It's SUPERnatural

I feel that in life I have really succeeded in being mediocre in every aspect, and I consider that a talent. I received "pretentious/almost nerdy" on my nerd score, so I think I can safely say that I can be pretty deep. For example, much of my time yesterday was spent contemplating the eternities (read: how I can get out of wearing a toga in heaven, because they look quite cumbersome), and how height differences can effect your life (aka, do midgets play baseball, and if so, is the field a different size?). I'm a thinker, you see.

So today, as I was "painting" I was musing about - what else? - THE SUPERNATURAL. My love of the mysterious has been pretty well documented, but I realized I haven't shared with the internet universe my newest quest, if you will: To find and capture the elusive chupacabra. That's right - the blood sucking goat killer often spotted in the southwest and Mexico. In fact, on my 5 hour trip in Mexico in April my goal was to find it. Alas. But I know it's out there, and when I find it, the world will know too.

When first I discovered this creature last summer, from a police video that captured a dog-like creature that WASN'T A DOG, I knew that I had found the infamous "circus pony" that my cousin had seen in Utah oh so many years back. In my heart of hearts I KNOW that the freaky creature she saw while licking a popsicle in the car at a 4-way stop was EL CHUPACABRA.

For all you nay-sayers who think my life quest is useless, riddle me this:




WTF, right? Should you have doubts, be my guest to tell me what you think that thing is.

The Founding Fathers would approve of THIS

Ahoy there Sailor! Wait - what's that L? You want a photo tour of the greatest holiday which we spent in Coronado? Why, it'll be my pleasure to showcase the highlights of the world's most patriotic community. In the words of your people, Anchors away!



Remember these days? When you didn't care what your mom forced you to wear, and your biggest concern was getting your bubbles to be bigger than your siblings? And after losing that competition you poured their bubble solution out on the grass? Or was that just me?

Blow harder little dude, those are looking kinda wimpy.


For those of you who were worried that Capitalism is on its way out, fear not; these pre-teens have it under control. Only 50 cents for an Otter Pop? What a steal!
Nothing warms my heart more than watching people count money. Ayn Rand would be so proud.


Hey look - the parade is about to begin! Too bad you didn't grab a front row seat. Looks like we're going to have to walk against the flow of its direction. No worries, though - it makes it shorter. Three cheers for that!



We've already reached the best part of the parade! These guys reenact the famous photo of raising the flag on Iwo Jima. They do it in slow motion - and if this were the world of Harry Potter I would tell you to pay close attention so you could watch it happen. Alas.
What happened to the reenactment of US Marines rescuing their imprisoned comrade whilst simultaneously sneak-attacking the Taliban and shoving them in the bamboo cage and turning their own guns on them? Because that was AWESOME. Methinks it was a bit too . . . well, it certainly wasn't pc, which is why I loved it. I fear that piece will never return.


Do you have a good view from that second story window, shirtless man? And what, pray tell, are you staring at?
Oh . . .
I can see the draw to watch these Saloon Ladies in the bedazzled colonial garb, the authenticity of which isn't fooling anyone. They do look like they're having fun though, don't they? I wonder where one can sign up to become a member. I mean, it's probably a profitable and rewarding profession, and I hear STDs are overrated.


Oh good - Union soldiers. I was starting to worry that those proud brothel madams were going to convince the aging traffic patrolman to join in their cavorting on the float. Whew. Yanks with muzzle-loader rifles always make for good peace keepers.

As you were, gentlemen.


I bet you will never see so many Vets in such a condensed location as you will here on Coronado island. Vets from WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and survivors of the attack of Pearl Harbor. In fact, we had a Medal of Honor recipient there in the parade: John Finn. The oldest living Medal of Honor recipient, and only living Pearl-Harbor-Day Medal of Honor recipient. He earned it by firing a 50-cal machine gun at Japanese planes, even though he was out in the open and an easy target. He was wounded many times by strafing gun fire, but continued to man the gun till he was ordered to the hospital. Lieutenant Finn, I salute you.

And I salute you too, anonymous Vet with cute baby.



And who doesn't like a little free advertising when given the chance?

Sadly, they had given all their supposed 5-star-chef-made breakfast away. Probably with the stipulation that they be allowed to share a message.


Hold on a second here - was I transported back to Provo?! Maybe the tent pictured above should have given it away, because I didn't fully realize I was out of San Diego till I saw this:

Allow me to photo document this special moment, my liege. How I have missed you guys battling it out on the campus quad! And I'm pretty sure that 50% of your Medieval Club were in my major, because topics somehow always came back to the Vikings. I'm not quite sure of the 4th of July connection though . . . did we have knights fight in any of the wars?

But I completely agree, man-with-the-studded-tunic - the only thing the US Military needs is some medieval warriors. It could be a new branch: Knights of the Realm. Though I don't think the flowy white pirate shirts will make the cut.

And so concludes the historic tour. Hope you had as great a 4th as I did!

