Out with the Old

In 3 weeks I will be leaving this metropolis we call LaLaLand and heading down South to the home of country music, better known as Nashville, Tennessee. As I wade through the dust and grime collecting on the piles of junk I've carried around all these years, I can't help but get a thrill every time I toss, recycle, sell or give-away an item, whether it be a Janet Jackson cassette tape or a bag of unused make-up wedges. Seriously, it's like a workout - you sweat, lose weight (i.e. the pounds of crap you're discarding) and work up an appetite. Haul enough storage bins to the garage, and you'll even tone muscle.

But what is it about getting rid of the old to make room for the new that's so satisfying and, well, liberating? It's almost as if I can breathe better without so much stuff lassoed to my being. I suppose it's all a part of letting go - the process isn't easy, but you're guaranteed to feel better afterward.

This gypsy heart of mine has always given me an advantage in forsaking old life chapters for new ones. I once had a roommate who saved everything she'd ever owned since childhood. She even kept her baby teeth in a jar. I'm not kidding for effect. This is the real deal. Some people just can't let go.

Then there was the old lady on my Meal on Wheels route in Santa Cruz. She lived in a house that was floor to ceiling full of trash, collectibles and memorabilia. You could barely move around, and I won't even get into the state of the fridge (or the smell of the house). It was truly tragic. Like Big Edie and Little Edie, there are those of us who'd rather see our gardens grey than give a go at a new surrounding.

If only we could all see places and objects as ephemeral - here today, gone tomorrow - then everyone could get the same thrill I'm having at selling my DVD/VHS player on Craigslist. I am not my DVD player; my DVD player is not me. That said, there's no way in hell I'm giving up my iPod.

Big Fat Bully

We humans are such bullies. As my mom puts it to her cats, "I'm the boss mammal." And bossy we are. The other day I was driving down my street and watched in horror as a black Volvo crushed a little bird under its tires. Its partner (was it a mom, a baby, a boyfriend, a best friend...?) flew off, then hovered around its dearly departed, chirping and screeching and fluttering its wings. Just like that, a little life was snuffed out by a big human bully.

I was fuming about it all day. What makes us so special? Why should we have the power to decide which animals roam free and which end up on our plates, which trees get demolished and which get to provide shade for us at the beach, which flowers dot the landscape and which wind up in vases surrounded by dinner party guests? It's astounding the gall we humans have: the ways in which we play god everyday.

Then as I was driving to the gym later and witnessed a giant hawk or vulture swoop down and tear a piece of roadkill to pieces, carrying off a huge bloody chunk of flesh in its beak, I felt better knowing that at least one species was benefiting from all our bullying. Our angry tires, made his delectable dinner. Vultures feeding vultures... Maybe we're not so bad after all.

Nah, we're bullies.

Cat Asses

In the past 2 weeks I have cleaned not one, but two, cat asses. This, my friends, is not my idea of a fun summer activity. The first was my cat Jade, a dried poo-ball stuck in her fluffy white butt. I had to clean it off, and then scrub her butt in the bathtub as she meowed and yowled like a banshee on crack. Blood curdling, glass shattering, ear drum popping shrieks, as if I were strangling her or sticking pins in her eyes. Our subletter must think I'm some sort of sadist. I kept yelling out, "Really, I'm not hurting her. She hates water!" just so she wouldn't call Animal Control on me.

The second offense occurred yesterday with my roommate's cat, Patrick - the big, furry gray beast with three legs. He has some sort of bladder inflammation, and after taking him to the vet, I noticed he had peed all over his backside. I couldn't let him walk around the house like that, poor dear, so I hosed him off. My arms now look like pin cushions, one particularly gnarly puncture wound currently turning black and blue. A poke hear, a poke there - I wore long sleeves to the gym because I was worried people would think I was a blind heroin addict.

The point of my story is to 1.) bitch and moan and 2.) hope that by writing about it, no other dirty cat butts will fall on my lap. I am no groomer, nor do I want to be. And most importantly, I'm slightly anemic and can't risk loosing any more blood. So, universe, could you lay off for a bit?

