In the Words of Randy Newman

I love L.A.

Of course, everyone I know and love who doesn’t live here hates it. And tells me so. Repeatedly.

And due to my recent existential crisis tentatively titled, “I hate my job” (apparently, not the first job I have felt this about?) I’ve thought about moving elsewhere.

Just like I have, oh, every 6 months since I started living here in 2001.

But L.A. always calls me back.

I know, I know, the traffic, the superficiality, the necessity of a car, the incessant SUN, oh December, you disappoint me with your 70 degrees and balmy so I will go to The Grove where there is fake snow and also, Nordstrom. Yay, I feel Christmas-y again.

The other day I was driving along Beverly, though, and passed by the hotel I used to always stay at before I moved here, the Beverly Laurel (downstairs is Swingers where apparently Drew Carey treated all the Writers’ Guild to a hefty discount during the strike and also where Romy & Michelle from Romy & Michelle’s High School Reunion decide to go to their reunion) and I remembered why I moved here.

My then-boyfriend Allan and I came down here for work, and we walked (oh yes, we WALKED, crazy San Franciscans; I believe Baudriallard said it best in America, when he wrote, “If you get out of your car in this centrifugal metropolis, you immediately become a delinquent; as soon as you start walking, you are a threat to public order, like a dog wandering in the road” (ok, maybe Missing Persons said it best)) around the hood. And we headed out to Largo on a random Tuesday and saw Jon Brion. Hello?! And maybe we bought me some freaky flame underwear on Melrose slightly (ok, really) drunk after JB and what is that if not impetus to make a life change?

And then we drove everywhere, and I saw all the LA people doing their freaky shiite. And I fell In Love.

In. Love.

People in LA are weird. I understand if you don’t find want to hear about someone’s latest master cleanse when you’re having a Wednesday night cocktail at your local wine bar, or aren’t down with the fact that most of our best restaurants are in strip malls, or can’t get past the smog.

But I walked around and saw FUN. Light, fluffy, FUN.

And you know? I tend naturally toward the morose and introspective. I spend too much time playing my own private detective, toeing up stones and gently prying open drawers to see what I’ve been hiding even from myself.

Los Angeles is a good balance to that.

And you, recipients of the angst, should be grateful.

I may not be entirely happy (yet), but looks like another perfect day.

A Lot Has Happened. But Not Enough.

Things have occurred since last I wrote.

I have a bedframe now.

Neeta and I threw and Astronomy Day-themed ‘hood-warming party, complete with star-shaped sandwiches, star-shaped-chocolate-topped cupcakes, a solar system mobile, etc. Our evite title? “Chart your course for AWESOME.” Yes, we are dorks. And probably I watch too much HIMYM.

I discovered Gladiolus are my favorite flowers on earth.

I got a FREE and new-to-me chair from Amber, delivered by the truly awesome Jojo’s Delivery in Motion, who showed up in style in an El Camino, and followed up efficient and inexpensive delivery with a Yahoo! e-thank you card. He rocks, highly recommend.

I gathered some serious spoils at a Corey Lynn Calter sample sale.

My parents came to visit, and I discovered two new artists I love, and was reminded why I love two old favorites at LACMA.

There was limited movement on the romance front.

But you know what? That is seriously ALL I have to report for the last three weeks. That is it! That is the total sum of my accomplishments since my last entry. You know why? BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN WORKING WAY TOO FREAKING MUCH.

I should have lots more to report! I should have climbed ev’ry mountain, forded every stream, followed every rainbow, until I found my dream.

I AM DONE. I can take no more. I’m not sure what measures I’ll be taking, that’s still in development, my ideas incubating, marinating, as it were. We’ll see.

But SOMETHING has to happen. Because not much does outside the confines my office.

Which is just not enough.

Love Is a Bloody, Bloody Battlefield, My Friends

Oh, imagine.

Imagine that you are me. You are heading out on your date with the 25-year-old. You have called Neeta, who has told you NO, you cannot wear your free-flowing top with your wide-legged trousers because, damn, Jen, boys have imagination but not x-ray vision and you are always trying to wear something ridiculously modest but an ankle isn’t enough to get the curiosity sparked these days, so here you are in a vaguely slinky top and the wide-legged trousers and new shoes.

And you have given said young ‘un directions to pick you up, but either he has not listened (typical. ugh, boys), or you have given horrible directions (typical. ugh, girls.), so now you are walking down to meet him at the corner to save time.

Only.

Your shoes are new. And the hill is steep. And your feet slip out from under you and you fall.

But! You rally, you get up, quickly, because the dude who had to STOP HIS CAR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET TO AVOID RUNNING OVER YOUR PRONE BODY appears to be stuck in this loop of “areyouokaycanicallsomeone? areyouokaycanicallsomeone? areyouokaycanicallsomeone?” and, well, why not help a brother out.

So you haul yourself up, now you won’t be at the corner in time and he’ll be halfway to Timbuktu, must hurry, hurry, and…

PHFWOOMP!

Down you go again. This time with your tailbone right on the 90-degree angle of the curb, the AWESOMENESS, I cannot tell thee.

What would you do?

I paused briefly, winded, probably kind of in shock, and told the occupant of the OTHER CAR THAT STOPPED TO MAKE SURE I WAS ALIVE that I was fine and considered throwing in the towel. A quick phone call and I’d be nursing my patootie on ice for the rest of the evening and he never even had to know I had a cold sore (yes, despite all your lovely best wishes, it was still there).

But I didn’t. I hobbled down to the corner, bleeding all over my blackberry, which I had to retrieve from down the hill, and there he was.

And he stopped at the pizza place and got me some napkins for the blood, and I had a glass of wine and things were OK.

And when I got home and saw the ginormous dried streak of blood on my blackberry?

Part of me was utterly grossed out, yes, but the other part of me?

Totally proud of my war wounds, dude! Seriously, it’s like I have conquered Spain!

Dating’s a rough-and-tumble world, my friends. You’ve got to roll with the punches. And right down the hill. Apparently.