Sunday, January 28, 2007, 8:34 PM
Number one on my list of pet peeves is inconsideration, which comes in many forms. I know I’ve been inconsiderate myself, every single time I’ve been late somewhere and as a result, have made someone else wait for me.
But excessive noise where I live is where I have to draw the line. I hate noisy, inconsiderate people with surround sound systems in an apartment complex. Buy a fucking house. And while you’re at it, buy yourself a pair of headphones and blare the noise into your own damn head because 95% of the rest of the population could care less about what you’re listening to.
I hate people who don’t know how to close a door quietly. I’ve been living here almost twelve months and in that time, I can’t tell you how often I’ve been startled awake or have almost jumped out of my skin because people slam their doors. There’s a couple across the hall who does this, and so does the neighbor girl at the end. I’d like to smash a pair of cymbals over their heads in the wee hours of the morning. If I still had the leaf blower from Fort Wayne, I could start that sucker up in the hallway right outside their doors. God, that would be fun. I’d start it up every time I heard the door slam, or the annoying junglebeat of a stereo. I’d wear that leaf blower to shreds in no time.
Just today, I decided to give up hoping that my more quiet, considerate neighborly ways will rub off on the rest. Fuck ‘em all. I’m going to be as noisy as they are. Every time I go in and out of my apartment now, I’m going to pretend like I’m a elephant doing dah bump against the door. It should be liberating once I get past my reservations of being as noisy and inconsiderate as everyone else.
Now I just need to hook up my own surround system. I know exactly what I’m going to play, too: Barry Manilow.
Posterity and all
I almost worked out again tonight after I got home from work, but I’m a girl and I have to sit down to pee … and when I was there I thought, damn, I don’t want to go upstairs and get all breathless, I’d rather stay here and have a screwdriver and eat something good.
That said, last night’s workout was grand. Afterwards, I could feel my lungs in my chest and that’s always a good sign that I worked out hard enough to breathe heavily. That’s the key to burning weight, you know: breathing. Only there wasn’t a lot of fat burning going on last night, it was more of a muscle re-introduction kind of thing. Especially when I consider the bike--I climbed off of that thing feeling bow-legged, probably looking like wheezy veal about to be slaughtered.
And you know, I’m upset that there is veal available for us to eat. And lobsters. And tuna. I know if I saw firsthand how these animals are slaughtered, I would become a vegetarian on the spot. Mutal of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom used to plunge me into the depths of hell as a kid. “What’s happening?!” I'd demand of Mom in my skreechy Poltergeist voice. “Why is Marlin letting the lion eat Bambi?!”
I’ve avoided the footage and the reality of how animals are killed for our consumption. I won’t eat anything that I’ve met face-to-face. And I know I need to work on my consistency in this regard, because I know a little about how animals are tor-- … oh, never mind. Thinking about this stuff gives me indigestion and makes me sad.
I could feel my lovehandles swaying in the wind today. There I was feeling all warm and powerful-like because I’d been waving those suckers last night on the elliptical and bike machine. It was liberating, because I know I’m going to get rid of that roll … so I purposely made ‘em jiggle all that much more.
Eat your heart out, Hollywood.
I don't even know, man
After thinking about it for months, I finally checked out my apartment complex’s workout facilities tonight. This is my first step toward working out again. Sniff, then jump.
It didn’t smell all that good, but I didn’t expect the room to smell like Mr. Clean. Still, it would have been nice. There’s only one elliptical machine (my favorite huff-and-puff contraption), but there are two treadmills, neither of which I care to get on since I walk to and from work. And forget jogging; history has already proven that I won’t run unless I’m being chased by a devil’s imp, a tornado or a bee.
That leaves the stationary bike and a set of loose dumbbells that I have little idea how to use because I prefer Nautilus machines to tone my muscles. Oh, wait. There are two of those big Swiss ball things, but they require a certain amount of coordination that I’ve never, er, had. Great Googly-Moogly, please help me hold on to my dignity if a cute (straight) male resident comes in to work out while I’m struggling to keep afloat on one of those balls.
