Really Taking Off

I am an idea factory!!

Last night a friend and I went out for dinner…yum!! I love going out. We each got package deals–more than enough food for each of us, that’s for sure.

tri-color american cheese tortellini with a heap of peas plus red/green/yellow peppers chopped up on top, a blob of bechamel sauce and chopped capers
pickled cauliflower/pickled carrot with imitation crab stix in a dill/Sprite reduction (parsley garnish)
red kidney beans in canola oil with buffalo mozzarella and popcorn shrimp
steamed brussel sprouts in canola oil w/ candied picohline olives

main course was pork chop topped with steamed whole baby carrots & chopped circus peanut candy, with side of puff pastry bowl filled with Dinty Moore beef stew

dessert was melted vanilla betty crocker frosting with toasted skittles (in-bag) floated in it, then pierced to steam and torched

$24.95 (tax and tip included)

pasta primavera w/ large-cut broccoli, alfredo sauce and side of jumbo shrimp all served in blistered bell peppers
blooming onion w/ caesar dressing, ro-tel drizzle and Velveeta melted on top. Side of Parkay liquid butter
unlimited bread sticks
unlimited ice berg salad
tira misu w/ little debbie brownie, vanilla pudding, cinnamon teddy grahams, vanilla pudding, l.d. brownie, all dipped in dairy queen dilly bar chocolate and torched
affogatto nescafe with folgers french roast fines to garnish

$17.95 (tax and tip included)

Am I making fun of foodie culture?


A New Fantasy

I have taken a new direction. I applied for a job at a chain of sprawling dinner clubs (that serve food all day) with bright lighting, sweet framed portraits of family men playing baseball (home runs exclusively portrayed), gentle two-stair ascensions to a heightened perimeter seating experience with wrap-around porch style railings, and bathrooms constructed with what I frankly feel is a low standard. What kind of person goes forth with their chain restaurant unaware that Americans are so grounded by a robust john?

But it really isn’t time for me to complain yet, I’ve only had this job a month.

I’m a bartender!!

I have a pair of VERY low-waist black stretchy pants that provide mobility as well as sex appeal. I have a black top with a deep V that has ruffles along the edge and a generous skim over my still-soft midriff (one day I will commit to a glass of wine and crunches every night while I watch Chelsea Lately).

My transportation to work is both inexpensive and largely sweat-free. I strap on my rollerblades, jump on a razor scooter and then mount up on a Segway. This approach of resourcefulness from the inside out mirrors my emotional preparation for anything from alcoholics to sociopaths to children.

I knew it was a risk, but I created two new drinks in this short time working at Bananaby’s.

The Darcy:

Captain Morgan
Fruit punch Gatorade
Cinnamon stick
dollop of wip (not whip, not whipped cream…it’s something I threw together with a hand blender, some marshmallow fluff, half and half and a dab of Worcestershire)
Handful of dragees
Swirl of Monster Energy Drink reduction (made with Monster Energy Drink, two truck-stop size pats of Blue Bonnet, and eight packets of C&H sugar…allow to simmer for two minutes, then add a packet of sugar every 30 seconds after that until all added and thickening)

The Darcy is served in a glass boot mug.

The Hugh Darcy (still trying to decide if it should be spelled “Hue Darcy”):

Captain Morgan
Cucumber-Lime Gatorade
dollop of sour creme (made by melting the inside of two Tofutti Cuties then thickening with corn starch)
Dash of chipotle-dusted caraway seeds
Drizzle of beef au jus

The Hugh Darcy is served in a sourdough bread bowl or if you are gluten-free it can be in a bowl-shaped corn tortilla

Saturday with Hot Lunch

At midnight Friday I received a text from my deeply excellent friend Eric Shea that he and his band Hot Lunch were just hitting the Grapevine on their way to bandmate Charlie’s dad’s place in Venice, for they had a GIG at the Volcom warehouse Saturday night for the Volcom/Baker collab. As far as man brands holding hands under an apple tree full of teen boys pooping money into their pockets, I don’t give a shit. As far as rad bros playing heavy space jam rock and skateboarding anywhere a tank of gas can get me, I’M IN. I was lying on my couch when I received this missive, drinking a cocktail and inexplicably watching Jimmy Fallon’s last show before his next twenty billion shows that I know will see me to my angry grave. I enjoy the whole affability/enthusiast standpoint he so wholly embodies, but I’m never going to fully love anything that seems like such a marketing coup to every rich dick involved.