The Neighbors: Chapter 3

Back in March I promised the next chapter of THE NEIGHBORS to be about the S.W.A.T. incident. It's your lucky day - I have come to deliver.

Let me take you back, circa 2000, to when I-Am-A-Walking-Drug-Free-Foundation-Commercial Chris was still living with The Dirts. He and his baby-mama plus her other couple kids from other daddys. AND they all lived in his bedroom. Thinking about it now, I just . . . I don't . . . Okay look, if ever I find myself in a similar situation, then PLEASE, just take me to some secluded wood - or alley - and put me out of my misery. I remember hearing an argument one night between Chris and the girlfriend, and she was crying and yelling at him for always calling her "Angela," which apparently was the name of his ex-girlfriend, and he just mumbled unitenligble phrases in response . . . Wow. I really miss them.

Anyway. Chris is a treasure. His pants generally hang somewhere in the mid-thigh region and he walks like he lost a piece of his leg to a landmine in Vietnam. He was on house arrest for something drug related, and despite being born and raised here, he has learned to speak English, or rather something English-like, from rap songs.

Also, he has been MIA since the S.W.A.T. Team came calling.

And call they did. Thanks to Richard. Here are the important highlights of Rockin' Richard: long greasy hair, emaciated, snaggle-tooth, thinks he went to Woodstock, suspected pedophile, really loud electric guitar playing all night long, and most importantly: METH LAB IN HIS HOUSE. No one ever walked past his house, which was partially covered by weeds, and he rarely came out of it. The few occasions where I had the horror of seeing him was when he was conducting business meeting with Chris on The Dirt's front lawn, complete with lawn chairs, beers and the typical cloud of smoke.

One evening after dinner my family was weeding the front planter (yes, you read that right. MOM.) when two large black vans came screeching up the street to Richard's house. Men in black uniforms with S.W.A.T. written in white came leaping out of the vans and through Richard's faux-jungle and plowed into his house. My family sat on our curb and applauded as they cleared some things out (read: his drug lair), but his dang weeds blocked a lot from view. I'm not sure if they cuffed him and took him - does S.W.A.T. cuff people? - but I do know that he never came back.

And as for Chris, he and his fourteen kids are gone too. And now Joe has inherited the bedroom that can apparently house a family. My true heart's desire is to be here when Dog the Bounty Hunter and Co., whom I love, comes storming into THE NEIGHBORS house and takes them all out. One can dream.

In which I discover my Destiny

I haven't quite figured out why, but I seem to have a penchant for attracting men who fall under the following categories: emphysema, mustache, beer gut, infidelity and OLD. The "Furniture King," a client of my first boss who fell under ALL categories, once offered me the promising position of Mistress #2 - and I was definitely 18. So naturally I accepted.

On the second leg of my late flight from DC back to LA, I had a seat next to just such a man. THANK GOODNESS. Because the Earth would have been thrown off its axis and major catastrophes would have ensued had I FOR ONCE been seated next to a man who showered, brushed his teeth, and didn't snore while being fully awake. I didn't know that I had to add "Capable of breathing at a normal decibel" to my list of man requirements, right behind "Alive" and "Does not live in a car."

So there I was - stuck. My iPod died, I finished my book, and I couldn't sleep. AND I was sitting next to Vito Corleone's unfortunate twin brother whom we've never heard of because of his inordinate amount of phlegm that constantly must be hee-hawed out. Let's call this man Jerome, Christened after THE NEIGHBORS (Joe Dirt) clan leader himself, because they might as well have been the same person. Anyway. As I do in all situations in which I try to escape from reality, I concentrated on my favorite topic: how to unite quantum laws with general relativity before Edward "M-Theory" Witten does, the tosser.

Just as I was getting somewhere, Jerome leans over into my personal space in a very Chuck Bass way, and oh how I would have given anything for a piece of that Bass at that moment instead of the Jerome leering down at me.

(Chuck Bass, NOT Jerome)


Jerome: Whatcha writing there darlin'?

Me: The next big break through in theoretical physics actually.

Jerome (grinning smugly): That's a big word for sucha young blonde thing like you.

Me (attempting to raise one eyebrow): You're right. Excuse my psychobabble. What I meant was that I was doodling hearts and rainbows around what could be my new last name, depending on which of my 5 boyfriends I end up marrying.

Jerome: Well then why don't you try putting it with my name - after all, I could take on all those boyfriends of yours. Plus, I own a Cadillac.

Me: Huh. . . Good to know. I will take that into consideration.


And after some careful contemplation, I have decided that this could be an opportunity that the Universe is presenting me, and I just keep slapping its hand away! I mean, we all know what a great trophy wife I would make. So the next offer I get I am totally taking and running with. Jerome may be no Chuck Bass, but he DOES have a Cadillac.

