Set sail. destination: Freedom

ME: “Am I getting fired?”
BofA Wig: “Oh no, not at all, we just want to ask you some questions…”

I had some hot wings delivered to the parking kiosk I was working at and got caught by management. If memory serves me, that was the best shift; the medical center kiosk. Everyone who worked the booths ordered food but I got caught. I worked parking for almost 2 years and saw people come and go like toilet paper. My ticket was up and the hot wings stunt was just what they needed to fire me. When I returned to the yard after my shift was over I got into a shouting match with the shift manager. I told him, "you can’t fire me, I quit!"

Right before I quit working at Ann Taylor the manager asked me if I had stolen some merchandise. I told her in my most honest voice that I had not. But I had. One morning after running late to work without any socks on, I stole a pair from the stock room. A month later it turned out that the night manager had been embezzling money and stealing jewelry and shit and within a year the store was shut down.

I worked for a crazy balloon lady who had big fake tits. She was coked out and disorganized, but she hired me because I went to her Alma Mater. My adventure began at dawn in an A-team van with a handful of other students huddled together like immigrants, illegally crossing the border. We got to some posh west-side private school and began constructing balloon arches with no training and vague instructions. On the way back home the coke-head slammed on the breaks of her rapist van and I flew to the back while a large helium tank smashed into me. That was my first and last day.

My summer as a Library page was spent shelving books. Leafing through copies of books too sophisticated for my tender mind. I took my time in the audio visual department listening to obscure music and watching movies under the guise of checking them for defects. I worked with a tall unattractive girl who had recently lost a lot of weight and flirted shamelessly with older even more unattractive men. I would watch her practice her runway walk because according to her, she was going to be a model when she grew up.

The blue and yellow big top was posted under the Santa Monica pier for a couple of months. Back then one could flip a bitch on PCH and easily find street parking. Le Cirque left town and wanted me to come along with them but silly me, I had dreams and goals. They ended up taking this older version of what I was to become. She was less idealistic and was all too happy to run away with the circus.

A stripper I knew got me a gig selling bongs at this head shop in Venice Beach. I sold more glass stems to crack heads than anything else. This old man I worked with was skimming off the top. He got wise to the fact that I was wise to his little act and he got me shit canned. The owner felt bad letting me go and gave me a beautiful green piece with gold glitter as a parting gift.

During the summer when 'Independence Day' premiered I worked concession at Edwards Cinema. This big Samoan dude brought in a whole pizza in a box and I told him, "No outside food allowed sir." He laughed and tossed me aside like an annoying fly. Burns on my arms from cleaning the popcorn machine and the knowledge of what the "butter" is comprised of, is enough to keep me from ever eating popcorn again.

At the seedy sex shop I clocked in about a week of work before I pulled a no call/no show. It was a toss up between the disgust of unsuspecting “normal” men who had a thing for trannie porn and the gay dude who gave them blow jobs in the stalls that did it for me.

Free bras and panties were not enough to keep me at Victoria's Secretion. Panty tables, store sets, wearing a black blazer and paying for my own parking proved too high a price for ill fitting bras and cheaply constructed undies.

I met the Possum at some Jewish Center. My job there was to shock innocent school children with images of poverty and abstract art. The goal: to illicit some raw emotions in them. Which in turn they would use to scribble their apathetic feeling onto a small blank white box. The Possums job was to photograph the boxes. The whole project was some lesbians answer to heightening homeless awareness.

One Christmas after a grueling interview and a 100 question morality test I went to lunch and never came back from my seasonal gig at Urban Outfitters. A bunch of things lacked price tags and the store was a mess. I remember that I started giving a bunch of shit away when I knew I would not be coming back from lunch.

I enjoyed teaching sex Ed for PPLA. My car was new (to me) at the time and filled with boxes of condoms. I lived in the West side and I did not mind driving EVERYWHERE. I felt confident, I was educated, and most of all I felt productive. Eventually like with most non-profits I was phased out due to budget cuts.

Once after a week of hard rain I found the dead body of a diabetic tenant that lived in one of the units of the apartment building I managed. He was swollen and flies feasted on his body.

The union was a job. I did not hate it, and I did not love it. But when you work for someone who lives in a world of their own creation they sure as shit ain't gonna let you fuck around with their little operation.

That one summer I worked as a youth marketer was a dream/joke. Best job ever. I got paid to go places, have fun and pass out free shit. Totally ridiculous. When I got paid to go to Vegas, I tore down the curtains and wrote on the walls that I loved Johnny Depp. When I went to Satan's asshole; Phoenix Arizona, I dyed my hair and left the bathroom and towels blood red. Priceless.

“Fake it till you make it”, is what some broad with a skin condition told me in HELL. Bank of America was an awful place and in the vein of disgruntled ex-employees I can with overwhelming certainty say that I worked with the stupidest bunch of morons EVER. Never have I met such vapid stupidity. People so fucking unaware of the world around them, so out of touch with reality: global politics, music, cinema, even state capitals. People with nothing to contribute to a conversation, nothing to teach or impart in the least bit. I felt my brain drying up during my 4 year stint in that shitty hell hole. I found myself forgetting words and facts. My conversations were reduced to sophomoric colloquialisms.

