Say Cheese

I recently went to Disneyland with my mom, and she reminded me of the following story. When I was 4, after a fruitful trip to the happiest place on Earth, I told her that I had every intention of marrying Mickey Mouse so that I could live happily ever after in Disneyland. Cute sentiment, right? Thinking about this, I came to the realization that that moment may be the only time in my life that I've ever thought of marriage in a positive light, as something that may actually have benefits to it. No kidding. So while in Toontown this last Monday I dragged my mom over to Mickey's house to try to relive this old nostalgia for one of America's dying institutions. As I walked through his quaint, brightly painted cottage with overstuffed plastic furniture I thought to myself, hell, maybe I could do this. The Mouse has money, his own place with no roomates and he could probably hook me up with the screenwriting internship at Disney that I applied for last summer...

However, as we walked over to Splash Mountain to cram in a log with strangers and get our butts wet, the old Blackheart sensibility started to rear its lovely head. First off, how could I possibly share an oversized, yellow blow-up bed with a Giant Mouse? Christ, what would our kids look like? I'm aiming for Brangelina type offspring, if any at all, not the Elephant Man. Secondly, his on again, off again ex girlfriend Minnie would be living next door, and the bitch won't even give up his last name let alone his precious free time. Also, I've seen her kitchen, and the girl can cook. I can barely make toast. Plus, I'm lactose intolerant, and they'd always have a love of cheese in common. Lastly, having a workaholic husband who spends more time with his friends (i.e. Goofy and Donald Duck) and on the soundstage than with me, just doesn't appeal to me. I need some comfort and love, damnit, if I'm going to make the effort to walk down the cartoon aisle. And Disneyland is filled with kids and obese Americans at all times, which quite frankly, is not my ideal living environment. I'd rather live on Wisteria Lane with those Desperate Housewife skitches (translation=skinny bitches.)

So, folks, despite my youthful desire to fall in love and marry my childhood hero, my adult self just can't follow suit. Maybe someday I'll find my Prince (barf) and make my own happiest place on Earth (barf, again), but until then, this Blackheart will keep sifting through the Plotus of the world and playing fetch.

Midnight at the Garden of Eden

Halloween weekend. Good god. Can a girl get some recovery sleep? All the sinning culminated at the Garden of Eden party in Hollywood last Saturday night were two boys who looked all of 15 and dressed as the Gotti brothers in their matching white bandanas, over-sized cubic zirconia crosses and tight black t-shirts harassed my friends on the dancefloor. Can a girl get some personal space? When the clock struck midnight this Cinderella Blackheart did indeed turn into a grimy handmaid, and by 2am my pumpkin cab was ready to roll me and my mice friends away. Did I leave a glass slipper? No, indeed. But I did leave behind a great deal of hard earned cash, a tube of cheap lipstick, my sobriety and a bit of self respect.

When I was young, Halloween was my favorite holiday. My stepbrother, who was a dj and amateur carpenter at the time, used to transform our humble home into a den of horror. My friends and I would take turns leading kids through our haunted house and jumping out at unsuspecting victims through smoke machine clouds. His dj lights would spin rhythmically, hypnotizing me as I allowed myself to freefall into a sugar induced coma. We even got in the newspaper once, our home becoming a dot on the historical print landscape. Those were the good old days. Gone are the days of guarding my Reeses cups from my mother. (One time I sniffed the mix of chocolate and peanut butter goodness on her breath and found wrappers in her bed, stuffed under her sheets. Busted.) Gone are the days of someone else sewing a Snow White or bee costume for you. And gone are the days of begging my dad to let me watch just one more horror film with my stepbrother, then regretting it as I ran from killer clowns in my nightmares.

Next year I'm going old school. I'm watching horror films in my bed with a giant pumpkin bucket on my lap full of candy. I may even mail my mom a Reeses cup for old times sake... or maybe just the wrapper. Ah, who am I kidding? I'll probably end up half-naked taking shots of Pitron at some totally pretentious LA party and loving every damn minute of it. That is, at least until I wake up in the morning with a hangover and somebody named Zorro's number on a cocktail napkin in my clutch. Can a girl get some aspirin?