I drove to Venice Saturday morning and met the doodz. It may be spiritually unfair that everyone who cares about freaks and not growing into a boring adult whose maneuverings can best be described as plate dildonics cannot see Charlie’s dad’s home in Venice. It is a robust level of street art insanity. WHO buys all the bonkers fringe art from the muppets on the Venice boardwalk? Tourists? Probably. But also one magnificent local who raised his kids there: CHARLIE’S DAD. WHOSE REAL NAME IS JERRY. Many iterations of doll parts and crappy toy bits diving about in painted foam sealant (Yoda in a frying pan full of yellow foam? Yep. Big doll head peaking out of foam sea with disproportionately small doll hands sticking out too? Handled.). There was a very tall mushroom that was too big to be a stool, so it was just a big mushroom hanging out in the room. Which happened to be under an old landscape painting with piles of foam at the bottom and “POLLUTION” written in tall letters across it. Just in case your imagination is too bogged down in beer and ludes to really GET why such a bucolic setting would play host to so many dark grey mounds of sad!!

After taking in this visual riot we headed down to the Venice skatepark. I generally avoid that joint on the weekends because it is crammed with people who like the IDEA of skating more than skating itself. Tons of tourists watching and taking photos (as a skater who doesn’t particularly want to be watched it helps if you’ve been forced to dissociate or ignore large presences in the past…maybe you know some alcoholics?). We rode for a bit, and when a (not skating) guy with a video camera crawled into the large bowl to film people he didn’t know (while his gf hollered to him from the ledge where she was sitting), we left to eat fish on rice on a curb with the TeePee Records label dudes, who are both kind and visually pleasing.

We drove to the Volcom warehouse. I helped the Hot Lunch bros load in, then skated the warehouse with them and a few others… as sometimes happens I just had to decide not to care that I was the least skilled rider there. Not because anyone puts that pressure on me but because I have these Big Ego David Lee Roth moments in which I want to sweep kick off a semi truck and SHOW OFF. I know that’s dumb. I just want to get better and better at skating. That said, the most important thing to me really is having fun and fellowship with other skaters. I love the dudes smiling and laughing and chatting with me and just plain loving the shred. If you’re one of the FIVE people skating and you won’t even say hello, I think you’re a bummer. If you’ve developed any kind of arrogance with regard to your status as a paid skateboarder, you’re just a fucking golf pro. If you’re polluting a rad dork sesh with your video camera which focuses exclusively on BIG TRICKS and PROS, you’ve also lost something (the game of life).


Kristi was killing the front smiths and front rocks as always. I love having a friend who is as obsessed as I am with skating all the time. A little after 7:00 three 9-year-old (looking) kids came in wearing helmets and Kristi said, “It’s officially over.” and then the place was swamped with groms and dudes. A couple hours later Harsh Toke took the stage (oh the stage with the grind-able monitor enclosures at the front of the room, yes) in a snarl of hair and sonic booming stony space jam heavy greatness. I loved it. Next Hot Lunch got up and slayed the joint. Eric is exactly designed to be the front man you want to watch and hear. His velvety wail and throaty howl is a delight to behold. And I want to sincerely tell you that every dude in that band is a kind, warm human. Rob, Aaron, Charlie and Eric are the Real Deal in the realms of talent and humanity. Buy their freaking record. Buy it in the yellow vinyl incarnation. Get fucking pumped.

I mostly dig the renaissance people are having with cameras and photography. I salute and embrace your sunset photos. I like the texture you saw when the sun hit that wallpaper. But something is a little dumb when a room full of people is stoked to experience a rock show (I wish THAT happened more often in this INTERNET AGE AM I RIGHT?) and we’re all just supposed to be deferential to the twenty photographers climbing around and blocking the proletariat’s view. Then there are all the people holding up their cell phones. I don’t really want to get knee-jerk judgmental about it, because it’s kinda great that people are recreationally having this art making knit into their lives. But maybe yet again it’s time to re-read some Susan Sontag and check your voyeur stance.

(Barely related tangent: if you have ever participated in society or had a naked lady on your skateboard or face, you do not have permission to make fun of “selfie” culture. YOU want to root around in a bin of pretty ladies/go to a bar? Then step off and let the selfie rats run free. You hate it? Do your work to take down the diet industry and whatever other attached businesses/endeavors profit from an oppressive aesthetic experience divorced from health. I’m not objecting to beauty rituals, I have lots, and I choose them. I’m objecting to hating on gals for posing for John Singer Sargeant.)

