Thanks for the ride, Lady!

I'm gonna sound like an asshole but I'm gonna say it anyway.

Get a car.

There is simply no excuse for an able bodied person in their late 20s-early 30s to not have a friggen car. None.

And I'm not talking about people that live in NY or San Fran or some place with other viable means of transportation. I mean out here on the west coast where everything is spread out.

How the hell do you get by without having a car? Oh, that's right. You call ME for a ride. I feel like I'm 18 again and got my first car. I had friends asking me if I wanted to go to Ventura and I thought hey, yeah! Cool! They want to hang out with me! And then they said, "Cool! I'll even give you gas money." And my face sank. They didn't want to hang out with me, they wanted a ride into town. At least they offered gas money. I have friends who never offer anything for carting them to and from a venue and act put out when you say, "Hey! Buy me a drink!" It's a sad day when you realize you aren't this persons friend, you're just their ride. They never call to chat or ask you to go to lunch or anything of a friend-like nature. It's only for a ride to a party or a show. Does it make sense to ask someone who lives less than a mile from a venue to drive 20 miles to your house to pick you up to go to said venue? I'm going to go with no. What kind of balls does it take for someone to do that? The guise of friendship.

Even giving a ride to help someone out in a tight spot can turn into me suddenly becoming the designated ride giver. Get your car fixed! Fix your priorities! Especially if you live out in BFE. How did me, the unemployed, broke girl become the chauffer? I don't have the money or the gas to drive out to BFE and pick you up. I just don't. One ride turns into a request for three more. Do I have sucker written across my head? Is there honestly no other person you could ask? Because I said yes once, not knowing where I had to drive to, I am now the go-to girl? No. I wouldn't do that to my friends. I wouldn't ask any of my friends more than once. I was being polite and helping you out, don't take advantage of me.

Either get a job close to home or get a fucking car. Seriously. Do you like depending on other people or, heaven forbid, public transportation to get around? I couldn't live without my own car, or being in a city where I didn't need one like DC. I don't like depending on other people and time schedules. I want to go when I want to go. This is the reason that I don't like carpooling unless it's really neccessary. You either get stuck somewhere or have to leave too early. Screw all of that.

I do have some friends who survived heartily without their cars. They took the bus and they sucked it up but they did it while they were saving the money to fix and/or get a car. This was even accomplished in LA by an actor friend of mine. No joke! It's the people who, for no justifiable reason, don't have cars that piss me off. If your car is constantly breaking down, save the money and fucking fix it already. If you're an adult and you'd rather just mooch off your "friends" for rides instead of getting your own car, prepare to lose all of said friends. I am not your transportation service. Suck up some goddamn responsibility and get yourself a fucking car. Be responsible, be independant, be an adult.

It boggles my mind. What the hell is wrong with people?

Reflections

I think the cake caught up with me today.

I had cake for breakfast, cake and salad for lunch, and cake and rum for dinner. Two cocktails at the bar tonight while kicking some karaoke in the face. My tum is unhappy. I can't say I'm too surprised.

I had a great conversation with a dear friend of mine this evening. He called to tell me he got on a mainstage Harold team at IO in Hollywood, something he's been working toward for years now. We haven't talked in months so he asked me what was new and was hoping for good news. I realized that I had nothing good to say beyond the fact that I'm not dead. That's a good thing. I'm out of work, broke, painfully single, no longer have the social life I once did, bills are stacking up, no job prospects...really, all I have at the moment is my health, my cat, and a place to live.

We talked about relationships. He had just ended one and we talked about people and expectations and attitudes. He reminded me that people are very perceptive creatures and if you're walking around burdened by the wonky things in your life people are going to pick up on that. That does not exude confidence. And it's something most people don't usually realize they're doing.

I care too much what people think. I take things far too personally. I put all my eggs in one basket. I put too much stress on myself in potential relationships and most auditions; the things that are important to me. He told me you can't care. It doesn't matter what any one person thinks of you. If you lay your heart on the line to someone and they leave you hanging without an answer then to hell with them. So what? No one person is the be all, end all. You can't let that persons actions effect you. You can't let it hang over your head as I am want to do. I can't carry it with me.