It’s not entirely fair for me to demean the job that I begrudgingly stayed at for 4 years. There were a few lost souls in that crummy place that knew a thing or two, or three whose friendships and company I enjoyed. But for the most part I was misplaced. I did not belong there. It was such a lonely soul numbing experience, so much so that when they called me into the little room to ask me a few questions (they lied; the very next day they shit canned me) I was filled with euphoric optimism.

The nostalgic cynic within drove me to read through my old diaries and a common theme recurs, the need and desperation for a job, the constant dissatisfaction with my station and overall quality of life. As I embark on this familiar journey I HOPE that my ship sails in forgivingly calm water. That my destination be not a mirage but a welcoming port filled with promise and future, that my days be filled with beautiful weather, health and riches unknown to man.

Fun Guy

****I know, it seems remarkably trivial to review nail polish. To spend money on nail polish even. All I can say is that we all have our vices. For some its magazines, or Starbucks coffees, or fast food, going to the movies or dub sacks. I don't do any of those things. I cut corners and make sacrifices to buy the little things that make me happy. Besides what good is it to be a filthy American if I can't indulge in rampant consumerism every now and again?****

This past winter after catching a glimpse of the latest Chanel color, 'Particuliere' I was smitten. However, previous experience with Chanel nail polish prevented me from going to Nordies and plopping down 25 bucks for this delightfully fungal shade. Instead I began the search for the perfect mushroom hue. OPI had a contender, 'you don't know jacques' but I could only find it in a matte finish. Sephora's 'Metro Chic' came close except like Chanel, Sephora's polishes chip easily. The following are not all quite as brownish and mushroom-like as the particuliere but 2 come close.

Essie: Playa del Platinum
This could not be less brown. It is however a refreshing shade of grey.


Rimmel: Steel Grey
This shade comes as close to the desired color that I was attempting to duplicate. It does have a hint of purple though. Its long lasting, dries quick, not too expensive. Great buy. Rimmel?!?! I know.


Essie: Chinchilly
I wanted this color long before I bought the Rimmel. When I got fired I walked past the beauty store that was the scene of many of my crimes (i bought, never stole). I wanted a brown polish to match my mood but found this one. It's a perfect shade of gray and given my mental state at the time its purchase was imminent. Besides who knows when I will be able to indulge and buy more nail polish now that I am unemployed?

STAY TUNED. I already have my eye on this fetching MUST HAVE Essie Fall 2010 four-piece mini set. With shade names like Merino Cool, Limited Addiction, Little Brown Dress and Sew Psyched, its enough to start digging through trash cans and start recycling!!!

I hate....

In an unsolicited tribute to a blog I follow, {http://thingsiwanttopunchintheface.blogspot.com/} I have compiled a list of the top 10 things that suck the salt off my nuts.

1.) People who say "waa-laa" instead of "voila". Sadly, this shameful offense is most often committed by idiotic Americans and pseudo-journalist-t.v.-flunky-newscasters.

2.) Things that promise to be more exciting than ever before. Like the next season of the same ol' show or shampoo, there are never any 'sexy results'.

3.) Cliches like, "give it 110%", "everything happens for a reason", "there is no 'I' in team", "you are too good for him"...

4.) Empty ice cube trays in the freezer. This is not only selfish, it's counter-productive and extremely wasteful.

5.) Paying for parking.

6.) Looking for parking.

7.) Strollers. {And just so parents don't think I am hating on them and their spawns}, 7b.) Shopping carts. Bulky items with wheels that people carelessly cart around without any regard to the other people they are sharing a walk-way with. While I am at it, 7c.) Fat people in Rascals who can walk but choose not to, are guilty of this shit too.

8.)Fake nails. Who invented these? I can see some stupid teenage girl wanting these but how can any grown ass, self-respecting woman glue these fecal matter magnets onto their fingers?

9.) T.V. time-outs (it's a sports thing).

10.) My job.

Mumsy's almost exact list

1 Jar of elbow grease

2 Gallons of striped paint

1 Left handed screwdriver

Twelve-ounce pound cake

1 Bottle of cooking glue

12 Jumbo shrimp

3 strikes you're out

When my brother and I loitered around abandoned parking lots in our youth stoned and listless we dreamt up a fantasy of owning our very own roach-coach. One rivaling all roach-coaches that came before it. Years later, stoners all over L.A. brought to life OUR dream of the reinvented Lonchera. Popping up all over the city; in the valley, the westside, the eastside, the inland empire EVERYWHERE, food trucks were the newest and latest craze. One notable trailblazing venture was the Kogi Truck. As a lover of anything short-rib, I dutifully followed the twitter thread identifying when the truck would be in my hood. Apparently everyone else and their american apparelled best friend had done so too.