I had an hour drive home from Costa Mesa so I left after that. Which was rude to final band Zig Zag, and for that I apologize. The Waze navigation application on my telephone gave me about five incorrect routes, so an extra half hour was added to my drive. FUCK YOU GOOGLE BUS!

So We Go

Today I, Tara, went skateboarding in Southern California. I first met my friend Kristi in San Clemente at Cafe del Sol, which is like if John Hughes had to create a set for popular reality show “Southern California surfer taqueria.” The food is okay and half the people who work there are total dicks, but it makes a good place to meet and cram some fart fuel in the ass hole. Every Friday we eat at this dumb joint and then drive down to Oceanside to skate. Oceanside is fun to skate in many ways. Nothing is super challenging, but it’s varied and somewhat vast, and I sure can grind the schlitz out of some pool coping there, frontal and backways.

There is a moment every Friday, generally around 3:30, at which the park begins to deeply blow. A certain kind of 13-15-year-old kid gets there and skates like he’s wearing rollerblades while riding a scooter with a “Kick Me” sign taped to his butt and a bunch of Mag Lites strung together with rubber bands for limbs. They are the floppiest, dorkiest, most physically and mentally fractious shitworms in the world, and skating anywhere near them feels like trying to snuggle with a cocaine-fueled Whack-a-Mole champion. I do not like it. The flying boards, the constant yelling, the mild homophobics, the terrible style, the arrogance…and who is doing all their bleach jobs? The fuck? Is that just surfing or do they all have runaway teen girls hiding under their beds with Sun-In kits?

I don’t care about the answers to any of those questions. Because I think that boys that age should have blue tents while the newly menstruating girls have red tents. GROSS FUCK ME FOR SAYING THAT. Fuck everyone for ever talking about a woman’s body. But I think we all agree that ages 13-15 are hell on the rest of a society that has learned to bury their unchecked floppiness under layers of shame, anger and beer/red bull.

Just as we noticed things were getting annoying and terrible at Oceanside, Kristi and I mind-melded and realized we both wanted to skate Washington Street so we left. We drove down, bought more coffee (I mean, she doesn’t have an espresso machine in her station wagon, you guys), and rolled into Washington Street. What can I tell you? It was completely rad. I so rarely take photos because I am skating and I don’t feel like taking a photo. If you ever see one it is because I have FORCED myself to get my phone and document these rarefied moments. Why are most of my photos of cats and chihuahuas? Because that’s when my blood is pooling in my toes and I’m relaxing. Kristi hit her front smith stalls on the parking block in the flow area. I practiced getting high on the hips, grabbing my board frontside and other wonderful moves. I just deeply love a DIY spot. No bikes, no scooters, no jackasses. Well, until the two dudes with the four kids brought their lit-up wheels on cruiser boards and climbed into the area I was skating and let their boards go. Then I wanted to throw some hammers. Spoiled kids remind me that none of us will be taken care of in old age. These dummies are just going to sit around like boneless chickens checking their heart rate and shopping for tiny jet packs to attach to their shoes. You should either eat really well so you chug along like a freight train until you abruptly die at 84, or throw yourself into a drug hole so you die around 59 while you still have someone your own age who was abused enough to care for others to take care of you in the days leading up to that big dumb moment in a truck stop toilet when your heart stops after a big dump.


After skateboarding we went out for poke in San Clemente. I thought white people only ran in packs like that in Portland. It’s nuts. There are shoe stores on the MAIN DRAG crammed full of rubber mats with straps called “shoes” made for portaging canoes and wading through tide pools full of West Elm lamp bases and potential sushi. There are clogs so ugly that a denuded hedgehog would blush for them. You can also get slim-yet-billow-y clothing that only bluebirds can put on you in the morning. It is the weirdest town but the poke at this little joint whose name I don’t even know is good.

I drove like twenty freeways home and made myself shower (always an effort) so I could sit here and write to you then watch some TV. My cats are snuggling, the heat is on, and I think I’m relaxed.


Good Evening.

Do you have friends?

I do. And you do too, because we are friends, in a dissociative, mean-on-the-internet, who are you, did I meet you on tour way.

