DOGS OF HOLLYWOOD

Ok--so it's a random Thursday and Allen and I are on our way back to the office from lunch at Gay Man Chix (also known as California Chicken Cafe). We are on Melrose just east of Highland when a dog runs in front of us and crosses Melrose heading north. He barely misses getting hit by 4 lanes of cars and keeps on running. I MAKE Allen pull over and we double back to track down the dog. Now keep in mind there are very few people who can make Allen do anything, but he obliges because he has to live with me. We pull over and I see the dog and get out of the car to try and catch him. Beacause I'm totally fancy, I'm in heels and a skirt, but I don't really care; I have mad running skillz.

Two other guys in a black car pull up and ask if it's my dog, to which I respond, "No, but it's probably somebody's". That's enough to convince them to join the chase. One of the guys get out of the car and we both run north (me thru the alley and the other guy runs up Highland). Now of course I don't really get a good look at the guy who is joining the chase--but he has an Orlando Bloom type look to him. Of course it's probably not Orlando Bloom, and quite honestly I'm more interested in the dog not getting hit by a car than anything else. We both (me and Orlando Bloomabe) take off and run a few blocks north to try and corner this dog. I hit the next major street and some guy points me east. I keep on running--probably another 4 blocks to no avail. Allen drives back and says he saw the dog cross Santa Monica Blvd. going north still, and he didn't stop. So maybe this dog loves the Valley--who knows? I keep running for a few more blocks as Allen drives around the block and then convinces me to get back into the car because we should go back to our crapassjobs, and we've done all we can. We can't find Orlando Bloomabe and his friend either.

We drive back to the studio and I'm crying over the lost dog that isn't even mine. Unbeknownst to Allen, I get back into my car and spend another 20 minutes canvassing the neighborhood and then give up, and come back to my still crapass job. At one point I felt like I was in some weird Disney talking animal movie, so considering that this is Hollywood, here's my ending; Dog is found just north of Santa Monica Blvd, he's hungry, but healthy. He was running because he escaped from a bad relationship, and didn't stop running until he felt safe. Orlando Bloom (the real one) shows up and can talk to the dog. He has weird dog talking powers and the cute dog cocks his head because he's listening to Orlando and Orlando convinces him NOT to defect to the 818, but to go live with him happily ever after in his Hollywood Hills home. The end!

JACKASS OF THE WEEK AWARD

Goes to this guy. I need to share my latest debacle and get some critical gay feedback. Met a guy like a month ago-absolutely not someone I was instantly physically attracted to, but we had things in common and hung out a bit. Once I got to know him a little better, I actually liked him in "that way". So fast forward to a few dates, some fun, and what not. Who knew you could actually like someone's personality over their looks? I guess I'm still learning new things. We spoke this week on Wednesday, and he asked me if I wanted to get together on Thursday b/c he was going out of town on Friday--sure I said-and we made plans for dinner. He calls the next evening about an hour before we're gonna get together and says he thinks I should probably rest this evening (i had a crazy week and he was aware of it). I also have my first real triathlon on Sunday and this week has been low key for me. ANYWAY--I tell him I'm feeling ok, and I'd be up for something low key and more of an early night. He is basically blowing me off and then TRYING to put it back on me. WTF? Now I'm not gonna make, beg, or ask anyone to hang out with me. If you don't want to, you don't want to. I don't exactly understand why b/c I'm totally fun, and semi-hot (at times), AND I haven't even brought out my crazy yet. DUh--start slowly. ANYWAY--I said well I'll be honest my feelings are hurt, but I'll get over it. HE SAID, yeah, you'll be fine. WTF? Look I'll never presume to understand the mind of a straight man, but I thought I could at least manipulate it. I mean living with Allen for this long has taught me some thangs. SO the phone call ends with me being irritated and cutting the phone call off. I ended up having great night--a nice long run thru my neighborhood (who knew I could go so fast), a home-cooked meal (i boiled endamamme), bubble bath, the office repeats and plenty of phone calls to dish on this dude. OH yeah--and two advil pm. I just don't get it--I mean he's the balding one and a self-recognized geek--I'm the semi-hot blonde whose totally fun and um giving, so if anyone deserves to treat someone like shit it should be me. DUH!

Operation Banana Rescue

Since all three of my fave gays (lo siento Troy) are asking I'll provide a much overdue blog entry. In honor of my three favorite gays and my only blog readers, I'll discuss bananas. And sorry gays--this isn't dirty--but feel free to twist it. Like most single girls I buy bananas every week. Most single girls like to eat healthy, so we can feel skinny, boost our confidence, and snag a husband. In that order. THAT'S WHY WE BUY BANANAS-get your mind out of the gutter water. Most people purchase bananas in a bunch, which is fine--do what works for you, but I prefer to rescue those single little bananas that nobody wants. They were a key member of a family of 5, until one day an evil whore cracked it's neck, separated it from it's family, and tossed it into the banana orphange. It's so sad to see those young bananas all by themselves with no hope, no home, just longing to be part of a family. And with every passing day, they get older and slightly spotted, and the likelihood of being placed grows smaller and smaller. Unfortunately we live in a society where being young and beautiful is overvalued. Their biggest fear is becoming part of that sad sack of old bananas that go on sale every week. Call me a softie, but I buy the sad little solonanas (solo bananas), and provide a loving home in my belly.