He said people are just people. You ex isn't your ex, they're just a person. People can only take from you what you give away. Don't give them your power. It's something I knew I was doing I just didn't realize how. I treat past situations with far more gravity than they warrant. Some may call it being overdramatic, he calls it being passionate. He said I am a passionate lover who just wants to fall in love with someone and love them with everything I have. He's right. I let that stress me out. I become anxious and paranoid and lose my confidence. I let it mean all too much. And I usually don't make men earn it. I'm so eager to have that love and that relationship I have always wanted that I rush through things and don't make them earn it.

Alas, the older I get the more anxious I feel about being single. I don't think I would be as anxious if I was actually going on dates and had interest from interesting men. But I don't. Most of my friends are in relationships, and married and kids and blah blah blah. And I would much rather be single than be in the wrong relationship. It was very comforting for another single person to tell me that it's OK to not be concerned with being single and to just live life and work on yourself and fuck it. It will happen when it happens. It makes all the difference to hear that from someone who is in the same boat as you. From the relationship sect is just comes across as patronizing.

I'm not at my best at the moment. I'm depressed because I'm not doing what I want to with my life and I don't know how to get it. I don't know where I belong or what I should be doing. I don't know where to live. And I don't know how to figure it out. This is probably not a good time to get involved in a relationship.

I have a lot to think about now. How I think about my exes, about the decisions I've made, about my outlook on life, how I approach things, the company I keep, the things I want. I think there's an overhaul in my future. I feel like holing up in my new place and not leaving. Not unlike a caterpillar going into its cocoon. Cliches are cliches for a reason. I knew before I moved that something needed to change. That everything needed to change. It's time to become the person I've always wanted to be. The person I have projected to the world but never really lived up to on the inside. It's time to figure some shit out.

Saint Valentine's Day Noir

From February 16, 2009

Valentine's Day was quite fantastic.

I took a trip to San Francisco for the book release party for San Fransico Noir 2: The Classics, a collection of noir short stories, one of which is penned by Mr. Craig Clevneger. Craig intended to spend the afternoon writing but we ended up talking for hours and then watching a really obscure and fantastic British TV show from the early 90s. Awesome. We went looking for food and ended up at this tiny cafe that serves crepes. I've never had a crepe with anything but Nutella, and only from a street vendor in Paris. I had no idea there was such a variety. I had one with smoked turkey, cheese and cranberries. Wow. So damn good.

We gussied up and walked down the couple of blocks to the Ha-Ra Club and it was packed. Tiny, but packed, with a jazz saxaphonist playing. The bartender was very W.C. Fields and a complete character. Craig had some friends there already and 3 of us ordered drinks and when the bartender brought them over he said, "I hope you all get the clap." Oh my God, we were rolling on the floor. He told another guy at the other end of the bar, "I'll get to you in a day or two." Priceless.

The evening started out a bit slow and there were times I felt like I was at a class lecture and the room was just silent. Craig seemed a bit nervous as he didn't warm up and prepare the way he usually does and he was worried that the audience was already comatose. I told him not to worry, his work was great and he has a great voice and is entertaining and egaging and he will be fabulous. The host started to introduce him and as he made his way to the mic one of the other authors, a tall bald former PI who has tea cup poodles and is a total riot, came right over and said to me, "You have excellent taste in men." Damn straight.

His reading was fantastic. The audience laughed and he made jokes and they were riveted. The story, The Numbers Game, is fucked up but in such a great way and very noir. Which is a good thing as it's a noir collection. His name is on the front cover next to Jack London and Mark Twain. Not bad company. Or Bad Company. At one point I yelled for some Free Bird. He recieved thunderous applause and yells and when the readings were over he made his rounds signing copies and shaking hands and meeting fans new and old. A little troupe of us walked back up the street to Route 101 and had cocktails and laughed and had delicious conversation. I felt like I knew these people for years the way we all just hit it off, and I recieved many demands to move to the city. Our glasses clinked on through the night.

(This reel missing)

In the morning we sat and talked and played with the kitties Ralph and George until one, and we meandered down the street to have lunch at Tommy's. So much food, so good, so cozy. Then Craig took me to City Lights Bookstore. OhmyGodOhmyGodohmyGod. Be still my Beating heart. Three floors. The kid behind the counter had been the kid behind the table selling the anthology the night before. We wandered the store and he picked up three copies of the anthology, one which was for me. We spent my last few hours next door at Vesuvio which was THE Beat bar, and had a very Tombstoney feel to me, and drank and talked and talked and talked as the rain poured down and into the window next to us on the second floor.