I’ve got a ton of sports bras, bike rider shorts, and yoga-type workout outfits that I refuse to wear because I’m no longer in shape. Yet here I am in Los Angeles, California, in one of the most health-conscious places around, in a city mainly populated by girls who weigh less than 120 pounds, and men whose bodies routinely make me drool. A fitness club is the place to be seen … and, well, it seems sacrilegious to think that I’m going to work out in bulky sweats and a t-shirt. Hmm, maybe I’ll wear my sunglasses.
Bona fide Drunken Character Sketches
Under the best of circumstances, Andi is vertically challenged. In a pair of flat-heeled boots and with four glasses of wine in her bloodstream, she’s a menace to anyone within three feet.
She doesn’t remember a thing, but her friends say she fell backwards for no damn reason at all, then pitched forward--like she was on a boat at high seas--with a jerk that made the wine in her glass do a tie-dye imitation on the white shirt of some poor guy who had the bad judgement to stand in front of her at The Killers Concert on New Year’s Eve. The guy whipped around, saw her and shrugged. He half-pulled the shirt off and turned it around backwards. Two minutes later, Andi and the guy were in the throes of Mack City because, as the guy told Andi later, one of her friends told him to "go for it, she needs it."
Moral of the story? Don’t drink and stand around in a crowd.
Em had only been camping three times in her life (back when she was a Girl Scout), but peeing in the rough was like riding a bike. So what if it was dark and only sixteen degrees outsides? Just drop trou, squat and let loose. And that’s what she did, too, but then the ground gave way beneath her feet, smacked her bare rear and threw her head-over-heel down a two-hundred-foot-high hill. By the time she got to the bottom she didn’t have to pee anymore, but the rosy effects from her Corona had unfortunately worn thin.
Moral of the story? When camping, bring one of those nifty spill proof urinals to pee in. (They sell them at Sears.)
Bob and his roommate Lei Lou were watching an old Roseanne episode when Bob took a swig out of a recapped beer bottle he’d fished out of the refrigerator. Instead of the cool zing he expected, a rush of pungent vinegar hit the back of his throat. He gagged, gave a yell and spit a bunch of fluid onto his thighs.
[Two weeks ago, Bob peed into a half-empty beer bottle during one of Lei Lou’s interminable showers. They only had one bathroom and with necessity being the mother of invention and all that ... well, you know. Instead of emptying the bottle, he’d left it on the counter, where Lei Lou found it later. Since it was mostly full, she’d recapped it and put it into the fridge. And the rest, as they say, is history.]
Morale of the story? Drink wine instead.
The ups and downs of it all
I’m bored with recounting New Years Eve, so we’ll make this quick.
There were red and blue spot lights aimed at New York-type buildings in Paramount’s backlot where the concert madness was held. Verily prettily.
Craziness ensued at the check-in point. I needed to show my driver’s ID and the credit card I’d purchased the tickets with; I’m surprised I didn’t lose both, but I’m generally surprised all the time by everything and everyone. Jaded, I am not. This, I think, is a good thing.
There was a ferris wheel. I rode it. Without barfing.
Taxi hailing etiquette
Happy New Year!
So. The idea about going to a New Year’s concert--which just happened to be just a few burps away from where I live--was about convenience, a safe kind of no-responsibility-or-worries-kind of excitement, easy accessibility (busses were running free), Carmen Electra and The Killers. You know; The Killers. They sing that song When You Were Young:
You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch it now ... here he comes!
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined when you were young
Oh man, if that song isn’t me all over, I don’t know what is.
The plan of the evening was that we would coat the insides of our stomachs with good food at my place. That’s where the Omaha sirloin steaks (from Grandma) cooked in a Cabernet butter sauce entered the scenario. They turned out so good, as did my potato soup and the spaghetti squash. And there was that opened bottle of Cabernet that had to be consumed, and a merry high to achieve before we ate. Actually, my guests had to catch up with me; I’d been busting my ass all day cleaning the place, preparing, cooking, fussing. You know how it is. It’s such a joy to do for others … but holy cow! by the time five o’clock rolled around, I was ready for a cocktail. And the wine was already open.