Lately I am very good at friends. The less I suffer fools or hang out in a situation that  in any way makes me uncomfortable, the happier I am. The less I question WHY I’m uncomfortable, and do that kind of therapy (some) women and gay people love, which boils down to: “If I could just override the instincts of my shitty existence and bully myself into a self-hating definition of “being open” I could really make myself tolerate something I knew right off the bat was wrong.” the happier I am. Who cares what dysfunction (IF ANY) is behind my resistance? It is such an all-or-nothing question anyway! I’m not going to be friends with my turd of an ex and I’m good with that! Isn’t it true that we all just do some weird stuff and have some blind spots and if you just let yourself merrily roll along, you’ll get a sense over time what is working and what isn’t and you can just sorta gently shift what’s not working as needed/stop eating grilled cheese for every meal.

Bold woman of letters Beth Lisick hashed this over beautifully in her book Helping Me Help Myself and I have thought about it relentlessly ever since. I feel like so much of my self-loathing in the past has just been self-indulgent distraction, a way of not participating in the greater arc of MY LIFE. Which is probably the same thing as saying, “youth is wasted on the young.” (I think I mention that in every post.) Because who in the throes of great skin will ever check themselves and say, “This moment is actually not everything.”???? Maybe self-absorption is a necessary developmental element of being in your 20’s, and if you’re lucky, you move past it and realize it feels great not to think about yourself ever, wear sweatpants all the time and order meals from smiling women in filthy uniforms at a strip mall in San Pedro. Hopefully you never sink as low as ole Hannah on Girls, who seems to have disintegrated into a despicable jerk party. It’s going to take a lot of expensive therapy and shopping to get back on track, gurl!! Wait she would never do that. Shopping is for those unrelatable SATC galz, practically in the top ring of No One is Like That!!

Did you read that article in the New York Times (a newspaper that is also on the internet) about how a person could benefit from being real about what it means to talk shit about/pick apart your friends? I love it so much. Like how does a person worry about real shit like being kidnapped by pirates and starving babies and everything depicted in The Lovely Bones (movie, not book) and not feel like they have to walk around with a dedicated crutch for each limb and an absorbent pad on a furniture dolly below them to soak up the tears?? Do people obsess about little shit because it is wonderfully easier and such a mellow jam next to sex trafficking? Maybe. Humans can’t be faulted for trying to have a functional, or even happy life. And plenty of us are forced by circumstance to face way heavy shit. There is no luxury of battening down the hatches while we figure out what is causing this minor rash. But maybe there is relief in creating more inner stability, less anxiety. Maybe we don’t all have to worry some certain amount which can be directed at various points on the meaningful to frivolous continuum. Broken nail/war. Maybe some kind of human Dyson holds the wounds of the world in their heart and mind in a certain fashion such that they can wake up at 11, go to the dentist, play tennis (indoors), read a book and cook dinner and feel great about it as a lifestyle. Or maybe the effort to sort these things out is our humanity, and the point is not to be an Edible Arrangement.

I don’t know.

But I know I say lots of stupid shit, and I’m going to live with it and love it about myself. I hope you still want to date.



What a wonderful weekend.

I opened my barn door on Friday and let the tiny party chariots fly at the Olympic Club in downtown Los Angeles, also known as DTLA. Do you like that? My friend Karen turned 40, so I cracked out a Helmut Lang dress I’d had on ice for a couple months, fluffed up my ‘do, shaved my V and slathered on some lip smack. I felt good in my bah-day. Which was nice. I had a stressful week for various reasons that basically if you are forty years old you can imagine what some of those are. Moving. Job. Whatever. I met with a family about nannying. They said they were “helicopter-y.” I’m getting bored with that story so I’m going to move on.

I went to the birthday party with my friend Sam. We just kinda waltzed in to the joint and took the elevator to the roof. The door dude asked for a wrist band and I said we didn’t have any, but we were going to my friend’s birthday. He smiled and let us in.

Sam said, “We’re really rolling on your blonde lady privilege.” He was right. Gross/true/facebook post.

After eating like twenty asparagus with prosciutto wrapped around it and drinking a few tequila drinks, we went down to the warm wood glamour bar on the 3rd floor. I didn’t see Don Draper but he was probably in the can tying up a woman or whatever he does now. The bartender asked if we were with a wedding and I said no. He said he was only supposed to serve people from the wedding, but why don’t we sit down and order drinks anyway?

