Time Flies Coach & WithHold The Affection

Ever wonder why people you like alot (and visibly show it) don't quite like you back equally, and yet, those scummy bastards you really dislike, somehow manage to fall in love with you?

Not you either? Oh well. :)

Anyway, I took the bus to the beach last Sunday and discovered the distinct difference between real city public transportation and Los Angeles public transportation. I'm not saying either one was bad, just different, that's all.

For starters, Los Angeles bus stops are not clearly marked. Or at least some of the ones that are -- well if it's lying on the ground, apparently the bus drivers have forgotten that it's a bus stop. Walk on my friends to the next nearest bus stop. Only in Chicago will a bus driver slow to the side when you wave at it (New York taxis behave similarly) -- but folks do not try this at hometown Los Angeles. You will not be noticed no matter how freakin weird you look.

Also, people don't touch you. It's weird; no jostling or whatever, that random stuff that happens when you're on a moving vehicle without seatbelts. In Chicago, people will tackle you trying to get off, if you happen to get on when they are attempting to exit the bus. Not so folks in Los Angeles; you may even scoot over, but they'll stare at you as if you are a 450 lb. sumo wrestler when the space is as big as a condominium lot. Also, there will be empty seats on the bus with people standing. Weird. You're on PUBLIC transportation. Everyone is the public. Get used to it.

Other than that, nothing more eventful than that ever-so-Indian-not-so-hygenic scent. I'm not racist; I have friends of all cultures, but mine take showers or at the very least use myrrh.

Anyway, that was my colorful adventure to the beach. Other than total unchaotic relaxation.

Sidestep into the future, I end up writing a title from two lines forged from "Dead Like Me." The most hillarious TV show in existence, mainly because I love sarcastic dark humor. Every line in that script is uncannily truth, even when a reaper is speaking about life. You want to laugh your effing head off. You really do.

Anyway, I ta ta for now and think happy thoughts. Perhaps, each day should be lived not on what I forgot to do yesterday, nor what I must remember to do tomorrow, but on that pleasant in-the-moment place where dreams do come true and nightmares die.

Good nite.

It Must Be Tough, Realizing You Married Your Stalker

Kissing time a long goodbye, I knew I had to get it done. I held the cold angled metal in my right hand, twising my wrist, feeling gravity pull its dead weight toward the heat-soaked ground. The Killers lyrics: "It was only a kiss; it was only a kiss" echoing inside my head, I tapped my Sketchered toe on the ground. The dust clouded up around my ankle as I looked up at his window.

Being a pro doesn't guarantee you a job, and I hadn't had one in awhile. I remember talking to my contact (I shifted my sunglasses tighter against my face) about that fact. I needed an easy 5 grand up front, 15 later, for this kind of gig. Since I knew the vic, I was a little nervous this time. It's easier to pop someone you don't know.

The light was on in his window and I flashbacked to . . .

A dimly lit room, soft-leather couch, sitting close, closer still. Smile pasted on my face like a Raggedy-Ann doll. My hand caressing his leg, higher, higher still, and a hard-core moan erupting from him as I found my prey. I eased his pants down; leaning over him, I tasted sweet ecstasy long enough for him to feel sweet ecstasy and then kissed him long and hard.

I shook my head; get it together, damn. Thinking about that event, the fucker's gonna screw this up. 20 G's goes a long way in Vegas.

I saw him pass in and out of the light, well, his shadow anyway. I remembered his body, imperfect in every delectable way. Not hard-bodied like those gym rats, not that. I shivered in the cold breeze blowing in off the coast. I was biding my time, convincing myself that I was waiting for the right moment, unsure if I was just stalling.

I was hidden well in the darkness. It had closed in and almost smothered the nighttime noises of the small suburban neighborhood. The scent of something grilling up nearby, made my mouth salivate. Still feeling torn, I holstered the .45 and shifted the weight from one foot to the other.

The night was weary.