Sincerely,
Blackheart

David Sedaris Hates Me

Yup, you read it right. One of my favorite authors in the world thinks I'm an utter disgrace. How did this come about, you may ask? It all began with a little book by the name of "When You Are Engulfed in Flames." A friend of mine gave it to me for my birthday last year, so when I heard Sedaris was holding a free signing in LA last Wednesday I jumped at the chance. I'm not really one to collect autographs, but there's something about a signed book by a renowned author that makes me feel better than other people.

However, things got dicey when I realized the said book was in Nashville with my boyfriend. Feeling bad, he offered to pay me back if I bought a used copy in town. Did and done. The literary shit then hit the fan, once again, when once arriving at Barnes & Nobles with friends, we realized you had to buy a new copy in store to be allowed to get it signed. "Since when? The website didn't say anything about it!" I demanded answers. Apparently it's a special deal Sedaris made with the bookstore. I was beginning to smell a sellout. Needless to say, I had to buy yet a 3rd copy of the book to be returned at a later date once I got through and had my used copy signed. Sound confusing? It was.

But nothing beats the four hours, no four and a half hours, I spent in line alone once my friends - off to bigger and better plans - ditched me, their unsigned books in my hands. My stomach growled. I wished that I'd brought snacks or at least my Updike book club pick. I'd already read the Sedaris book cover to cover. Plus, the line weaved through the worst sections of the book store - Sports, Automobile, Crosswords (particularly painful since you can't very well do one and then put it back in place), Expecting Mothers. Gross. I did manage to look up the car I'm selling in the 2009 Kelley Blue Book. One small victory.

After making friends with the girl ahead of me, taking deep breaths to calm my nerves and flipping through a fabulous book of postcards entitled "Cute Animals Delivering Bad News", it was finally my time to meet the MAN. I had been watching as he spent fifteen minutes with each person, smiling and making little notes in his pocket notebook. Would they end up in his newest essay? His journal? A NY Times article? Would I make the cut?

That's when I blew it. Blew it big time. I had been praying he wouldn't ask what I did, as I'd hate to tell a professional writer of his caliber that I'm a small fry writer myself. But guess what? Bingo. You got it. He asked what it was that I write. "Screenwriting and an online column." I didn't want to mention the commercial treatments because people always want an explanation of what they are, and I have to watch dismayed as their eyes glaze over in confusion and boredom.

He pushed further about the column, and when I told him it revolved around frugality in LA he asked for an example. Well, I'd written about free book signings. "What about them?" he asked. "Just that they're a great way to meet your favorite author. I also talked about books in general." "What about books?" he prodded. "That used bookstores are a wonderful option and your library of course--"

Silence. A look of pure hatred spread over the jolly man's face. "So what other than telling people to not give author's their proper royalties, do you talk about in your column?" The only thing I could think to say? "Uh-oh. I'm the asshole." He tried to revert to his friendly demeanor, but his agent kept shifting her eyes to the exit trying to get me to take the hint. I couldn't leave, though. I had four damn books to sign! And the man kept asking me all sorts of questions. My palms were sweating. I felt lightheaded. I had to get out.

Later, as I drank a glass of wine to wash down the feeling that I was for once in my life 'the douchebag', I read over what he wrote in each book. They are as follows:

Erin: "Diabetes is for lovers."
Katy: "I'm so angry you're not here."
Lindsay: "I'm glad you're alive."

And last but not least:

Me: "Your story touched my heart."

Bea Sting

I'm distraught. I'm totally down-and-out. I could use a shot of whiskey. Why? Because my beautiful Bea Arthur has left this world and gone back to the nature from hence she came. When I heard she passed away last week I was driving on the 10 freeway, and my utter shock and profound grief nearly caused an accident. Bea was part of my comedy trinity.

1.) Lucille Ball
2.) Bea Arthur
3.) Tina Fey

First Lucy, then Bea, and now it's down to Tina to hold it together. Have you gotten your annual checkup, Tina? Mammogram? Swine Flu vaccine? These three ladies make me want to be a better comedian. A better writer. A better loony dame.