Tattoos and Lakers hues

It's been a while since the topic of Hot Dude at The Gym was visited, and with good reason. As something of a stalker, I can tell you with reasonable confidence that he takes a lot of holidays during the summer. Blending that with my indentured servitude travels, it has been too long since I have gazed admiringly (and by that I mean stared shamelessly) at his chiseled biceps. Trips to the gym would be bleak indeed if it weren't for USA and TNT channels now being offered, which means all the House, Law and Order and The Closer my little cold heart could ever desire.

Anyway. There is also another reason I've been hesitant to bring this up. I'm beginning to think - well, actually I've been suspecting this for months, but go with me on this - that Hot Dude is GAY. It first occurred to me in April, when I noticed he was wearing a coordinating Lakers outfit with another ripped tool. Red flag #1. As other said tool was walking by, I noticed a large tattoo on his shoulder/arm which, to my utter astonishment, was EXACTLY THE SAME TATTOO AS HOT DUDE'S. On closer inspection I noticed a large initial in the middle of the tat, but I was too far to see what letter it was. Minutes later when Hot Dude strutted by, I noticed the same thing in the center of his tattoo. Red flag #2.

Here's the thing: even if the initials inside their tattoos AREN'T each others initials, I still find it . . . worrisome? odd? strange? that they would have matching tattoos. I mean, who does that? Unless of course you are in Hollywood, which equals whacked-out crazy. Or in the marines, which equals hard-core crazy. And I feel fairly certain they are involved in neither.

I could be totally wrong about the gay thing - it wouldn't be the first time. I thought I had pegged two different guy friends as being totally gay, and apparently they are not. Or supposedly, I should say. If you think he still might be straight, please feel free to at least validate my feelings of how weird the matching ink is. Because it is, right?

The Neighbors: Chapter 2

Like a great many people in Southern California, I live in an old tract home neighborhood full of senior citizens, crazies, and the occasional nice family. And, like most people, I rather detest developments, but I also don't have 5 million dollars, so I don't have much of a choice.

My bedroom window faces the bedroom window of the one and only Joe Dirt. As in, the youngest son of THE NEIGHBORS. And by "faces" I mean it's so close I could stick my head out and spit into his bedroom. I have actually been tempted to do that on many occasions, and it's totally possible because he has neither a glass pane nor a screen over his window. Just a sheet. Which is part of the problem - because Joe Dirt watches tv 24 hours a day LOUDLY.

You may be thinking, Just shut your window genius. And my answer to that would be, I ALREADY DO. But I love fresh air and our house is old and gets kind of musty, so I like it cracked open (not enough though, obviously, to let in the devil's alligator lizard). I also have a fan to help block out the noise - I'm doing my part.

So. I woke up yesterday, my whacked-out internal clock still recovering from skipping time zones and a bit of jet lag, and the first thing I heard was Joe Dirt guffawing at some joke on tv. I stormed into my kitchen, and declared to my family that the only thing I hated hearing more than stupid chirpping birds in the morning was Joe Dirt and his loud-a tv.

"While I'm falling asleep all I can hear is Saved By The Bell or Fresh Prince. EVERY NIGHT. And this morning I woke up to Elf. Who watches Christmas movies in June anyway?!?"

"Well," said my dad, "it's better than porn."

Hm. True.

Thank you dad for pointing that out. Although I agree - that would be both uncomfortable and creepy. And if there is anything that THE NEIGHBORS don't need, it's more creepiness.

Mile High City

Any desire to post recently has been sucked out of me by traveling. And I'm not saying that in the way that celebrities --cough, Jessica Biel/Alba/Cameron Diaz, cough -- complain about how hard it is to be so beautiful and thin and how they give their designer cast-offs to children because they're the only ones who can fit in them, and how it has taken 6 WHOLE WEEKS to lose their baby weight from working out 10 hours a day and eating really fulfilling celery and cotton balls. I mean it in the way that I love seeing different places in this great nation but airplanes make me really nauseated and I have almost vomitted on the laps of multiple people squashed next to me who are always men who INSIST upon spreading their legs out AS FAR AS POSSIBLE leaving me cramped in the fetal position for hours on end.

So anyway. Denver. I liked Denver, but was slightly confused by the blend of cowboys and hippies. Here is what you really need to know about my stay in Denver:
1.) I didn't like the kids and lots of them, inexplicably, had anger issues. Weird.
2.) I almost got sucked into a tornado. For real - I felt like I was living in Twister, and I kept waiting for Bill Paxton to come bounding up and shout for me to take cover with a typical overly-dramatic look on his face.

Photo by Eric Nguyen

I've heard multiple times in my life that California is a scary place to live because of earthquakes - but dude, there is like maybe one a year that you can really feel, which more than likely does nothing more than make you consider whether you want to walk all the way to a door jamb, and by the time you have decided no, it's over. If anything, be afraid of the the fires.

But I freaking saw a FUNNEL FROM SATAN come out of the sky that destroys things. Trees and houses and small animals and probably children - GONE. How is that NOT scarier? That siren was enough to make me want to piddle my pants.

The takeaway: tornadoes suck. Pun intended. And I fully intend on chasing one the next time I am around one, which will be never.