I was getting drunk on my own power, and tequila. Plus the half bottle of wine I drank at home alone as a pre-game because I felt like shit about all the babysitting jobs I was sorting through, and the prospect of moving AGAIN. And a few other things related to having a body and it hurting.

We had some kind of wildly delicious tequila. I went home. I woke up with a hangover.

Hey, I don’t like hangovers. I feel stupid and slow and like a whole day in which I could be skateboarding or otherwise joyologizing is lost. But I also like to get drunk every now and then. And this is how I keep tension in my life. By making choices in which only some parts turn out awesome.

I ate pancakes for breakfast then pancakes for lunch. I pulled together an outfit for Jules Nurrish’s pool party fundraiser, which I was hosting. I had on bikini triangles up top, bikini bottom downstairs, and a sorta sheer white shirt that functions as a short skirt over it. Some kicky heels. I can’t tell if I sound like such a ripping dick right now talking about outfits and alcohol. But if you’re here, you’re here. And you know I am just a shallow Scorpio.

I had some wine.

I watched Kitten Natividad do a burlesque number, and then be unable to get out of her corset because Laurel and I tied it too tight. She made it sound like she would exit through the front, and it turned out she wanted to back out the rear, which we had tied up like Carrie in Homeland. Laurel and I are possibly less informed than a lot of women about the comings and goings of a corset. We DID live through the 90’s in San Francisco, and we did spend a night or two at the Hustler Club, so we know from women. But this turns out to not mean you can deliver corset greatness to a Russ Meyer actress and lover with wild giant bazooms. SORRY.

I had tickets to FYF Fest and even though TV on the Radio was playing, I was just so freaking tired from hangover, wine and sun, I decided to go get a massage at my favorite joint in San Gabriel and go home.

I get the same dude every time I go to Five Star in San Gabriel. It became a thing at some point and I’m not sure why. Many times when I get there he’s on break, and someone summons him to come massage me. I feel like an important businessman when this happens. There is one big room with rows and rows of fat la-z-boy massage chairs, and everyone gets massaged in there. The TV is on the whole time. I’m really into it. I don’t need candles or flutes. I don’t want stones down my spine or a piece of dark chocolate. I just want a vigorous massage that costs $15 and makes me soooo happy. My dear old friend Yirko directed me to Five Star. He grew up in Los Angeles (well, Koreatown then ONTARIO), and then lived here again as an adult. He had done some research about massage joints, and this one received top reviews.

When I walked in, the lady who is always there said I looked nice. I said I had been at a party. I still had red lipstick on, and I had on my sheer shirt with bikini under it. I put on shorts. I felt like I looked CALIFORNIA. Whatever that means. Normally I look like a longshoreman. Big sweatpants, big dirty t-shirt, flip flops.

A couple weeks ago I joked that my massage dude would clearly want to massage my boobs in a world where that was appropriate. Am I ever so perceptive? This massage on Saturday night was the least useful massage I’ve ever gotten from him. It was non-consensually sensual. It seemed like his capable hands could do little besides give a vigorous rub-down to the area to the side of my boobs, where there lie not hefty deltoids. There is exactly nothing to massage there besides the side of my ribs and the swimmer’s body of yesteryear. Then he took to kneading around the inside of my thighs. His hand kept ramming up against my vagina. I was lying there thinking, “This can’t REALLY be happening because clearly this guy sees my body like a giant roll of berber carpet or bundle of sticks he has to move. Purely clinical.” We see the magic in that thinking. I felt really bad after the massage.

I would prefer not to be non-consensually sensually massaged. For this reason, I can’t return to Five Star. I am very bummed about this. I called my associate Kristina after the massage and was laughingly relaying the story and she was like, “That sucks.” Then I realized I was laughing through my tears and was so frustrated that I had been touched not by an angel but a Saturday Night One-Sided Good-Time Guy. THIS BRUISED-UP BODY IS A TEMPLE, FOOLS!! And though every casting email I get is for a woman in her 40’s who is depressed at facing the end of her life and lack of love, that is not the truth of 40 (or at least not…get ready for it…MY TRUTH). At 40 I’m happier than ever, taking more physical risks than ever, enjoying awesome romance, and raising three cats. I do not want to ward off sensual massage, but it’s not the biggest deal either. If you have any leads on a non-sensual, cheap massage place, please message me.