SF vs. LA: The Ultimate Showdown

In my constant battle over which city to reside in, I've come up with a list of pros and cons for both cities. Actually, it's more of an ultimate fighter competition between the two, without all the blood and drool. LA fires vs. SF earthquakes. Well, I'd rather be swallowed by the earth than burnt alive, so one point for Frisco. LA Dodgers vs. SF Giants. I hate baseball, so scratch that. LA men (actor/somethings obsessed with outer appearances) vs. SF men (musician/somethings with lots of facial hair). Hmm, both cities have an excess of gay men, whom I love but who make it a bit difficult for a single woman, but I like a hairy man so SF wins again. Plus, after dating many an actor/_____, I can tell you, it's a lose-lose situation, and who doesn't love a musician? LA smog vs. SF fog. Fog won't kill ya; 3 points for SF. But fog can be depressing, and nothing can beat LA weather. One point for LA. Griffith Park vs. Golden Gate. No comparison. Besides the bums in GG are much nicer. LA traffic vs. SF transit. Love that BART system and you too Muni, you cute lil' thing. Man, SF is kickin' ass. Let's continue. LA vs. SF night scene. Wow, too close to call. It's a tie on that one. LA beach vs. SF beach. LA beaches don't require you bring a parka and wool blanket so LA racks up another. Flat LA streets vs. SF hills. Love them hills. One weekend there, and my calves and butt cheeks feel like rocks. LA vs. SF culture. Both towns house about as many nationalities as the UN so I'd say another tie. LA eateries vs. SF restaurants. The two best meals of my life have been in SF, and I usually side with my stomach.

Look, I could go on and on, but one round remains. The showdown. LA vs. SF charm. Not many people have written love songs to LA. In fact, I can't think of any, except perhaps The Doors' "LA Woman," but that's not exactly a glowing review. SF has an endless amount of songs written in its honor, many of which line the walls in the lobby of Geary Street's Hotel California. But there's only one true love song that sums up my thoughts on who the winner is, and that belongs to the illustrious Tony Bennett:

I LEFT MY HEART IN SAN FRANCISCO

The loveliness of Paris
Seems somehow sadly gay
The glory that was Rome
Is of another day
I've been terribly alone
And forgotten in Manhattan [insert: Los Angeles]
I'm going home to my city by the bay.

I left my heart in San Francisco
High on a hill, it calls to me.
To be where little cable cars
Climb halfway to the stars!
The morning fog may chill the air
I don't care!
My love waits there in San Francisco
Above the blue and windy sea
When I come home to you, San Francisco,
Your golden sun will shine for me!

(*Sidenote: Love the use of exclamation points in your lyrics, Tony. Well played.)

Fire Starter

As my plane touched down over Los Angeles last night on my way back from San Francisco, the pilot pointed out that to our left we could catch a spectacular glimpse of the LA fires. Like a bunch of eager tourists on an urban safari, we turned our heads, piling on top of one another to take a look at the destruction. "Oooohhh... aaahhh." And it was spectacular: little lines of sparkling red light dotting the black canvas below. The woman next to me scoffed, rolling her eyes as she dug her face deeper into her book. Apparently, she was above all of this. We were rubberneckers, and she was a highly sophisticated woman of good breeding who preferred not to make light of the tragedies unfolding on the ground. But what she missed was the beauty of it all, a beauty that was short lived once the plane came to the terminal and smoke started to fill our lungs, causing our throats to swell and our eyes to itch. Once home, I spent hours cleaning the soot off the sills of my open windows and prayed that my poor cat didn't have a case of the black lung. Then watching the endless news coverage and the morning sky fill with an eerie orange and black light, I missed that simple moment, when thousands of feet above the earth, the fires looked like little more than grand city lights.