MY LIPS HURT REAL BAD

Dateline: Saturday, September 20th - Liam Finn at the Echoplex

After watching his surprisingly high-energy magnifico set at Monolith, I wanted to see Liam Finn bust out his crazy shit here in L.A. I won a pair of tickets online and took my dearest MaryEllen for a night of Kiwi rock.

Towards the end of the Veils' set, before Liam's set, MaryEllen and I went for a lil rester and sat down to chat about our extremely awesome and exciting lives. That's when I saw him again...

The same guy we saw earlier, lounging in a dark corner by himself. He was wearing skinny jeans, a ruffled shirt, and a piercing stare. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't figure out why. He was slightly disturbing. Also, he was walking toward us. Kind of lumbering straight for us, like a tall, skinny, dark-haired Igor with a ruffled tuxedo shirt on.

Ruffled Shirt Weirdo: Excuse me, do you mind if I awkwardly join your conversation?

Me: Um, I guess you just did.

He sits. We exchange pleasantries and realize that he, too, won tickets from the same blog.

Me: Um, well, didn't you win TWO tickets? Why isn't anyone with you?

RSW: Oh, well, no one wanted to come with me. They were all busy.

Awkward silence.

Yeah, they said they were all busy, dude. That's what they said.

MaryEllen: Well, I guess let's do the basics - where are you from, what do you do?

He lets out a squeaky, George McFly laugh.

RSW: Well, I'm a writer.

Me: Oh, ok. What kind of writer?

RSW: [Fidgeting awkwardly whilst awkwardly conversating] Well, a screenwriter. But I have a day job to pay the bills, since it's not working out so well yet.

Me: Oh, I know a screenwriter.

Awkward silence.

Me: Um, so what's your day job? Doesn't seem like you like it too much?

RSW: Well, I work at Universal Studios, on the back lot tour. I play Norman Bates.

OF COURSE YOU DO.

Me: [Incredulously, realizing that there was a reason that he was so eerily familiar to me] OF COURSE YOU DO. YOU LOOK JUST LIKE NORMAN BATES FROM PSYCHO>

He smiles. Awkward silence.

Me: [To MaryEllen] Um, I think I hear a guitar tuning. [I didn't actually] I bet that's Liam Finn. We should go. [To RSW - ] Enjoy the show!

Norman Bates Ruffled Shirt Weirdo: [Stands, follows us like a zombie about to siphon our souls from our bodies using only his teeth and a thin piece of cheesecloth] Oh, okay!

He parks himself squarely behind us as we wait for Liam Finn to appear magically and save our souls. I realize that I am in desperate need of some Chapstick, but remember that I lost it at a luncheon on Friday. At that luncheon, you see, I sat next to the son of the founder of Tacori Jewelry, who offered up his Chapstick without a second thought when I realized that I lost my own. Yeah, that was weird.

So, anyways, MaryEllen looks at me, clearly sorry, and says, "No, I'm sorry - I don't have any."

Then I hear a voice from behind me. Oh, dear.

NBRSW: Did I hear you asking for chapstick?

Awkward silence.

NBRSW: [Pulling something out of his pocket] Well, you can use MINE.

No.
No.
No.

Me: [Digging frantically for anything I can find in my purse to smear on my dry, cracked, parched lips] Oh, no, no, no, it's okay. They're not really dry or chapped, really. I'm fine. I'll just put some of this on. [As I smear on the driest lipstick ever formulated in a factory full of Chinese peasants]

When MaryEllen needed to use the bathroom shortly after Liam's set started, I felt a ball of fear grow into my stomach. I dare not turn around, lest Norman Bates Ruffled Shirt Weirdo Chapstick-Offerer Man try to kidnap and mummify me. MaryEllen returned; she ran into our friend, J. Lynn. Cool.

Then J. Lynn appeared and hugged us both. And Norman Bates Ruffled Shirt Weirdo Chapstick-Offerer Man bolted away like he just realized we had Asian Bird Flu. It was awesome.

MaryEllen and I physically ran out of the nearest exit as soon as Liam left the stage.

WHERE IS THE HIDDEN CAMERA, I ASK?

Dateline: Saturday, September 13 - Monolith Festival @ Red Rocks, CO

Though Monolith was a music festival of epic proportions, the availability of foodstuffs totally blew. My fellow festivalgoers and I decided to wander down to the VIP lounge for some tender vittles (i.e. things that weren't fried and/or grease-choked).

Sadly, it was explained (rather rudely, I might add) to my compatriots that they were no longer serving food, but that perhaps there were some crusty old hot wings left over.

After some time and deliberation, the rest of my pack procured some shitty burritos and I settled down for a dinner of potato chips and empty dreams. Then Giselle noticed the chef behind the salad bar...

Giselle: Just go ask him for a salad - you know all the food is still out. And he's looking right at you.

I threw him a quick, hungry glance. He certainly was looking straight at me, almost straight through to my empty chamber of an acid-churning stomach.