George - "had eyes the color of a gas flame and this unwavering, blinkless blue stare, like he could bend metal with his mind."

Ralph - "was a leaden stump of orange fur. I never saw Ralph move from his spot on Skinner's balcony, not once, but I never saw the same pile of feathers beside him either.

San Fran is one hell of a town. When I told my dad Craig lives in the Tenderloin he said, "Oh my GOD. How many guns does he own?" It's probably not the safest part of town, it's true. But it was bustling and full of creative people. It rained all day yesterday and kicking it at the airport was awesome. My flight was delayed almost 4 hours. I truly miss the pre-911 days when friends could see you all the way to the gate. We could have hung out for a few more hours. Thank God the plane showed up earlier than expected. I still got in at around 1:30 this morning. At least I'm more than half way through Steve Martin's autobiography now. Sky Mall catalouge. Bonus! I'm looking forward to another trip to the city.

Happy Valentine's Day to you, darlin'!

Climb to Conquer

Cancer, that is. I and my fellow Peacemaker fans and friends are going to kick some serious cancer ass this February 24th in our 4th annual Climb to Conquer Cancer. We haul our hungover asses out of our warm and comfy beds long before the crack of dawn to gather at South Mountain in Phoenix and walk 5 increasingly steep miles to the top and to victory.


This year's walk hits home for me and the crew as our good friend Phil Rowe is taking on his third battle with cancer. Phil is a wonderful, passionate, endlessly entertaining man, and the talented guitarist for Suspect Audio. I am walking for Phil, his delicious wife Mandy, and their adorable daughter Kira.


If you'd like to donate to our awesome cause feel free to swing by My personal page an drop some cash on me. :)


Or, for the slightly more daring, those who would like to join our team, Loco Locals, can do so here. I don't even live in Tempe anymore and I joined. Today is the last day to join our team and qualify for our badass team shirt!


Fly in, drive out, hitchhike, teleport. I'm-a be there. What more reason do you need to join?

Thank you all and remember: when you see cancer, kick it in the nads.