Pants with one leg

Are you familiar with contrasts? I am. I have seen dark and light, up and down, left and right, Case Study homes and Victorians, so so many things. For years. Tonight I saw nice people and jerks, regular people participating in Western medicine who shop at Safeway and people who are witches for our time (which hinges on employing tinctures, essences and tarot cards), and people who are willing to brazenly roll their eyes at a stand-up comedian and people who at least have the respect to hide their disdain. I performed the act of telling jokes this evening with Lez Stand Up at Asiento, a bar in San Francisco. When the unsuspecting audience came to this bar for an artfully mixed drink and a game of Jenga, extracted from bookshelves made of re-purposed BARN WOOD or whatever, they were not planning on regarding a stand-up comedy show. So the crowd was resistant when we started. I felt uncomfortable instantly, and instead of doubling down my efforts like a pro, I just thought, “I’m not into this.” Which is so dumb and I can’t stop kicking myself about it. Am I an independently wealthy emancipated minor? Do I really just huck my carcass off a tenth floor balcony the second I’m not interested in something? Do I think nothing matters? I saw a man ROLL HIS EYES while watching me. Really? I’m the worst you ever saw? You can’t believe it? How was I emboldened to get onstage and tell jokes with great content and subpar delivery? I don’t know, sir. I do not know. But I truly hope your weekend improves after this dastardly incident.

After the show I talked to a person who went ahead and told me they didn’t like the movie Valencia because to her, the movie Swingers more effectively encapsulates the 90’s. The conversation was so uninteresting and without merit that I wanted to rip out a sewer grate and go live underground forever and raise pitbulls in a dark corridor and fight a pigeon for half a hot dog bun. At least then I could get behind the struggles.

I need to go to bed, I’m insanely tired.

But for the love of all, please donate to our KS.
Rods and Cones Kickstarter

Weekend at Bernie’s/Palm Springs

We all know I’m enough of a dick to blog about my relationship with my dad so let’s just hope he doesn’t think to google me for another day. My dad drove from Calistoga to my place in Highland Park last week Thursday. He arrived at night. I immediately get tense around my dad. His brain is like a thousand wind turbines dancing through the It’s a Small World ride at Disneyland so we are a team of mosquitoes drinking Mountain Dew when we’re together. All I can think about is how much guilt I’ll feel for being so annoyed with him all the time when he dies. If we could just pet and talk about cats the whole time we’re together, we might just relax. But until we go to a cat cafe in Japan, that will never happen.

Friday I went to take care of my friends’ kid for a few hours, so my dad stayed at my house. I guess he did wander out and drive up Figueroa, until he saw that it changed into Riverside…then he swung around and sped back to my house. When I got home, I did some cleaning so we could leave for Palm Springs. We loaded up our fitness equipment: his bicycles and my skateboard. This was the best part about planning a trip together: including our joy sports. We got on the 210 at 4:00 which is like putting on pantyhose then dumping a ton of potatoes into them and trying to walk around. We crawled along in his station wagon. At one point we passed a matte black, somewhat bedraggled mini truck that had been dropped to about an inch above the ground. It absolutely was not more than two inches off the ground. The lowest I have ever seen, and I went to Santa Rosa High in the late 80’s. My dad looked over and said, “Look at that trash can.” I said, “I think it’s kinda great.” He said, “Yeah but you see, it’s just a big safety hazard. You can’t turn quickly, if at all, which becomes a problem if you’re trying to avoid an accident. They’re gonna bottom out or scrape with the slightest change in terrain. And fuel economy…well. They threw THAT out the window.” And he said some other stuff, all in harsh tones that you might use for hurting children’s feelings or persecuting old people. So I said, “Isn’t it kind of American to take something like a car and make it your own? And maybe they don’t care about fuel economy, maybe they just want to enjoy the ride.” And he said, “You know what? You’re right.” One thing about my dad, besides his obsession with everyone being stupid and doing stupid things constantly, is that he is willing to admit when he’s wrong. It’s cool.

We got to the MARRIOTTTT because my dad travels constantly and has a billion points there, so we could stay for free. It turned out he only reserved one room for the two of us to share, and people, this is where my very spoiled, Paris Hilton BS comes out. I mean, the heart of it is, I thought I was going to die of ripping my own face off if we shared a room. I needed a break super badly. And part of a hotel room for me is just prancing around naked, watching cable, taking baths and reading tarot cards. None of these things could happen whilst sharing a room. I seriously got so twisted up inside, I didn’t know how to be sane, normal or kind. It was very clear that I don’t work with the homeless or for the UN. I felt so embarrassed for my adverse reaction and then determined to put a room on my credit card if I had to. Can you believe this drama? I sound like I’m reporting losing sequins off a dress or something. I sound like I lost a Faberge egg. I sound like I’m flipping out from losing a diamond-encrusted hair clip (didn’t I use the word “encrusted” in my last post?). If I grew up in a town where everyone lives in close quarters, this wouldn’t be so hard for me. BUT I DIDN’T SO PUT YOUR DUMB SWORD DOWN. I KNOW MY LIMITATIONS (somewhat).

