Starring me, as Johnny Depp in Crybaby

I'm from Michigan, have lived in Seattle, New York City and visited England more times than I count. So I know a thing or two about bad weather. Horrible weather. Chilled-bones and frozen-nerves weather. Weather that makes hot chocolate freeze on contact and Jack Frost cry. Frozen tears. So 45 degrees and a little LA rain should be no biggie, right? Right. No, WRONG. Somehow, 45 degrees, in California, makes me lose circulation. Makes me not want to leave the house. Makes me wear long socks. Makes me double-sweatshirt it. How is this possible? How have I suddenly become so sensitive to the cold? Apparently, this is a common phenomenon amongst LA transplants. The mindset of "living in California" jilts you from enjoying anything other than blue skies and a warm breeze. It's horrible. It's like moving into a mansion for a week and then being told you have to move back to the guest house. No one should ever have rich friends.

I'm going back to the East Coast for the holidays. And I better suck it up, and not complain, and not be a big fat baby, or else I will be the laughing stock of my friends and family. I will lose all street cred, and be banished from the Empire State Building, Liberty Bell, Harvard Square and the White House. Because I had access to the White House until now. I better get my s#$% together, and take it like a man.

"But it's the holidays!" doesn't seem like such a good excuse anymore when you're on a treadmill, all fat and crying

One of the saddest sounds in the world is hearing fireworks, but not actually seeing them. It's right up there with the whimper of golden retriever puppy or the wail of Britney Spears' baby as it rolls around in the backseat floor of her Mercedes because no one bothered to put a seat belt on it.

But luckily, I did see the fireworks that I was hearing last night. More specifically, the Christmas fireworks in Manhattan Beach, California. Maybe it was all the hot moms in holiday sweaters, maybe it was the Bailey's, on ice, with chocolate shavings, but there was something magical in the air. It was the first time this December that I felt the shiver of Christmas magic. The twinkle lights were twinkling, the cinnamon eggnog was brewing and the children were getting red and green puffy paint all over the carpets. Last night was the first time that "But it's the holidays!" actually sounded like a logical excuse for consuming every piece of chocolate I could find.

If I know one thing, I know this. Sitting on the beach with boozy cider, watching merry fireworks is not the absolute worst way to celebrate the holiday season.

Now, Sundays rule

Typically in New York, my Sundays amounted to little more than consumption of a greasy brunch complemented by both mimosa (Vitamin-C-nourished depressant) and strong black coffee (the-wind-beneath-my-wings-stimulant). Following the brunch was more consumption: in the form of excessive window shopping spending that is New York City, followed by absorption of mind-numbing tabloid mags or a self-indulgent nap upon a windowless, shoebox apartment laundry pile. Yesterday however, demonstrated to me that life in California is different. That given a little energy and enthusiasm, Sundays in California are pretty sweet.

I woke up, insignificantly hungover, with the resolve to make something of my day. I knew that exercise would be the lynch pin in revealing this December Sunday, and I knew that my motivation for the run would be prompted by some great scenery. So I followed the cloudless sky to the 10W, and the 10W to Venice. Running South in California always serves me better than running North. Running South means Mexico, it means tequila, it means guacamole. So I ran South on the Venice boardwalk for awhile, enjoying the balmy air and music video view where airplanes become palm trees and clouds became circus animals. The Venice boardwalk ends, however, and there was nothing left to do but run on the beach. Which is pretty much one of the top five coolest things one can do to enjoy California, right up there with binge wine-drinking and being a reality star. Following the beach run, I met my friend Gloria at the Little Door on 3rd St. for some menu indecisiveness and yummy french toast. After determining that yes, sugar daddies do serve a purpose, we sidled up to the LACMA for the infamous, Hollywood-centric Dali exhibit. Dali is a complex, maniacal genius, and only LACMA's white wine would help us de-mystify his process. White wine precluded Atonement, which amounted to little more than Keira Knightley's half-nakedness. Which is pretty cool.

As any Chrome Hearts-wearing faux hipster can tell you, Sundays are the new skulls.