TO BE CONTINUED

7 A.M.

Ack!

How is it that even after a mere four hours of sleep I'm awake at: 7 A.M.? Or when I know I don't have to get up for another hour, my job's moved to Santa Monica, and the commute that was a bear has turned into a deer, why oh why am I awake at: 7 A.M.? Not my body, perchance, just my brain, working overtime, making up for vacation? Who the hell knows? But 7 A.M.?

Now, seriously, I really have been thinking about this. I know there's no morning sex in it for me (however, well-prepared I may be for it). And there's no way I'm awake thinking, hmm, how about a little morning jaunt over to the grocery store. It surely isn't because I'm dedicated to someone else's novel, or my own for that matter. I don't have any meetings, appointments, interviews, dates; I don't even have a planner! There can't be an earthquake every day at 7 A.M., can there be?

So I've come to the conclusion that every Detective in Los Angeles fears - DNA analysis, inconclusive.

I wonder if something special is happening at 7 A.M. that the sun seems to know. And my brain senses these electrodes zapping energy between synapses I thought for sure were dead to the conscious and alive only to sleepy dreamy land, where boys always love me, do what I say, and I never need money, sometimes I'm being chased, but I get away or turn around and win the battle. Needless to say, I awaken each morning at 7 A.M. wishing for just one more hour of sanity.

Perhaps something is plaguing me and I have yet to find it. That's the therapist's standard answer. Or perhaps there's something magical about 7 A.M. I have yet to discover.

The Process By Which Fear Disintegrates

Bruised egos feel real. And I think we are all fighting this city, this world, to be real.

Pain soothes us into reality, and then we break with reality with our various drugs-of-choice: sex alcohol narcotics -- these things just release us from our silent prisons for a moment or two. But the hell of those prisons is our own creation. We coaxed ourselves behind the steel bars and we, ourselves, locked the door and took the keys and put them in our back pockets, forever forgetting where the keys were. Afraid to attempt escape, for fear we'll be caught.

I'm not afraid of being hurt anymore. And it's foolish to allow that fear guardianship of my prison. It's foolish that I choose to stay in prison, for that matter.

For many years, I was married to fear. As much as I hated it, I held on so tightly to it. Fear would curse me and keep me from my desires, my destiny. Opportunity would knock and I wasn't allowed the privilege to open the door, not even a crack to tell Opportunity to go away.

Fear was so irritated with me in those last few moments when I was divorcing it, standing but millimeters (which felt like chasms) from forever ending its tyranny.

Real adventure isn't found at DisneyLand. It isn't prepackaged cautious fun. It's spontaneous; it's wild; but most importantly, it's risky. Sure, you may find a crumpled empty soda can lying at the end of the rainbow, but that doesn't make the journey to the end any less. What makes us crave stories where the hero goes through trial and triumph for his/her noble goals? The pilgrimage is what makes us keep on reading -- how Frodo got through Mordor, how the Gunslinger traversed the planet as the world had moved on, how Skywalker got to the final battle with his father, how Harry met Voldomort -- those are the events that keep us holding on to the pages. It wasn't really the party in The Shire, or the Gunslinger meeting his destiny at the Dark Tower, or even the celebration at Endor (however, fond I am of Ewoks), and the jubilee of yet another victory for good in the battle versus evil.

These are the pages that influenced me, but yet there is more to life than comfort and contentment. There are those of us who may not crave the nature of a knight, but given a justifiable purpose, we too will forge ahead into a dark forest of unknown, sometimes it takes a little push.

So what makes these characters real? Did you smell the roasting of an alien animal as you recollected your experience with the above sequences? I know I did. And now I'm on the road to creating those memorable experiences in life. Those ones our grandparents tell us: how they first met, what the Great Depression was really like, their first scent of Europe. I want to be able to one day pass those same images, scents, tickles, sounds, and savory tastes on to my great grandchildren as they wonder why grandma's blasting dance music. But that future is just a fantasy of mine, until then I enjoy being young because old folks tell me it doesn't last . . .

