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.

CURB YOUR PEE

Dateline: A Rest Stop Somewhere in Alabama/Mississippi, August 29, 2008

I was driving cross-country with MaryEllen and her handsomely awesome border collie, Max, when we decided it was time to relieve the bladders. We parked at this lovely little rest stop somewhere in the Southland, MaryEllen went to walk Max, and I went inside to pee.

When I entered the bathroom, all stalls were occupied, except for the handicapped stall, from which emerged an old ass lady hunched over a cane. She motioned for me to use the toilet, rasping out, "Go on, no one's gonna be upset."

Now, I've seen that episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. I do NOT want to be that person who goes into the handicapped stall for the extra luggage room or the supreme grip support of those nice bars and then emerges to see a very angry person in a wheelchair glowering down at me. It is not my bathroom to use, so I don't use it.

I kind of shook my head at the old lady, who then egged me on even further, "Come on, GO ON." So I did, knowing that 45-55 seconds later, the whole thing would be behind me - no harm, no foul.

I stepped inside, sat down, and went to work getting rid of three coffees, one orange Vitamin Water, and some Coke Zero. (Hey, a woman's gotta stay alert on the road you know?)

I heard some movement in the bathroom, but didn't think much of it. I wiped, pulled the drawers up, and unlatched the door.

To my infinite terror, standing in front of me was:

- Not 1, but 2 old ass ladies
- 1 young person with Cerebral Palsy
- 1 young person with Down's Syndrome
- Not 1, but 2 people in wheelchairs
and their various handlers.

Sweet baby Jesus, was this a guilt-induced mirage? Could there really be SIX FREAKIN' PEOPLE WAITING TO USE THE HANDICAPPED BATHROOM??????

For a moment, I considered limping away, but my asshole sensor ruled that out.

Therefore, I muttered, "Sorry," and ran past all six and their handlers, and out the door, into MaryEllen and Max, both of whom looked at me quizzically.

"My worst nightmare just happened," I explained.
MaryEllen went in to confirm.
Then she laughed at me for the rest of the day.

Later on, when we arrived in a ghost town, pre-Gustav New Orleans, we checked into our fancy schmancy hotel and took the elevator up to our room. Before I got close enough, MaryEllen doubled over with laughter:

"No fucking way!" she laughed, pointing to a brass plaque on the wall next to our door.

I stepped closer.

It read: "Room For Handicapped"

Yes. It did.
Yes, in that nearly entirely empty giant fancy pants hotel, the room they gave us was the handicapped accessible room.

You may have already guessed this, but we went out and drank after that.

SHAKEY, SHAKEY - HAIKU

Inspired by yesterday's earthquake:

Building is surfing
On a seismic wave of earth
Got your surfboard, brah?

5.4, they say
Well, felt like a big mo fo
Despite the Richter

Hey - shakey, shakey!
It's a tectonic party!
So pump up the jam.

Whoa - is that a truck?
NO. That's a freakin' earthquake.
Oh. Now it's over.

Can't focus on work
Must Google "L.A. earthquake"
Until I go home

Doorway or sub-desk???
Or run out into the street???
Just stood there, instead.

I'M ON A HUNT DOWN AFTER YOU

When my mom came to visit last year, she remarked that Hollywood was nothing like it looks in the movies; no glitter, no glitz, no glam. And that's the truth - there's an overwhelming amount of artifice glazed over public perception. Living in Los Angeles is not like living in a movie...

...Until it is.

I sat on my couch last night, watching (for the first and last time, most likely) the ridiculously awful nosedive that is Denise Richards: It's Complicated, stealing furtive glances at my window to be sure the neighbors didn't see me engaged in such shame. Oh, the guilt!

During a particularly awkward sequence in which Denise's mostly-sweet-yet-hint-o'-creepy-Joe-Simpson father stands in his undies, receiving a spray tan, I thought I heard a strange noise...like...a megaphone? Like someone making an announcement to a stadium...

I figured it was just the neighbors' TV and when I turned back to my own, Father Richards was getting some sort of massage. Gross.

There it was again, that megaphone voice, more urgent...so I turned down the TV and what I heard was:

"RESIDENTS IN THE AREA - PLEASE GO INSIDE OF YOUR HOMES! RESIDENTS OF THE AREA - STAY INSIDE OF YOUR HOMES AND LOCK ALL DOORS AND WINDOWS!"

Then something to the tune of:

"COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP OR WE WILL USE FORCE AGAINST YOU."

Shampoo. Rinse. Repeat.

And then I noticed all of the cop cars lining the street and the alley...circling my apartment.

HOLY SHIT.

I did what you think you might do when you watch a movie in this situation. I grabbed my phone, my purse, and a pair of flip flops, turned off the lights, got scared and turned them back on, then sat on the floor of the bathroom and called my neighbor:

Me: (Whispering, so the baddies wouldn't hear me) Melinda! What the hell is going on??????

Melinda: I don't know. This is freaking me out.

Me: I know! I'm sitting in my bathroom!

Melinda: Ok, I'm going to let you go - I'm gonna grab my nunchucks.

YEAH, SHE SAID "NUNCHUCKS."

Then I called Mo, who recounted a particularly morbid story about an old roommate being shot on their steps in Berkeley, which didn't particularly make me feel better, but still, always good to have someone to chat with when there is some sort of maniac running around your neighborhood.