Get sauced, Blackberry yourself

I've always admired people who carry notepads. These are the universe's real entrepreneurs, the people who know that brilliance is bound to arise from spontaneity and the embrace of any idea, no matter how silly. So I thought I was being a saavy, constructive little idea-maker by taking advantage of my Blackberry's memo pad. It's a very useful function, but lately, a pattern is emerging. I'll be out drinking wine somewhere, getting tipsy, letting life become art and vice versa. And then days later, I will read my memo entries. And they will have ZERO significance to me. Is this a the Guitar Hero's version of a drunk dial? I found an entry the other day that said "Greg Brown - Rescue - Whitney Hopter Graphics". Having no recollection of the meaning of these words, especially in this sequence, I Googled them. (Does one always capitalize Google? Does this insult the theists? Are we even there yet?) I found a painting of a pickle swinging into the arms of a tomato on a chopping board. ?!? Did I want this painting? Does the pickle have significance? (Am I pregnant?) Or even better, my entry under the heading "Books". Two words: "Jurassic Park". Jurassic Park?! The Michael Crichton book? Didn't it come out when I was in 4th grade?

All I know for sure is this: the depths of my gray matter are a strange, strange place. We'll just have to wait and see what flash of genius the next pinot noir sends my way.

eBone-ing.com

Online social networking has probably gone too far when Dogster and Catster.coms 1) exist, and 2) also have more than like thirty-three members, and 3) they don't all live in Beulah, Wyoming. 4) Where only thirty-three people live.

Says Dogster.com founder Ted Rheingold, “All these people come for the same reason everyone else is on the Internet: they found people who are like-minded,” he continues, “They were missing what I call a certain kind of social-ality in their lives, and this is the place where they found it. It’s actually quite heartwarming.” Yeahhh. Catster.com users lacking "social-ality" might just be the biggest understatement of '07. This isn't about the poor animals. This is a front for single, multi-cat-owning women to post pictures of themselves smothered in butterscotch on the Internet. I'm onto you, catwomen!

Yeah, so California is not a total dump

I was seventeen years old when I first laid eyes on the shores of the Pacific Ocean, and I'm reminded of this every time I see it. I waited seventeen years to see what to me, will always be one the most amazing sights I have ever seen. Now having read this, you are absolutely required to call me out if I ever lose my perspective. EVER! The spectacular, sun drenched coastline, the lulling azure waves and the blazing tangerine ocean sunsets positively SCHOOL, school! the flat...desolate...and wintry plains of Michigan. They school them everyday. And this weekend when I hiked with a friend in Malibu, climbing up the sunny, 70-degree valley mountains, trotting down the dirty beach grass dips and finally settling on a worn, wooden bench overseeing the entire coast of Southern California, I wondered how it could be December. How it could be freaking December.

And that blissful Saturday afternoon turned into the day it was always meant to be. Driving back from my hike, I called my friend Caitlin, who was at that moment driving up to Santa Barbara for the day with her friend Devon. My face immediately scrunched into that of a little sulking pug. Because that sounded like the best idea, maybe ever, and I wanted to go. But they had already left. So I thought about it for a moment...and just turned my little blue Volvo nose north to the 101. I would catch them, by God. Now the best thing about the 101 is passing by Summerland. Summerland is the most amazing little town right before Santa Barbara. It hugs Ortega Hill and just sits there like a fat, ripe orange. And it's called Summerland. I don't know how else to say that that is amazing. We ended up staying the night at the Double Tree in Santa Barbara, which spared no expense in providing us with peppy little travel-size deodorants, face wash, toothbrushes, flattering flannel sheets and chocolate chip cookies (their THING). Even the stock wall paintings were great: little sketches of palm trees and the California coastline. It was an amazing time, and I was sad to leave. But I knew I'd come back. Because all it takes is my little Volvo. And the 101.