Have You Ever Danced With the Devil In The Pale Moonlight?

Yawn. One great big yawn. As I have had six hours of sleep and been awake for more than 18 hours (there went the eighteen hour bra limit), I should probably trot over to bed. The soft new bed that beckons to me. Come let me wrap my comfort around you. You will die in my arms. You will. ... sleeeep

Anyway, I am officially (cue music, duh duh-duh duhhhh) a Certified Google Advertising Professional. What does that mean? We spent fitty dollars as a company to make sure I can pass an exam (not unlike the SAT), written in a rudimentary form of English, scattered with awful grammar and some spelling errors. Apparently, it makes me more useful, as well as sellable. Ahh, dust that resume off.

And so, I'm barely keeping my eyes open, but I had to write. I heard the blank whiteness calling my name.. it was like the giant stay-puff marshmallow man smiling down and saying, color me, within the lines please.

As I sit in my apartment, I giggle in glee. I truly madly deeply love it, and living on the outer skirts of Venice (away from the Bohemians). Not that Bohemians are bad. (I certainly LOVE Moulin Rouge.) Anyway, I fold. I can't hold up any longer.

I pray for you all tonight. May you have blessed dreams and wake up refreshed.

By the way, HULLO -- just turned my half birthday today.. ACK! Am I really a year and a half away from 30. ACK! So much to do, so little time. People too!

Real Adventure Cannot Be Found At DisneyLand

So I went to Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. And, if after reading the last post you cannot figure out whether I enjoyed it or not, um, well, er, ok. My company was just purchased by cars.com this past week. That's a major thing in the world of automotive. Also, a major thing in the world of JadedTLC.

I am trying to study for my Google exam, and not doing a very good job at it (obviously). This entails listening to one of the most annoying female voice lecturers on the web. (Noticeably, I have not been web lectured much or often, but interestingly enough, I still know this.)

Harry Potter is coming out soon. The new book, that is. And so I have that and the new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to look forward to in July. I just recently bought (in Canada) and read (in Canada and Washington state) the book Generation X: Tales For An Accelerated Culture and absolutely loved the writing. I have been searching for the future Faulkners and until this year, had not found any. Now I read a regular blog filled with Faulknerisms, even from someone who was not familiar with his writing. I also started writing that way. A way I had worshipped for years (as an English Writing and Rhetoric major we do have to study literature too). I had been so intimidated by writing, by the blank page, that I became blocked. That and some major burnage (see: being hurt repeatedly to the point of shutting down emotionally) had finally been my undoing. As a self-proclaimed writer, I was not living my life.

Anyway, enough random backstory. This must bore you. Of course, there may not be many "you's" to worry about, but -- whatever.

So I was reading that book, Generation X, and several things struck me. One was this though and kinda related to my friend's blog:

Squires: The most common X generation subgroup and the only subgroup given to breeding. Squires exist almost exclusively in couples and are recognizeable by their frantic attempts to recreate a semblance of Eisenhower-era plenitude in their daily lives ni the face of exorbitant housing prices and two-job life-styles. Squires tend to be continually exhuasted from their voraciously acquisitve pursuit of furniture and knickknacks. (135)

And then I was thinking about it. That's why I'm not married. Finding love isn't any more difficult this year as it was ten years ago. But finding what our grandparents had: a generation where divorce was rare and detrimental to your status; a generation of haves and havenots, but havenots had a chance to become hads; education was superior to dropping out of high school at age sixteen and setting up shop in your garage; sex was the process by which we procreate; destiny was a three-bedroom ranch-style house with one and a half baths, complete with full garage and a yard (imagine that Los Angelians -- A YARD!); wife makes pies and babies, husband works nine to five, sometimes six, but dinner is always on the table and steaming; Christmas was more about the food less about the presents; love (dare i say the word) wasn't just a four-letter-word tossed around on TVs and used synonymously with anal/oral/vaginal sex; gay men wore pink shirts -- but no one talked out loud about it; you were who you were, and that was easy to figure out (or apparently so). Ahh, to reminisce about a time I didn't even live in. That's true historical time travelling. They had just as many wars and problems, don't get me wrong, but their fears for nuclear rain were unillustrated, while ours for terrorist bombings are as real as watching in HDTV on projection televisions a reality show we weren't going to win a prize from. As that day opened, and as London's day crashed, there was real ash raining down from the sky and real casualties -- the threat was less threat more guaranteed.