Everyone has a cause that is near and dear to their heart, and this is mine. As a wise Ghandi once said, "We must be the change we wish to see in the world." Now ask yourself, what do you do?

THE CRASH OF THE F150

The title pretty much explains it all. Less than 6 hours after getting my rental truck (see previous post for details), I got hit on my drive home from work. And by hit on, I don't mean some butch girl or redneck guy made sexual advances on me in my F150. I was driving west on Wilshire when a driver decided to change her mind and NOT turn left. She drove right out of the left hand turning lane and into the side of my rental F150. UGH. I didn't see it coming so I guess that's good. After a brief stint in a Dodge Neon (aka go-kart of death), I've upgraded to a Pontiac Grand Prix. It will do until the end of the week I guess, but I can tell you one thing. I won't be getting ANY play in this rental. Not like my Saturn was a magnet for hotties, but at least I was high enough to check out the options. The good news it that none of these accidents are my fault and while I'm still out $500 for the first accident deductible, the rest is covered. AND I have a prescription for Darvocet.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

As much as I love living in L.A, I hate the kind of L.A. asshole who hit my parked car yesterday. They drove off without leaving a note, BUT he/she did manage to leave $2,000 in damage. And I don't know if it was a he or she or him or her, so going forward I will refer to the jackass as SHIM. I was at the quaint little John C. Fremont Public Library on Melrose and June. I parked on the street (June) right outside of the library parking lot. I originally pulled into the lot, but the only spot available was too tight because someone had parked on the line and I didn't want my 2003 Saturn Vue to get banged up. So I pulled out and parked on the street. I did my library business in less than 5 minutes. Even Dee the librarian commented on how quick I am. I walk out to my car and see it has been sideswiped-from the mirror to the back tire. No note, nothing. Unbelievable to me! THEN I ask a few people who are nearby if they saw anything and of course they don't want anyone even speaking to them let alone asking them for any type of assistance. I was just asking if you SAW anything. Ugh. Two nice fellow library patrons stopped and suggested I "canvass the neighborhood for information". Thanks Law & Order superfans, but I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna get a license plate number out of that. So I filed my claim with GEICO today, and I'm out my $500 deductible. And as much as I believe in Karma, odds are I won't be there to see SHIM get his/hers. But I am going back to June/Melrose tonight for a stakeout in my F150.

THINGS TO LEARN FROM THIS POST
1. My Saturn is newer than HJO's.
2. It would have been cheaper to go to Barnes and Noble and buy a book.
3. Shim is a fun word. Thanks Lisa.
4. All libraries smell the same.
5. My rental car/truck is a Ford F150 quad cab. It's totally badass and makes me look like a possible white trash/country music loving ass kicker. I am not.

For the love of L.A.

There are plenty of things to detest or to hate in life, but living in Los Angeles is not one of them. If you’re aged 18 or older and you hate living in LA, then leave. It will certainly help the traffic flow for those of us that choose to live there and actually like it. It’s beyond bizarre to me why so many people continue to live in a city that they claim to hate. What’s to hate about 90% of your days being sunny? Smog? Yes. Traffic? Yes? But guess what, that’s not a secret—you knew the traffic was bad and it was smoggy before you ever pulled up in your U-Haul. If you grew up here, and you still hate it, then you’re just an idiot. And don’t blame the “industry” on why you hate living in LA either. Because the boom of Hollywood didn’t happen in your first six months of L.A. residency. Now if you live in the 818, I’d be hating too, but my god, life is full of choices, get the hell out. I’m kidding about the 818. Kinda. I choose to live and love living in Los Angeles. Admittedly it was a hard move to make, and even harder move to stick with especially after my cheating midwestern boyfriend moved on with his new California girlfriend. But whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger, or it will crush you to the point of a truly tragic and pathetic state of weakness.

And you can still love LA, but hate the singles scene. It also goes with out saying that nobody sold the virtues of the city by touting the abundance of sexy, charming, midwestern valued single straight guys. But like I keep reminding you, it is your choice. Everything in life is a choice, except your family. Everything from your hair color to your nose is a choice. If you don’t like it, then change it. Or at least stop bitching about it. If it seems odd that I complain about people bitching about things and not making the changes to make them happier, but yet I choose to write about people complaining, please stick with me. It will be worth it.

I continued to choose to live in LA even though I haven’t found my prince charming, my acting career hasn’t happened (I should start with a class), but because sun makes me happy. And if you can start the day out with the sun shining into your bedroom half of the battle of the day has already been won. You can still complain about your job, boyfriend, body, traffic, etc. but by god, the sun is out people—get out and enjoy it. Or at least get to work within 15 minutes of the official 9am start time. That’s a start.

And even though the selection of single straight sexy males in Los Angeles is limited, you’re only about four hours from Vegas. More on Vegas to come . . .

Omg-did this work?