Red Rover, Red Rover, send employee #21987 right over

The game of Red Rover is an awful lot like the ole' promotion game. In case you forgot, which I highly doubt, Red Rover is the game where two lines of people standing opposite one another hold hands, forming two chains. One person from each team takes turn running directly at the opposite chain in order to physically break through it. It's dangerous. The odds are against you. And the chain will stop at nothing (NOTHING!) to clothesline you faster than you can say Uncle! and also holy shitballs. So there you are, lying on your back. Knocked out cold and covered in dirt. Or...by some miracle of heaven...you break the chain! You toe your little toes into the land of milk and honey! A land of actual salaries! Perky assistants! And sweet mini-fridges!

In my observance, these exact same savage childhood tournaments take place in the office. We run like little blind moles at the tightly linked arms of our company higher-ups, wielding mechanical pencils, protractors and upper-left-hand-drawer-stale Power Bars. We run at our supervisors from noble cubicles with powerpoint presentations documenting our yearly contributions, or we take the high road by offering up sexual favors, such as a blow job or anal sex, in exchange for getting a promotion. It's an uphill battle. And there are too many candidates running at the chain to give anyone good odds. But while others get clotheslined faster than an amateur wrestler, a few of us break through their kid-gloved, 2nd homeowning, portfolio-holding hands and get to the other side. It may not turn out to be milk and honey, and it may turn out be merely more hard work, more responsibility and less time for Sudoku. But such is life. And you, by God, you, can say you made it to Wally World.

I just want you to know I'm alive

I woke up this morning, as usual, struggling to regain consciousness and mumbling about some bizarre dream or another. But today, unlike other days, I touched my face, pulled my hair and made sure my legs were under the covers. Made sure that I still did in fact have legs. Not that I'm an incredibly superstitious person, but because odds were against me of surviving last night. More specifically, because I ate dinner at El Coyote on Beverly. At the very corner table that Sharon Tate ate her last meal at...before she was MURDERED (with unborn child) by Charles Manson. And nobody puts unborn baby in the corner. (Too much?). And I was HALFWAY into my meal before a fellow patron even informed me of this. All of a sudden, I was sober Susan (not to be confused with Suddenly Susan, or more specifically, Brooke Shields. Because I don't resemble Brooke Shields. At all), and my tamale tasted of rubber, and my margarita of mouthwash. Would I survive the night??

Just barely. A near-death experience of painful, gay, painfully gay karaoke in West Hollywood almost ended it all. A paunchy, unfortunate crooner had actually convinced himself that he WAS Aretha Franklin. His dance routine amounted to little more than Sweatin to the Oldies, and something vaguely resembling pork rinds permeated his set. But I'm alive, El Coyote, I'm alive.

ewww

My friend Ben reminded me to get my xmas shopping done early this year.

seamen!

My god, this is becoming like Dear Diary. Is this the time to tell you that I just got my period (in my white Jordaches no less) and how embarrassing it was to have lettuce stuck in my braces after lunch period C? So if you've been following my blog, which obviously you have (being that the "you" is really just "me" reading my own blog), you'll know that I somehow ended up on a large sailing vessel a few weeks ago. And that the captain of this vessel got my phone number from my friend. So said Captain called, and we went out on what I'd like to call a little awkward amigoingtohavesexwiththispersonandendupinsomerandomapartment,unabletofindmyunderpants (theanswerwasnointhiscase) encounter, also known as a "date". The Captain was uber-nice, and so was the sea bass. Although it's not like I've ever met an unagreeable sea bass. But he just didn't really reel me in, and I didn't want him to put motion in my ocean. And he's prolly docked in a coupla ports...IF you know what I mean. But he was a sexy little merman, and it was a whale of time. Largely due to the fact that the night ended with a 600-lb. alpha male sea lion named Bobo chasing us down a dock. STG.

Umm what's the difference between a tuna fish and a piano? You...can't...tune...a...fish.