From the sadness aching within, I ponder the process by which values disintegrated. That a well-vaccinated global village became more dangerous than a small hut on the side of a river, even as typhoid fever was raging through its citizens. Disaster is in the eye of the beholder, that's for sure, and even as I type these lines, I defy fear. Let your hatred be known; it's easier to deal with in the open. Hatred only begets more hatred. You're bitterness will never be satisfied, and so I defy you and your actions of anger, and I even go so far as loving you and praying to GOD, not Allah or some jackedupGodwhoDemandsUltimateSacrifice. I am praying to the Creator of all things, and they are all good, that you may see within you, that fear is never as satisfactory as knowledge, that hatred is never as serene as joy, and that Love does make the world go 'round. Try it for once.

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada

Victoria's eyes glistened in the midday sun as the ferry docked on Canada side. She was optimistic and opportunistic as she casually walked up and kissed me on the cheek, welcoming and friendly. Stunned, I offered to buy her a Mango Margarita at the Keg; she accepted. Her words were kind, and she listened as I laid out all of my problems. Work, relationships, family, friends -- there they were, all of my problems, hanging inconclusively. She smiled and took my hands, unseating me from the bar stool. Her legs were long and tender, her back a soft curvature of lust. And the little black number she was wearing accentuated it all.

She pushed herself into my arms and I could feel her heartbeat through those tender breasts pushed against my chest. Then the tequila kicked in. Heady with the fresh scent of sea salt and roses falling off the sweet tendrils of fawn-coloured hair, I danced all night with her. I couldn't have stopped if I had wanted to, and I didn't want to. I wanted to breathe her in for every second I could stay awake. So she invited herself over to my motel.

The motel was quaint, not seedy. The kind of place grandmothers and grandfathers take their grandkids when they go on grandmotherly and grandfatherly vacations. Hidden away in some nestled corner of the world. Where only the 65-and-olders know where to find it.

The beds were crisp and made, soft and strong at the same time. She laid me down; I was no longer in any sort of control. My parts were pushing to escape the manmade clothes entrapping them as her hands trailed down my chest, pushing open the buttons, one-by-one. Slowly, she savored every moment, every caress, every kiss. Yes, she kissed me. Wildly at first and then softly; I knew I'd remember every second of it for years to come.

The night wore on; the kisses continued. And the torture endured for hours.

Day broke, and we breakfasted beneath a smiling sunrise. We walked the gardens and she whispered sweetly, she told me everything I wanted to hear, and breathlessly I held on to her tightly. "I love you, Vicki," I declared. She giggled coyly.

Time was racing against me and the ferry was going to ease it's beastly body off the coast in just a few hours. She read to me from Munroe's Books and plied me with rootbeers and mochas from the cafes neatly stuffed into the most unusual corners. We talked nil of the future and nothing more of the past.

When time slipped under the horizon, I boarded the ferry, satiated and happy, yet yearning to feel her arms around me for one moment longer. She stood on the coastline waving a warm nestled goodbye, but I looked away from her, my eyes painfully unable to meet hers, as we eased our way back to Washington, back to the United States. She couldn't see just how much I had loved her, that I had loved her, that I knew her when I hardly knew her; and I felt things were better left hanging unknown in the black waters of the Pacific. Even so, I held no regrets. Not for one unspoken kiss, not for one single second. --Oh Victoria, I miss you so.