After some silence, Melinda and I both cautiously ventured out of our apartments. The upstairs neighbor peeked out. Melinda asked one of the officers what was going on - apparently someone had jacked a car, crashed it, and was hiding out somewhere near our apartments.

We all went back in side. I sat in the bathroom some more, talked to Mo some more, and then made the assessment that the police activity seemed to be diminishing.

WRONG.

Suddenly, a line of cop cars came streaming down our street, floodlights on...parked right in front. Then came the police, many, many police, THROUGH OUR FRONT GATE.

JUST STANDING THERE, IN BETWEEN MY APARTMENT & MELINDA'S.

I put the cat in the bathroom, since he had taken to stalking me around the apartment in the excitement, and periodically biting my leg, which was doing nothing to soothe me. Then I thought better of it, and just put myself in the bathroom again and texted Melinda:

Me: They keep yelling 2 come out w hands up...so freaky!

Melinda: Dude look across to my apt

I looked. MORE COPS. Dogs! Lots of barking dogs!

I listened. There had been a girl at the front gate, crying and telling the police that a man tried to come into her apartment!!!

Back to the bathroom for me. I plotted my escape - I had my purse slung across my shoulder, my computer bag sat next to me...and I wielded a cheapo flashlight. I have no idea why I had the flashlight, but it made me feel better somehow. I kind of wish I had Melinda's nunchuks. I mean, that would freak someone out, yeah? Can't you use those to whip a gun out of an intruder's hand? I fantasized about that for a moment.

Well, I guess I could blind him with the flashlight and I could count on Eddie Cat Halen to at least bite his leg really hard, then we could make a run for it.

Back to reality. The police were still gathered, but seemed to be leaving. When my heart rate slowly descended back to normal, I peeked my head out of the door and asked one of the cops if they found the guy-

Cop: Uh, no. Well, we looked for the one here, but we think they both got away...but you're safe. Don't worry.

There were TWO of them???

So it was that I slept on Melinda's couch...nunchuks at my feet. For real.

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.

The Office: A Reality Series

Just a short hot while ago, I emerged from the bathroom to find a youngish man clutching a clipboard and speaking to my coworker Kathy in that faux-official voice that marks the telemarketer and his brethren.

Kathy appeared confused and slightly reluctant to be talking to this youngish clipboard-carrying man, so she referred him to another coworker, Aleeta, who courteously rose from her chair and said, "Yes? How can I help you?"

This is where it gets special.

The youngish man looked straight at Aleeta and, using his clipboard, gestured toward her and said, "May I approach?"

Yes, folks, the dweeby polo-shirt clad 22 year-old solicitor man-child asked if he could "approach."

Somehow I managed to sit back down at my desk without belching laughter and I whipped off a quick IM to Kathy to the effect of: "Did he just say ’May I approach?’"

"Yes. Hee hee," was Kathy’s reply. There might have been an emoticon in there somewhere, but definitely no LOL or ROTFL. We’re adults, people.

Using her superpowers, Aleeta eventually turned him away and we all went back to work. Approximately seven minutes later, when I felt the timing was ripe, I gingerly strode to Aleeta’s desk-area and said, "May I approach?"

Wild laughter ensued.

Wild, wild laughter.

Each of us took turns, howling, asking, "May I approach?"

Bellyaching laughter. Gregarious laughter.

Then we looked to the doorway, only to see Señor Salesman looking in at us before walking outside.

Uh. Apparently he was next door all along.

Like teenage girls, we all ran to the back of the office, behind the cover of a concrete wall, where I proceeded to lay down on the floor and laugh my ass off. Aleeta and Kathy followed in suit, alternately leaning on the wall and a bookcase for support.

"Oh man, that was bad," Aleeta said. "Now we’re gonna get shot."

Kathy and I looked at Aleeta: "Um, I think he’ll be okay. He doesn’t seem very dangerous...I mean, he’s a bottled water salesman."

Aleeta: "Oh, right!"

Dissolve into 60 more seconds of laughter.

Epilogue: Later, a drunk guy came in off of the street and looked at our O’Jays Survival poster, resplendent with afros and naked people, said "Damn that Eddie Murphy!" and kicked the wall.

I’m so happy to have blog fodder again. You have no idea.

is that a burqa or are you just happy to see me?

My bulky Cameroonian trainer Parfait really came up with a zinger this week:

As I straddled a stack of step platforms, squatting until I was pretty sure some muscles were going to start stripping away from the bone, Parfait shot me a very serious look and simply asked, unprovoked:

"Mademoiselle - are you a Muslim?"

I squatted my ass right down onto that stack of steps.

Me: "HUH? Did you just ask me if I was a Muslim?"

Parfait: "Yes, mademoiselle. Well...ARE you?"

Me: "HUH?? Are you serious?"

Parfait: "Yes, mademoiselle. You maybe are a Muslim. Like from Zaire or Congo."

NOTE: I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP

Me: "HUH??? WHAT??? That is the weirdest thing I’ve heard in a long time. No, I’m not a Muslim. Was there any reason you wanted to ask me that?"

Parfait: "No reason, Mademoiselle. I just thought maybe you were." Enter high-pitched laughter. And then he moved me on to do lat raises, end of topic. What the hell? WHAT THE HELL?

Two more training sessions to go, people. I have a feeling that after the last one, he’s going to ask me to be his fourth wife or something. Oh, the many adventures of Parfait.