Finally, I step in horse poop

Yesssss. This charlatan of a cowgirl finally made it to a real ranch. With real horseshit. (Hello oxymoron, you little devil!) And a miniature pony named Little Dude (who, it should be noted, was hung like a stallion). No Thanksgiving has even come within a HORSESHOE of this year's ranch escapade/wino binge in Sideways-country (Santa Ynez, CA). I drove Gator, the tractor. I played with two pugs, Samson and Delilah, each of whom were missing an eye. I ate fried turkey like a fat kid. I stuffed my face with my own dessert (how tacky!). I even rocked Guitar Hero (and darts, for that matter. By rocking darts I mean five got stuck in the wall). And we actually played horseshoes. And when was the last time you played horseshoes. Seriously.

The only thing missing was the ranchhand with a fu manchu and a bluetooth. Oh wait, he was there. Santa Ynez, I heart you.

Giddyup.

Happy Fucksgiving

How great is the word "fucksgiving". As in I don't give a fuck about Thanksgiving. Or I want to have sex (f#$%) on Thanksgiving.

No, no, in all seriousness, I LOVE Thanksgiving. Women are expected to slave away in the kitchen while men sit around watching football and farting. It's like a parallel universe. I'm actually very excited about it this year. I am going to wine country with a best friend to explore the nature of our failures and question our relationships. Noooo wait that's Sideways. But I am going to wine country with some friends which should be amazing, because one, I can get drunkety drunk, and two, it allows me to avoid Thanksgiving with my grandmother. Who is fucking bananas, and also has no natural limbs left. Seriously, she is a bionic woman. Even her teeth are wooden.

In other news... treeman.

Artificial Intelligence

Being a Hollywood player is $eriou$ bu$ine$$ (I replace the letters "s" with dollar signs because dollar signs are sweet, and also because they represent powerfulness). Aspiring to be a Hollywood player is an even more serious business. To survive in the wolfpack of hungry, snarling industry cubs, you'd better know the weekend's box office results, know your imdbPro credits, and whatever "it" is, well you'd better know about it before anyone else in your tracking group. So the fact that working in Hollywood makes me want to run wild down Wilshire, naked and screaming, is probably a bad sign. I find box office grosses, industry parties and Variety magazine violently uninteresting. By comparison, I find sea kelp, condiments and staple removers interesting.

Additionally, everytime I hear industry lingo, it sounds like someone in Hollywood is farting. And don't get me wrong - farting is a great thing because 1) it's hilarious, and 2) scatological humor is always amazing and 3) I am, like, six years old. But farting is ridiculous, and so are Hollywoodisms. Here are my favorites (that don'tmakeanysense):

Smart. As in "this is a really SMART piece." This either means you didn't enjoy the movie, but are aware that it has social/cultural/political significance, or, it means that it wasn't about a guy who is a wrestler but is also a babysitter.

X meets Y*. Semi-useful, mainly since it saves time by describing movie Z as the convergeance of movies X and Y in less than 15 seconds (I don't HAVE 5 minutes for your real opinion, you presumptuous fuck). Which therefore takes away anything original about movie Z. And also forever ruins movies X and Y. But now you don't have to see the movie! Because X meet Y sees it for you! Example: That movie is sooo "Rosemary's Baby" meets "Daddy Day Care". You instantly understand the horror felt by a woman who gives birth to Satan, but also how CUTE it feels when men who get laid off are inspired to open their own day-care center. Rosemary's Day Care, anyone?
*X meets Y can be replaced/further clarified by the classic Bones/Meat analogy. Example: It's got the bones of Rocky IV with the meat of Mean Girls. Rocky Girls IV.

Sexy. An erotic adjective made totally bizarre by describing a project, director, celebrity name, thumbtack, poopstain - basically anything anyone in Hollywood is talking about, because anything anyone in Hollywood is inherently sexy. Example: "You've got two conflicting offers for one of your clients? Now that's a sexy problem to have." or "Nicole Richie? Now there's a sexy pile o' bones."

Of it all. Now I don't even have the slightest idea what this means. But these are three words Hollywood can tack onto virtually anything, and these words add words to a sentence and make what you're saying a little bit longer. "The Martin Scorsese of it all will really lend itself to this project." In this example, I'm saying that it's a good thing that Martin Scorsese is involved in the project. "Hannah Montana's vagina of it all is enormous." In this example, I'm saying that Hannah Montana has a big vagina.

