, unfazed. 

The whole thing probably only lasted about 8 seconds. But I was ready for disaster. I was looking around the street, wondering when we'd start seeing buildings cave in and whatnot. Fortunately, nothing like that happened. But just in case, I noticed I had my mug of coffee in my hand. 

Because you always need a ceramic mug in these situations.   

A Postcard From Me To You!

To enjoy postcard, just print it out, cut it out and fill in your name. Voila! 

Signs You're In The Valley

Just like any red-blooded American, I'd always heard about the so-called "Valley" out here in L.A.: Valley girls, "gag me with a spoon" talk, Ventura boulevard, etc. But I never really knew where the Valley was, or what it contained. And even after our recent stay there at Christin's brother's place in Studio City, I still don't really know.

But from what I can tell, the Valley seems to be this: a vast backwater of strip malls north of the Hollywood hills. Block after block after block, there's nothing there but drive-thru convenience as far as the eye can see. And the eye can see about as far as the mountain range that encloses all the sprawl in an arid southern Californian haze. 

And that's about as poetic as it gets. Again, there's nothing very cultural there: lots of chain restaurants and the like. However, since Christin and I don't have a car, we ended up walking around a lot, and, in turn, began to notice some funny and peculiar independent businesses. And their signs. And so I took some pictures of them:

There seems to be a high-demand for supernatural help in the Valley. Because you can't turn a corner without passing a psychic or a palm reader or some type of Tarot card shack. They outnumber the Starbucks. And the Jack in the Box's. I thought this one was interesting because Angela specifies that she's a "white witch." Good to know.

Kind of like the psychics, there's an irrational overabundance of cupcake stores in the Valley. Cupcakes. That's all they sell. That's their entire business model. And I suspect they do OK. But how? I thought everybody here was supposed to be all freaked out about their weight all the time. 

This one's a curious specimen: some mattress store that likes to advertise all over the Valley. And what sells mattresses better than a little imp that looks like Spencer from The Hills dressed up in his bedtime jammys? I can't really make out what he's saying, but I'm sure it scares the shit out of children. 

Aaaaaah. Smell that? That's not carbon monoxide. That's the ultimate reality that we all must "wake up" to, just like the Buddha. Volvo drivers already get a bad rap as being somewhat elitist and stuffy. I imagine this place doesn't help matters.  

Hey, I get it!? It's a big hand that washes your car, just like at a hand car wash, right? But is that the actual hand that's going to wash my car? It looks kind of...um...big. And busy, holding up that sign and that Cadillac and all. You know what? I don't even have a car out here. I think I'll pass, Mr. Hands Across My Mama.

This is easily my favorite sign in the Valley. I saw it crammed at the bottom of a window in a massage parlor place. And chances are, it's still there. Know why? Because no one (except a weirdo like me) is going to see it. It's scrawled in what appears to be meth amphetamine juice, and it looks like it was written by a troll living under the kitchen sink that likes to eat "part time houskeeping" maids. 

Alas, all roads in the Valley lead to Burbank. And all 20-something actors who impulsively move to L.A. end up at this infamous establishment there: Central Casting. As in, "direct from Central Casting..." This is where you go if you're tired of sitting around your apartment waiting for callbacks and want to sign up to be an extra in the movies. Supposedly, it's easy money. I wouldn't know. I signed up and paid them the $25 fee, but I can't seem to bring myself to call the hotline and check for openings. Maybe I have "back stage fright."

That's it for now.    

Peter Walker Live(s)

Last night, me and my cousin, Mitch (whom I hadn't seen in 10 years) hung out. I took a cab to Echo Park to have dinner with him and after much catching up, we went to this place called the Echoplex to watch 60's folk guitarist Peter Walker play a set. Of course, we all know who Peter Walker is, right? Riiiiiight. Well, I had only read his name before in articles about Robbie Basho, John Fahey, and the like. And then I saw he was playing here in Los Angeles, so I downloaded a copy of Rainy Day Raga. And guess what? It's my new favorite album. Very droney, very melodic and very hippie-dippie. Just like I like my 60's music. 

As for Peter Walker now, he's quite the character. Not only does he still kick out the raga jams, but he's also gotten way into flamenco guitar, which he says he studied in Spain for an extended period in the early 2000's. Sounds like a nice way to age into obscure folk guitar badass status. 