The first time I went to catch up with the truck I circled the street several times, parked blocks away to wait in line just to be told that the line ended with the person right in front of me. OKAY, that happens; I guess. The second attempt was at the failed Los Angeles Art Walk @ the LACMA where the line was an exhibit all its own (pictured above, look closely; it goes on and on) RI-GOD-DAMN-DICULOUS!!! Third time around (with a high level of trepidation) I drove past the truck saw the line and kept on truckin'. From that moment on I vowed not only to boycott KOGI, but to talk mad shit about it. Vilifying it in a cartoon hatred kind of way.

Then one Wednesday a year later while driving through Glendale, there it was. No line, plenty of parking and with hunger pangs directing the vehicle, I found myself in line to try the infamous Kogi. It was like waiting to meet the Beatles. The anticipation was palpable. (roll eyes here)

(not an original picture. Taken from http://kogibbq.com/category/menu/)

Lets be clear, My BREAKFAST burrito looked nothing like the one pictured on their website(above). AND nothing on the menu identified that it would be a breakfast burrito. Wet eggs, green onions, some soy sauce, cheap cheese, limp kimchi and some miserable pieces of short rib comprised my 'Food Fusion" burrito experience. It was not grilled and while it was slightly larger than I expected, it was $5 of filler, not meat.



The Belle of the Ball was the KIMCHI Quesadilla!!!

One large tortilla folded in half covered in sriracha and sesame seeds. Filled with Monterrey jack cheese and with what the white girl in front of me called "ki-mi-chi" with a hint of ginger. It was exceptional. Spicy and cheesy and perfectly priced at 3 bucks. Except it actually cost $5 and is therefore too beau-coup for moi.

I'm glad I got to finally try it, but Kogi left this reviewer ice cold. Which begs the question, is anything "fusion" ever good?

Check the website: http://kogibbq.com/ for a location near you.

des colores

"Sweet" by Milani on my happy noodle lunchbox. Pink is a hard color for me to rock on account of how large and dark my paws are. This one is the perfect shade I have been hunting for. (^-^)*

"Suzi in the Pyrenees" by o.p.i. Its a VERY dark gray, looks black it's really nice but nothing super special. I want a gray polish and this is not it. next time...















I went bonkers for the nail polish that the Trannie Gaga is donning on the cover of the April 2010 Cosmopolitan. Its a fabulous shiny mirror finish lacquer. I nearly creamed my plus sized jeans when while trolling the Rite-aid on my way to the beer section I found this Sally Hanson 'COLOR QUICK fast dry Color Pen' in Silver Chrome. I plopped down my 27 plus shekels for this dicey crap. One of my worst impulse buys ever. Its not chrome, its not shiny, its not long lasting, it sucks. Its essentially the same as using one of those permanent marker taggers use. Except with one of those you would at least get a cheap high. Total trash. Pass.

im not white

Census fever has come and gone but the issue of racism lingers like a malignant cancer.

When the census packets first started arriving in homes the local media paraded our [Los Angeles] midget mayor in a census propaganda fluff piece declaring us [Latinos] as white. The anger and outrage I felt was not fit for words. Needless to say, the census form still sits on my coffee table covered in food grease, beer and coffee rings. I tried to think back to some collegiate anthropological course that I took years ago that discussed the origins of man. I desperately searched my drug addled memory for some semblance of a factual truth regarding race but sadly the only thing I could squeeze from my pickled brain was some quasi knowledge of history. I KNOW for a fact that I am not white because my ancestors have been here on this patch of land long before the Mayflower or even Columbus. Plus I own a mirror.

I asked around to see what my contemporaries {other Latinos} would be doing about this grave injustice. Most people found my outrage ridiculous and welcomed the idea of being considered white and gladly claimed that as their race on the census. Others confronted the ludicrous implication of Aryan inclinations by claiming to be black. And while that is funny, and probably more accurate, I'd rather not partake in this ridiculous exercise of false self identification. Its offensive to me to assume that I have anything in common with the cultural heritage bred of entitlement. Sure I went to college, have indoor plumbing and the right to vote but I am reminded constantly that I am not welcomed in certain circles.

We were at the bar when my heavy handed humor got the best of me. It may have been a little presumptuous of me to imply that I would be attending a Klan meeting now that I was 'white'. The white people in the bar stools next to mine became visibly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with WHAT is unclear. It could have been with my racist rant or maybe the idea of a darkie crashing their exclusive Klan meeting put them on edge. Whatever it was, It was clear my money was no longer green enough so I left.

At first I thought that their discomfort came from the "white-shame" That they did not like to be reminded of their history of hate and oppression. Then Arizona happened and I realized that the whites are just as racist as ever. For all we know that stupid "we are all white" census stunt pushed them over the edge. Perhaps the idea of welcoming us to the fold sent them into frothing at the mouth rage that obviously caused them to revisit and dust off some ol' Jim Crow justice. I say to all my brothers and sisters in Arizona when the cops stop you and ask you for your passport you tell them that you are white and that there must be some kind of mistake. Then ask them for their passport.