Like a good host, I insisted that my guestessess play catch-up when they arrived, which they were more than happy to do, so don’t feel sorry for them, Argentina.
Now my West Hollywood studio may be small, but it’s warrrrmeeely accommodating. Anyone who eyeballs it loves it. I had my candles burning, the golden and red wall sconces, the antique flicker lamp, the miniature wall divider with all of its tea lights ... woo, it was gorgeous. Just imagine the scents of spiced pumpkin, merlot, vanilla and mushrooms with butter and garlic. It was the beginning to a first class New Year’s Eve.
We toasted each other and our dreams yet-to-be, ate our beef and ‘shroons, then tried to apply eyeliner with unsteady hands. Yes, we laughed ourselves into sore stomachs. This is what part of what New Year's Eve is about--enjoying the friends you've made. During all of this, we left my front door open because my studio got hot—a stove heats up a place, but so can the wine in your blood. Meanwhile, a blond girl who lives on the second floor wandered down. She wanted to see if the guy down the hall was home. He wasn’t, so we invited her in for a glass of wine.
“Is the guy you’re looking for the unfortunate guy with the female football-loving howling cavalcade?” I wanted to know.
She did a double take and shook her head at me. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s too bad,” I told her. “I could use your services to make them go howl somewhere else. Like Zimbabwe.”
The howling cavalcade had howled for over four hours that Saturday I got home four months or so ago, when I was hung over and feeling like hell. I took a shower, stuffed my ears with the orange dick-shaped plugs I bought from the drugstore, then turned on my sound machine. And I could still hear them howling like fucking maniacs. They’ll give up soon, I told myself. They have to; their throats will be raw if they don’t. When I presented myself at their doorstep hours later, they told me I was being unreasonable and called me a bitch.
I love teenagers.
I love apartment living.
And inconsideration tops my list.
So my blond neighbor didn’t know the howler. She had her own problems: an ex-boyfriend with a mechanical heart. How I and my guests got roped into listening to her woes over the next 45 minutes is beyond me, but I blame the Cabernet, the sun, moon and stars.
And then it was almost past time for us to catch the bus heading for the Paramount Studios. We burst out of the apartment like hell was hot on our heels, arrived at the bus stop in time to catch it … and then watched it cruise by with our mouths gaped. What the?
Well, there was no way A could make it to the other end of Melrose in killer heels since she was used to wearing Doc Martins and slippers. Drastic measures were needed. And even though we’d been calling for a taxi all night long (with no results), I – in my I am Superwoman inebriated state – stepped out into the roadway almost in front of an oncoming taxi. And it stopped. Huh. Whaddaya know? The taxi was empty and I looked hot that night. We’re convinced that that’s why we got to the Studio and the concert in time.
Thoughts of the concert and the concert-goers yet to come ...
The red carpet
It's still New Year's Eve here at Unhinged. If it takes me a week to recount the madness of Sunday night, so be it.
This is T, me and A before we left for the evening. All three of us were mightily merry by this point, and ready to hear us some Killers.So. The red carpet; by the time we hit it, it was LATE. Like three a.m. or so. Otherwise, I'm sure The Powers That Be would have shooed us away like the drunken gnats we were.
I'm not sure who the guy under the yellow hat was, but when you're drinking, there comes a point when no one is a stranger. I remember trying to warm the arms of a girl who'd unwisely worn a sleeveless top (in fifty-degree weather), trying to give poor relationship advice to someone else, and later engaging in a locklip with some guy in a white shirt who I'd spilled my wine on. He was a good kisser, though, and he did deserve it.
More adventures to come! I only have the patience to do this photo uploading in small increments.
Happy New Year!
I have stories and photos to come, but I have to recuperate first. And yeah, I still am.
Meanwhile, here's me and a friend on the Red Carpet at The Killers concert on New Year's Eve.