"Little" Known Facts I've Learned About Little People

"Hey you, Mr. Average Size! Watch your step, but don't 'look down' on them. Little people are everywhere here in big ol' L.A.!!"

That would be the opening line of my P.S.A. for little people in Los Angeles, if the city suddenly decided to pay me for something like that. As of yet, I haven't received any such offers, but maybe after this blog post, I will! 

For those of you who don't already know, my girlfriend's brother is a little person. His name is Mikey and he's an actor out here. Up until a few days ago, we had been staying at his place in the Valley (more on that later), which means, we had been spending a lot of time together. And let me be the first to tell you, he leads a very normal life. There's nothing Mikey does differently than any of us "averages" (what they call normal sized people). He eats. He sleeps. He watchs TV. Just like us.

However, there are a couple of "little" known facts about little people that I'd like to share with you now:

• If you spend any significant amount of time with a little person, they will start dressing like you. It's what known as the "Mini Me" syndrome. Case in point:

• Little people really do enjoy punching "averages" in the balls, just like in the movies. I'm telling you, they love it. As soon as they see an unsuspecting crotch nearby (which, as you can imagine, is often), they thrust their little fists at it as hard as they can. And then proceed to do a lil' jig. 
• Little people scare the fuck out of children. This one's actually for real. I've watched it over and over and over again: kid between the ages of 3 and 10 will be happily prattling on to his mom about crapping in his pants or whatever when all of a sudden, his face goes white and his jaw drops: a little person has come into his purview. And it blows the kid's fucking mind. You can literally see his thoughts: "What the--?? What is that??! Looks...like...Dad...but he's my size?! How can that be?? MUST!! STARE!! HARDER!!!" 
• Little people don't mind texting while driving (this one's also for real). You'd think they would. After all, they're technically handicapped: their limbs are shorter than ours, their cars have to be specially-engineered for them to drive, or else they have to have these little stilts rigged onto the pedals. But that doesn't seem to affect their ability to scare the fuck out of us "average" passengers. Case in point, Mikey's roommate, Becky, was driving us down Sunset the other night. The street was packed with oncoming city busses, SUV's, cars, bikes and pedestrians. But where were Becky's eyes? In her little head, which was tilted a full 90 degrees south so that she could text a message to a friend while we careened into our deaths. I yelled at her, "Becky, you're fucking texting?!" She just laughed, looked up and responded absent-mindedly, "Oh, there's the CNN building." For that, I gave her two shots to the dome.

• Little people love when "averages" play what they call "Godzilla" in their homes. Here's how you do it: just stand up real tall and straight while you're in a little person's abode. Then, start stomping around, moaning loudly and knocking shit over like you're Godzilla smashing up Tokyo. Push over dressers like they're apartment buildings. Upend carpets like they're railroads. And most importantly, grab the little people like they're, well, little people, and try stuffing them in your mouth. It sounds like an awful thing to do, but believe me, they just laugh and laugh and laugh (and shit gold coins). 
• Little people train cats to get food for them (another "real" factoid). We just moved into Mikey's friend's house for a brief stay. Her name is Nico, she's a little person and for the next few weeks, she'll be driving around the Northwest while Christin and I take care of her home and her feline, Bug. And let me tell you, I think Nico secretly likes eating birds. Because she seems to have coaxed Bug into bringing her a new winged creature to her doorstep every morning for breakfast. It's like clockwork. As soon as we wake up, Bug's there with a pair of bird legs hanging out of his mouth, just grinning. Here we all are with the trained assassin on Christin's lap:

• Finally, little people love when you steal their Lil' Rascals. I'm talking about their scooters that they sometimes ride around on. Don't ask; just take 'em and go for the riiiide of your life (while wearing the same t-shirt you wore from the day before)! 

 

My Grandma, E.E. Cummings

Turn head or monitor sideways to read:

I Really Think Things Are Going To Work Out With Us

She wears hoodies. I wear hoodies. She likes having her picture taken. I sort of don't mind having my picture taken. She hates having to watch tranny porn. I suppose I do, too. Although, to be perfectly honest, I haven't really seen much tranny porn. But that didn't stop Heidi from telling me why she's done a looooooot of things in her life but she absolutely draws the line at watching chicks with dicks have sex on film: "They're filthy!" 

OK. There you have it: "They're filthy!" Word is bond. I'm standing by you, girl.