Me: I don't know...[Giselle interjects with repeated encouragement]...Oh, OK."

I wander over and upon closer inspection, the "chef" looks like a younger, rangier Christopher Lloyd, perhaps just sprung from jail or the halfway house across the street from MaryEllen's apartment. I cleared my throat, and set my chin on the counter, trying to look as pitiful and starving as possible...

Me: Hi. Um, I know you're closed - but, um, I'm allergic to wheat and I can't find anything to eat upstairs that's not fried or breaded...um...uh...I really just wanted a salad...

Chef Jail Break Lloyd: [Leaning in, conspiratorially] Say, what if someone was to go back and tell the chef that there was a lady out here with low blood sugar, who needed to eat...what would that lady want?

Me: [Ah - I see - he doesn't want everyone else to know that I'm getting an after-hours food gift!] Oh, just a salad is fine - whatever's easiest.

CJBL: Ok. Go back and sit down. Look for me.

Then he retreated into the kitchen. I sat down with a smile and informed the group - and then he came back out and I walked back up.

CJBL: [Leaning sideways, speaking in a whisper, eyes glancing at me, sidelong] Chef says three-fifty.

Me: [Totally grateful] Ok!

CJBL: That's three DOLLARS and fifty cents.

Me: [Still totally grateful] Hey - no problem - let me just got back and get my wall-

CJBL: Yeah, but if it were ME, I wouldn't make you pay nothin' for the salad. Ok? You understand?

Ok, that was a little weird, but whatever. I went back and got a fiver, since none of us had exact change. That way, I could tip Chef Jail Break Lloyd and feel good about the deal I just scored on a salad. I love salad! Well, unless it's a free salad that a man in a squad car is trying to give to me, for no apparent reason.

But that was Brooklyn and this is now. I walked back up with my five tucked in my palm and slid it across the counter.

CJBL: [Noticeably angry] What is this?? I told you THREE-FIFTY. THAT'S ALL I WANT. THREE-FIFTY!!!

Is this guy for real?

CJBL: Whatever. Listen - what do you want on the salad?

I tell him. He asks what kind of salad dressing I want; I say Italian.

CJBL: What KIND of Italian?? Jesus, there are like three kinds of Italian dressing here. [Looks wildly at the dressings below the counter]

Me: Um, a light Italian is fine.

CJBL: What about balsamic? Or how about honey mustard? Jesus, there are SO MANY SALAD DRESSINGS HERE.

Me: [Not wanting to instigate his looming madness] Sure - honey mustard's great.

CJBL: [Clearly not believing my desire for honey mustard] Are you sure? There are so many fucking salad dressings here. Ok, fine. Do you want me to...[he pauses]...toss your salad?

Really? Really, Chef Jail Break Lloyd? Did you have to go there?

Me: Yes, please.

He snickered.

After integrating my dressing with my lettuce and all the other shit he threw in there, he did that sideways look again and whispered:

"See that basket over there? There are TOOLS in that basket. GET A TOOL."

I looked to my left. There was a small basket. Of forks.

I grabbed a fork.

It only seemed right to tuck it inside my brochure, hidden from prying eyes, since this was clearly a crazy-person crusade to give me this salad without anyone else knowing what was going on.

CJBL: [With the conspiratorial voice again] Now listen carefully. LISTEN. I'm going to give you this salad. I want you to take it back to your seat and eat all of it. ALL OF IT. Ok? Now, if anyone asks you where the fuck you got this fucking salad, you tell them to fuck off, OK? TELL THEM TO FUCK OFF."

I nodded, suddenly really glad that there was a giant counter separating me from Chef Boyardbatshit.

CJBL: Now, take this to your seat. When you get back, make sure no one is looking, especially those fucking waitresses, and slide it over the counter REALLY QUICKLY. I MEAN IT. SLIIIIIIIIDE IT OVER QUICKLY. And then walk away."

He nodded at me once and disappeared into the kitchen. I took my salad and sat down.

I have to say, for a salad made by a raving madman, it was pretty damn tasty.

Forever? Forever-ever?

Scene: Standing in long line at Post Office, attempting to ignore Long-Haired Hippie Lady scold Short-Haired Neurotic Lady about not returning her Bible in time. Line moves slowly, but finally, Medium-Haired Average Lady steps up to the counter...

Disgruntled Postal Worker: (Clearly looking at clock, which reads 4:45pm; possibly wishing for sweet release from the shackles of government servitude--then realizing that will only mean joining the long, slagging line of cars crawling down the interstate. Considers how much he hates life. Wishes he could punch out every customer that walks up between now and 5pm.) M’am, how can I help you today?

M-HAL: Well, I need some stamps! I have to mail some letters now, and some letters later!

DPW: (Thinking to self: "No shit, lady. This isn’t Home Depot. You’re not here to buy a shovel. But if we did sell them, I would hit you over the head with one.") Sure thing! What kind would you like?

M-HAL: I’d like some of those "Forever" stamps! Um, how much are they worth?