Atmospheric. This one has something to do with either everything other than a film's dialogue, or it has something to do weather conditions outside. "This actiondramedyslapstickslasher-piece is more atmospheric rather than reality-based." I mean that makes so much fucking sense.

Listen, I could go on, andonandonandon. But now I have to pee, and you get it. And you get it because you're smart.

encore

again, again!

your blogspot is better than mine, and I hate you for it

As my sage friend Mac has ALWAYS said: the only thing worse than being a short man is being a man who looks like a lesbian. http://menwholooklikeoldlesbians.blogspot.com/

someone...

...I THOUGHT was a friend just asked me what my favorite word is. I thought this was someone I really knew. And who really knew me. Because otherwise they would have known the fucking answer.

Profiterole. Obviously.

because-that's-how-I-roll

I am from the Midwest. I was raised on hearty cornbread and pure buckwheat. I churned my own butter at the age of two. I sheared spring lambs and gathered fresh eggs in a wicker basket. All of my aprons were sewn from blue calico. So how, exactly, did Laura Ingalls Wilder end up on a 100-ft Diddy yacht on a glorious November afternoon in Southern California?

I do not have that answer. The only thing I can come up with is "because that's how I roll".

It started with a little "boat outing" organized by a friend. The reality was a gleaming yacht excursion that will make every Saturday afternoon to follow look like the generic version of the best Saturday afternoon of my life. The sun was shining, the hot dogs were grilling, and our yacht was...yachting?!!? Holy shit, I was yachting!!! The coolest part: there's not even any other way to describe it. Not boating, not sailing. It was yachting. So we spent five lazy hours trying to come up with a sufficient argument as to why we should stay on the yacht forever. Unfortunately, and after much deliberation, no one came up with anything compelling.

The captain asked for my digits. Now he was the kind of captain who has more than one first mate. Maybe seven. The kind of captain who has sailed into many a port. And maybe more than one port at a time, if that's possible. But you know what, I'll probably call him. He is, after all, the captain. Of a yacht.

LAguyofmydreams.com

So, it IS possible to find your soulmate by simply making a thoughtful, artistic poster of said soulmate in a well populated city (www.nygirlofmydreams.com)! I knew it! Easy as pie. Easy bake oven. Easy as a whore. A whore who is by definition, "easy".

So here's my go at LAguyofmydreams.com. Since I, however, cannot draw anything more than bubble letters, and will not resort to a poster illustration advertisement. So I guess this modest blog will serve as canvas. MY LAgomd.com is a tricky one though, being that he wore a powdered wig. This detail is made less unusual by the fact that it was Halloween season. Said night was Saturday, October 27th, the REAL night to celebrate Halloween. Not some wack Wednesday. I saddled up with some friends to barslashclub Falcon, the site of a very LA-high-school-reunion-Halloween-party-for-someone-named-Brandon-Beck (BAD hyphens! behave yourselves!). I forget LAgomd.com's name, I forget his occupation, and I forget if he was even wearing pants. But he had on a DIVINE Louis XIV powdered wig. Detail #2.

After finding the only clean lounge pillow on a booze-soaked bench, there appeared, to my left, LOUIS. As I slowly warmed up to the pleasant conversation and gentle flattery of this seductive monarch, it donned on me than my cocktail had come to its end. And this particular thought was more frightening to me than any John Carpenter masterpiece. But when I returned from my refill, Louis had vanished. Louis did mention, however, that he knew neither Brandon, our elusive host, nor attended the high school with any of these drunk-or-treaters. This is all I know.

But if YOU, however, if YOU have any details to the whereabouts of LAgomd.com, I implore you, write me. Or text me.