I got my own room.

Ugh. Hang on and I’ll solve this embarrassment by donating money to a cause.

Oh also did I mention there was a women’s motorcycle club in town and staying at the hotel? A profusion of robust women wandered about. Including one lady who was in her late sixties, and had to be topping out at 85 pounds in full leathers and Wranglers. Glorious. She was the only person there who was slimmer than my dad, who could play a praying mantis in a grade school production of whatever play has a praying mantis in it. I don’t know where he stashed his organs but I hope he got a fat check for them. He could also play a way-prettier Rene Zellwagons.

Saturday I skated the Palm Springs skatepark. It is super insanely fun of life. I met some kids who were trying to figure out the pool in the back. There were four of them, probably 14-16 years old. One of the younger ones wanted me to listen to his favorite band whose name I can’t remember but they are from San Diego. We dangled our legs in the bowl and he gave me his ear buds and played songs for me, telling me what songs were fast, what ones were mellow, and what ones were good for skating. He had stick-straight blonde hair and sweet, narrow blue eyes. It was so charming and cute. He eventually left to get lunch. His friends went to skate elsewhere because I think they felt awkward figuring it all out in front of me. I wished they would stay but it was too much for them to be watched by an outsider. I felt bad. It was really great that they were getting into pool skating.

I went back to my room and changed into my bikini so I could lie in the sun for a bit, which I handled for about half an hour with a towel over my head. I read W Magazine and drank a green juice. It was heaven. I went to dinner with my dad and one of his old friends at a super gay restaurant in Palm Springs (is there any other kind? Well, yes there will be, when they open that awful HARD ROCK HOTEL later this year. Fuck, why not just stab all the gays in the heart individually? Do they really want Palm Springs to be Vegas? That’s so gross and I’m going to start staying at some other nearby desert town if all the Ed Hardy’s start storming the gates). I want to wear a Proud Bisexual pin when I’m out just so everyone knows. Just kidding. I truly never plan to wear that pin. My LIFE CHOICES are my pin. I tried to get drunk but could only drink one glass of wine in the course of dinner. Back in my room, I listened to a wedding party outside my window. How is it that wedding DJ’s only ever have to buy one set of records and never any more ever because always they will play Footloose and Beat It? Why is this true? What did people listen to before the 70’s and 80’s created all wedding reception music? I’m asking that but truly don’t care about the answer because then I will know something just as stupid as what I already know about wedding music: it is hurtful to women.

I watched the Bondi skate contest on my computah. That was cool.

Sunday I skated the park again, but just for an hour. My dad rode the stationary bike in the work-out center at the hotel because I guess his butt is a mess from sitting on that hard bike seat so much (the one on a stationary bike is flat and wide like sitting on a white woman’s butt). I stopped in to get the car key and he was dripping sweat through his wild eyebrows and pumping the pedals with his french fry legs stuffed into giant paint bucket shoes.

We drove home and my dad said, “I don’t really eat at Denny’s much. Almost never, actually. But you know what I like? Applebee’s.”

Me: Oh really? Why?

Dad: They have some very good salads. Including a good spinach salad. And it’s reliable. When you travel a lot, it’s good to know that your food is going to taste good.”

Me: That makes sense.

In my mind I had some objections. But I at least can shut up about it sometimes even though it shaves years off my life to wrestle with trying not to be the asshole I am so deeply driven to be. I am trying to imagine my dad is someone I barely know, with whom I would be generous and find his antics interesting, charming, or easy to ignore. I want to be a good daughter. But it’s so freaking hard.