I still watch "Golden Girls" and vehemently contend that it's one of the best shows ever written and performed. The ladies from "Sex and the City" owe it all to Dorothy, Rose, Blanche and Sophia. But Dorothy was always my favorite. She was me, only taller and with gray hair. Sarcastic, cunning, witty, cynical. What a lady. You'll be sorely missed, my dear. Every time I hear a bass toned cackle of laughter floating on the breeze, I'll know it's your spirit having a laugh at my expense.

Boldly Go to the New Star Trek Film Next Friday

As a child I was only allowed to watch several hours of television a week. This meant careful timing and organization on my part to make sure I got in all my favorite cartoons and, later, the scandalous "90210". However, there was a catch. I could watch anything my parents were watching, and it wouldn't count toward my hours. So there I sat through episode after episode of "Miami Vice" and "Star Trek." What began as mere curiosity and a borderline obsessive need for entertainment, whatever the cost, (I was an only child) turned into a love affair with Sonny Crockett and Mr. Spock.

My favorite, above all, was Star Trek. The camp. The sexuality. The do-gooder, futuristic Peace Corps mentality of the Academy. The bold wardrobe choices. It was a nearly perfect world where race wasn't an issue and women fired phasers. My mom even had a Trekkie friend who would get us free tickets to the conventions, where we would watch in amazement as perfectly normal people let their freak flags fly. My inner freak wanted to jump up for joy, but I didn't dare became one of them: just a starship voyeur. That said, somewhere deep in a box in my garage is a collection of Star Trek trading cards, a stack of autographed headshots of the stars (both original and Next Generation) and a faux, gold USS Enterprise charm necklace...

With this history of "seeking out new life and new civilizations," you can image my delight when my roommate scored me a seat to a Family & Friends screening of the new Star Trek - a prequel look into where it all began. I don't want to give anything away, but I do want to encourage both fans and Star Trek virgins alike to boldly get thee to a theater next Friday and take a journey into the farthest reaches of our galaxy. It may not be the best sci-fi movie ever made, but the action is good, the script funny and often poignant, the special effects dork worthy and the story one hell of a fun ride. And for all of you who fell asleep in the modern film version of "Miami Vice," as I did, this more than makes up for the disappointment.

So live long and prosper and don't forget to sneak in a bag of popcorn instead of paying full price at the concession stand. If I was a Starfleet alien, I'd be a Frugalian.

Ahh, irony...

Just a quick anecdote about an incident that occurred on the set of the Carson Daily show the other day. When lining up to get paid I noticed a young man standing behind the fence to the studio lot yelling at one of our audience wranglers. Turns out said gentleman was kicked out because he was caught taping the show on his cell phone, and was now demanding to be paid. I listened for nearly ten minutes as he swore up and down that he wasn't taping the show and that he was only trying to turn off his cell phone as to not distract Mr. Daily.

While listening to him beg and plead his innocence, I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. The guy waiting in line behind me started laughing and turned my attention to the angry man's shirt. I swear to you that the following is true. Written on this dude's shirt - the same man who was currently insisting on his honorable word - was: "I'm probably lying." No joke. Pure irony. If only all of us would wear something so blantant as a warning to others. Here are a few I've come up with that would have really helped me in the past had certain people warned me.

1.) I have a girlfriend.
2.) I'm a Scientologist.
3.) I'll never change.
4.) Don't sit next to me on the plane: I have gas.
5.) I'm manic and have stopped taking medication.
6.) I'm going to use your deod0rant and make-up as soon as you leave for class.
7.) I'll talk behind your back.
8.) I don't like cats.
9.) I used to be a professional juggler.
10.) I snore.
11.) I'm going to let you wash my dirty Calvins for 3 years, and then break your heart.

Anyone else have any they wish people would wear?

P.S. If you're a fan of lists, check out my friend Kim's new blog dedicated to all things numbered and bulleted. http://thelistlessmistress.blogspot.com/