Venice with a Vengence

I spent Presidents Day weekend in a hotel room on the boardwalk in Venice Beach. I decided late that Friday afternoon that I needed to get the hell OUT and Venice has always been my kind of people. Beach + freaks + art + introspection + ferris wheels was just what I needed. The walls of my life were closing in on me and I ran before they could collapse.
I booked a room at The Cadillac Hotel where Charlie Chaplin once lived. I didn't realize it was on the boardwalk. I thought I'd be within walking distance but didn't know that walk was 20 feet. The lobby was a dusty 80s magazine cover with mosaic tiled creatures running across the floors and a glorified dumbwaiter for an elevator. My room was nondescript with two twin beds, a TV, and an unnecessarily large bathroom. The windows were screenless and had I reached my hand out one I could have touched the apartment complex view. The mirror above the sink was one foot by one foot and luckily right at my face level. I peered into the apartment complex windows wondering what it was like to call Venice home.
Saturday evening was spent in Hollywood with Caleb, partaking of some fab Italian food and wine and a strip mall theatre presentation of Romeo and Juliet, co-starring our friend Rick. They set the play in the south and the prologue was delivered by a bartender with a southern drawl. The bar and two black boxes were the only set in this tiny black box theatre. The southern location and accents really made me feel like I was there, that these really were two feuding families and a group of friends. The mother was cut out and the nurse was played by a black woman who spoke with a creole accent. Mercrutio, as always, stole the show. The Shakespearian words just poured right off his moonshined tongue, he was so at ease up there. Sadly, the leads were completely unbelievable. I didn't buy for a second that they were in love. Words came out of mouths, bodies were embraced, but the feelings, the passion, were locked somewhere far, far away, Perhaps in the nightclub downstairs. We drained the last of our convenience store bottle of wine and congratulated the cast on their performance as we headed off to more food and debauchery
Caleb and Rick and I spent the night hopefully lamenting the business of acting and commercials, agents, rent, improv, commitment, time, money, creativity, and making the waitress laugh. We ate fried plantains and cheese steak and beer. Where is it all going, what does it mean, how long are we going to do this, what's going to happen to us, will we ever get there and where is "there"? Where does it end? Does it? We snaked back through the streets of Santa Monica to Venice with a case of misery in a can and a wet behind the ears Green Day squeaking on the iPod.
Sunday morning was breakfast burritos on the beach and bus rides. The vendors and the sun and the tourists were out in full bloom. From stem to stern the boardwalk is sectioned off into numbered lots for vendors to stake out. There had to have been 7 different tarot readers and psychics, tumbling and fire breathing performance artists, the man with the upright piano, the hippie girl happily crocheting beanies for sale, the sand sculpturist carving an alligator in ridiculous detail, the would-be artists with their mixed media plywood paintings, the homeless burnouts with huge signs asking for weed, the glittering Day of the Dead skulls, the impromptu jam session musicians, and the professional artists with their credit card machines for easy access of purchase. Runners and rollerbladers, impossibly tiny dogs in sweaters, every fifth person you see carrying a massive camera with tripod looking for that perfect location, and not one sunglassless face.
I walked for miles and miles back and forth on that boardwalk. I had a peach chai latte at Sean's Cafe in Gingerbread Court, the former apartment complex rumored to have been owned by Charlie Chaplin, that now houses tiny shops overflowing with beautiful clothes. I took a nap in front of my open window on my feather pillow in the dancing ocean breeze. Back to Sean's Cafe for a cheeseburger and fries and a Diet Coke As Large As All Mankind. It's the only way I order them. I sat at a bistro table and eavesdropped on the staff and their friendships wondering what kind of people they meet every day. So many thoughts cartwheeling through my mind...about life and destiny, commitment and ambition, desire and passion, art and creativity, fate and blank notebooks. Possibilities. Choices. Acceptance. Limitations. Paths. Hope. Relinquishing. I see now how they came to be called The Doors on this beach. The perception blazed through that crack left by the setting sun.
Another trip up the dumbwaiter to my room to change and pack my purse for a trek. Trusty flip flops in place and iPod tuned up, I set off for that glittering wheel in the distance: the Santa Monica Pier. I don't know how far it was...at least a mile, maybe more. The air was warm, the path was lit and soon the wooden planks lifted me up off the beach. I had never been on the pier, sad to say. I didn't know it was a full blown carnival with games and rides and hot dogs. Buzzers and bells and kids and stuffed animals. Ice cream and souvenir stands, California name plates and your name on a grain of rice. Roger Clyne, you're always with me. I picked up an abalone shell and silver ring, and a funnel cake swimming in strawberries. One ticket for the ferris wheel where I shared a ride with a sweet 12 year old girl from East LA. High above the ocean and into the starless sky, over the screaming roller coaster and the glow of Santa Monica. With a deeply increasing ache in my ankles I headed back, past the swing sets full of laughing teenagers, along the rarely quiet and deserted pathways, to the fire escape on my second floor for late night phone calls.
Monday morning found me nearly crippled from the pain in my ankles and feet. I had to pass on the recommendation of a fabulous omelette house and opt for the crawling distance of the Fig Tree Cafe. Eggs over medium, homefries, sausage and fantastic spiced applesauce. I hobbled over to a patch of grass between the boardwalk and the beach and scribbled the midmorning away. By noon the shops started opening up. I choked back the pain and wandered up Gingerbread Court to the shop at the top that had a skirt I decided I had to have. Alas, they were closed. On the way back down, at the shop at the bottom was a top that went with the skirt perfectly. I went up and down that court about 5 times waiting and hoping that shop would open, with the other shop owners squinting at me with suspicious eyes. Just as I was about to retire the quest the shop owner decided it was a good day to make some money and I gladly handed over mine. The gauzy, lime green and pink flower confection was mine. One matching pink tank top later I was a complete outfit richer.
My tank sufficiently full of Venice mojo, it was time to mozy on up the coast back home. Out of the cramped hotel parking lot, slinking along the one way streets, gliding down the main drag to the queen of the highways, The PCH. Rolling along the ocean past the coveted neighborhoods, dream houses and landmarks. Surfers derobing roadside - a sweeter traffic hazard there never was. I pulled into Malibu Seafood round about sunset for some mahi mahi and a view I've come to the conclusion I can't live without. Home is where your heart is and mine is full of salt water and sand. I drank in that slow burn over the horizon as the highway veered away from the shore, and slowly sipped it on the winding road back home. Things are much brighter on this side of the door.