American Pimpster

Seriously, I mean seriously, how much do you love Too $hort. Todd Anthony Shaw (thanks, Wiki) pretty much dominated the 90's drum machine, spitting rhymes sans even a MENTION of gangs, drugs, or even violence. No, all, T$ wanted was to hit the skins. Bump the uglies. Boogie woogie horizontally. Whichmeanssex. And maybe contract a little sum'in sum'in along the way.

You must admit, you can't get "Blow the Whistle" out of your head. It features the refraining words "blow the whistle" over and over (and over) again, followed by a series of whistle blasts. Unprecedented genius.

Yeah, you do actually look like you've gained 5 lbs

My roommate looked like she actually had gained 5 pounds over the weekend, so when she said, "I need to go to the gym tonight. I seriously gained like 5 lbs. this weekend," I said, "Yeah, you seriously do." What are friends for, I ask you.

Cheerleaders are h-o-t

The dusty cowgirl blush of this blog befits a brief discussion of the most juicy hidden gem of last night's Time Warner cable programming: "Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team". These savage vixens oooozzzee Texas sexuality as they sashay, shimmy, and squeeze into their microscopic uniforms for thirty whole minutes. They even run through tires. And it's fascinating. Their coach is the meanest beauty-pageant mom in Texas; a competitive ex-DCC herself who really kicks with her spurs and has no tolerance for brunettes, flat chests or God forbid, backfat. The most embarrassing thing about this show is that it's on CMT. Country. Music. Television. So the reality is: you're watching CMT. And that is not without its bizarre connotations. One example being that this program is followed by "Trick My Truck"...the shit-kicking version of "Pimp My Ride". Next thing you know, you're watching the 2007 CMA's and fantasizing about Carrie Underwood.

Giddyup.

Hallo-weak 2007; Progress!

A hump-day Halloween celebration in Los Angeles is the most worthless holiday observance that could happen to someone above the age of 12. By my calculations, you drank enough malt liquor to the point of saturation/nerve cell damage on the previous weekend, and your costume now has three, small to large(ish), unintentially provocative new holes. It smells of blended Irish Whiskey (Jameson) and something vaguely resembling vomit. You are not sure of the specific events resulting in these soilings, but Friday/Saturday nights are generally guilty. I am unsure as to why anyone would want to put said costume on for a third time, and on a Wednesday no less.

But I digress. Since my arrival, I am readily adjusting to life in the Big Snapple (I'm trying it out...Bueller?) that is LA. In the past few weeks I've accomplished the following:

- sold three (3) tasteless C-list celebrity pictures to TMZ.com, one of which rewarded me quite handsomely by revealing Vanessa Hudgens third nipple.

- slept with two (2) Hollywood agents. Although one of their e-mail addresses ended in "assistant", I have been assured by many a commercially-attractive waiter that these individuals are the lynchpin in my quest for global celebrity and Lakers floor seats.

- ingested one (1) unidentified pill from a charming Hassidic man, resulting in a 4-day meditative journey spanning the Best Buy parking lot on La Brea.

Additionally, I have found an apartment to live in. It smells of a rubber boot and houses more than a small family of roaches. Regardless, it is bigger than any shoebox Manhattan has to offer, and my bedroom possesses a small, Juliet-ish balcony. This balcony was truly the deal-breaker, being that my name is Juliet, and also that it's about time I had a fucking balcony.

1. Do coke, 2. Listen to Yanni

Day 1:

So I've just arrived in Los Angeles, California, having traversed the North American Great Plains on horseback. I came all the way from New York City, where I've been living an average East Village-cowgirl existence: drinking Stella Artois and talking about the merits of laceless Converse. It was a long, dusty, heroine-fueled road to LA, and my ass is chapped from the old leather saddle. And also because I didn't wear pants the entire time. Sometimes I wonder why I didn't just buy a JetBlue ticket, and also why I feel the need to pretend I'm a cowgirl and lie about having ridden horseback to get here. But sometimes in life, there are questions that will go unanswered.

As I rode off Wilshire Blvd. into my first LA sunset atop my mustang pony Mustang Pony, a sage homeless woman wisely muttered to herself: Do coke. Listen to Yanni.

It is here that my adventure begins.