DPW: (Itchy government-issue button-down, collared shirt barely containing the rage that boils within. Wishes he could snap the neck of every godforsaken customer, just like he snaps the rubberbands off of the piles and piles and piles of filthy parcels he must deal with every day.) Well, right now they’re 41 cents.

M-HAL: Oh, perfect! I’ll take a book of them. Well, maybe two. I’ll need to mail some letters later. How long can I use these for? For...

DPW: (Blood shoots to surface, threatening to pump furiously through every pore and splatter the entire decrepit concrete box he’s forced to work in, day in and day out, with gore.) ...EVER. M’am, the Forever stamp lasts FOREVER.

End scene.

crossed signals

This evening, my suspicions were confirmed - there is, indeed, a particular stretch of 14th St. that is prone to crazy ass dudes using electronic devices. I walk down this way often, en route to the writing space I use, so therefore, I am obviously qualified to make this assertion.

Lately, the area around Union Square (on the 14th St. side) is packed with consumers buying assorted crap from the red and white tent-like structures that sprung up right around Turkey Day. Move up a block, and it's just your average pedestrians. But right after you cross Fifth Ave, it's like you've stepped into another dimension. The proportion of Sane:Crazy is thrown radically out of whack.

Right around the Guitar Center, there is always a man - up until today, I wasn't sure if it was the same dude or not, but now I'm almost positive. This guy is memorable for one reason and one reason only - he makes crazy talk into portable electronic devices on the regular. And by "on the regular," I mean "every time I walk by."

Frequently, he uses a cell phone. I'm not even really sure that he's speaking to anybody, but by the tone of his voice, he probably thinks he's carrying on a conversation with a higher power. Or sometimes, his crack dealer. One day he had a portable radio (so very 80's breakdancing video!). But then there was today...

Today, homeboy (let's call him "Transmitter Tom") had a walkie talkie! He was talking into it, as he generally does with smallish electronic devices, but the difference today was that someone was talking back to him!

It quickly became apparent that the walkie talkie was...uh...borrowed, because the male voice on the other end was yelling angrily to the tune of "return this immediately!...static....prosecuted!...static..."

Tranny Tom was having none of this, however. He calmly pressed the "Talk" button and said to his accuser, "Don't you ever be makin' me late to dinner! OR lunch!" Then he paused, trying to think of a clincher. "OR SNACKS!!!!" With that he strode rapidly towards 6th, walkie talkie in hand, crazy mumbles leaking out of the side of his mouth.

sleep tight

I think that there is a homicidal maniac living in my apartment building.

I swear, the above statement is totally founded; it's not just the paranoia of city living OR the fact that I watched Natural Born Killers and Mulholland Dr back to back last night getting to me. No, no, no. Homicidal maniac, I swear.

And, if I'm counting correctly, last night was Night 3 of his rampage of death and destruction.

Yes, I'm sure.
No, I haven't called the police.

After my uplifting movie marathon, I returned home at some late hour, made a phone call, and buried myself in my bed. At 4:00am, I heard the following, in a homicidal maniac man's voice:

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!"

I bolt upright in my bed, as I have the last 3 nights. Some really loud, crazed yelling, some other, unidentified loud noises, then a repeat of the inhuman noise above.

As I have the past 3 nights, I get sort of paralyzed with fear - I want to press my ear against my window to listen more closely, but I am afraid that if I do, the homicidal maniac man will see my ear against the window and head in my direction, propelling his rage towards me. This, I do not want to happen.

Then, the questions start:

-Why does he do this every morning around 4:00am?
-Who is he yelling at?
-Why does he sound like a live buffalo being gutted every time he yells?
-What is he saying when he is not yelling like that?
-What apartment does he live in, because I sure fucking hope it's not any of the ones near me?
-Why does an eerie silence always follow the crazy, buffalo-death-yelling?
-Should I call the police?

Before I could answer any of the above questions, I fell asleep. The next time I woke up, it was approximately 6:30am, and I was waking from a dream in which Naomi Watts was trying to make out with me as Woody Harrelson danced around me with a sawed-off shotgun.

I think I need a vacation. And a new pair of ear plugs.


NEW!! ADDENDUM!:


I left the apartment about a half hour ago to get a slice of pizza. On the corner, a man and woman were speaking in hushed tones.


Bald Man: I heard it too!
Pale Woman: It was like someone was being killed.
BM: I heard him say, 'I can't love you if I DON'T LOVE MYSELF!!!!'
PW: Oh, my gaaaawd. If this continues, I'm calling the fuckin' cops next time.


I paused. They were talking about homicidal maniac man!!! I deliberately missed the light to cross the street so I could listen in a bit more. It's like Wisteria Lane around here. Thank god, confirmation that I am not nutso and/or hearing voices.


(Sidenote: I almost joined the conversation, but stopped when I realied that BM was, in fact, the crazy dude who accosted a friend and I in the corner bodega one evening and warned us to never, ever do ecstasy like he did back in the Studio 54 heyday, when his brother was a big-name DJ.)