Mow It Down

What do you think of people? I’m mostly into them. I went skateboarding a couple Saturdays ago. I set my ALARM. I drove to Long Beach to meet up with my friend Zedonk. We met up with two more dudes, Karl and Steve, in Cardiff. We bought iced coffee (Zedonk, a tall and handsome skater dude who repairs cooling systems on freight ships got a cappuccino because he’s become horribly addicted to the cappuccino machine at his work) (this is the same guy who can’t use the elliptical at his gym because it contradicts his gender expression) and walked down to stare at the ocean for a bit before leaving. There were dolphins zooming around and a lot of surfers. This was a poetic moment before hitting the concrete: needing to stare at the ocean. Zedonk and I talked about how much we love the water. I like when doodz are soft like this and so brazenly love the biggest lady I know: The Ocean. I often look at Zedonk’s face and try to make it look like my brother’s face in my mind, because they remind me a lot of each other. Zedonk’s coloring is somewhat like my brother’s was, though my brother looked more like a Viking and Z looks more Irish. Sometimes I think, “Why do I like bro time so much?” Then I think, “Well, I grew up with a brother and four step-brothers. Perhaps it’s just easy and familiar.” Then I think, “It’s also nice to be around people who aren’t intense.” Then I think, “Man, I love cats.”

We drove out to Pala skatepark. Oh world, this is now one of my favorite skateparks of my life. There is a pool in the back that is glorious fun, though I didn’t hit any tile or coping. A woman can always go back. The park is nestled in the small Pala rez east of Oceanside, where we went next. Oceanside! I have no use for you! If you are possessing of rad people, you are hiding them well! Are they between the cushions of your couch like a bunch of pennies and potato chips?

We rolled up to Oceanside, and I took a spin around the perimeter with Zedonk. A girl of about 8 years ran up to me and said, “I thought girls couldn’t skate.” I was so stunned at the terribleness of this that I was speechless. What angle to take? 1. Yes they can! 2. Who told you that? 3. Do you think that’s true? 4. Why would that be true? 5. (Ignore her and keep going) 6. Punch her 7. Make her take me to her mom 8. Make her take me to her dad 9. Spin in a circle holding a super long jump rope lined with those hard plastic tubes and slap everyone in the face. I think I ultimately did #4. Then two little boys walked over to her. I would guess they were 5 and 6 years old. They started yelling at her in an abusive, disgusted way that I don’t think anyone who doesn’t coach Russian gymnasts should use. They were admonishing her to return to their family event. It was hateful and those children are future rapists. It was actually MORE depressing than her not knowing that girls could skateboard. I wanted someone to push me into a vat of beer and seal the lid.

Despite this wholly terrible interaction, I went around to the bowl-ish to skate for a bit. I don’t want to bother describing this park because it’s just too dumb. You can look at it if you are done googling fracking. Oh who was skating the bowl-ish? JEFF TATUM. I watched Grosso’s Love Letters to Skateboarding about him last year with Bob Lake so I recognized him right away. He was riding a board that was a million miles long and doing some nice backside grinds complete with that dog-fart look-back that some people do while they grind. I don’t know how the hell he rides that long board in the bowl but RESPECT.

We drove back to Cardiff so the doodz could doobie up and we went to some kind of beer shanty for a drink. Zedonk and I talked about women. I said, “You need a strong, feminist woman. Anything else will bum you out.” He said, “Yeah. I just want to be with someone that I can be like, ‘Let’s mow this place down together.'” I really felt him on this. When I think of teaming up with the right person (my psychic friend Sarah Adams says my true love and I will be “love shamans”…cool! Hand me that crystal-encrusted WAND, foo!) I admit I don’t think of taking only snapshots and leaving only footprints. I think of interacting with this joint a little more. So.

Venice Times

I ask again, and evermore, what is life? I don’t claim to have shopped enough or seen enough sunlight refracting off red rocks in remote desert locales from my seat in a hot spring lithium bath to know.

I do know that life feels DEEP lately. We lost Christopher Lee. Suicide.

I don’t want to just be a steward of memories.

I imagine that those who leave this earth by their own hand are finally free from the grief and pain they did not know how to escape. Those of us left here with their memories must daily sweep the same corners, and find ways to make our beds with clear eyes. I feel particular compassion for those of us who were the first to find and name the remaining bodies. The role we’ve played is both regrettable and close to god (or whatever you comfortably call that entity/notion).


I saw Silver Linings Playbook last night. I loved it. I just love a romance. Is that terrible? To some, it is terrible. I’m not looking for penny candy, long nightgowns, candles in iron candle-holders held aloft with a finger loop, or piano lessons in a parlor. I’m just looking for some good lovin’ from a quality human. If that makes me NELLIE OLSON THEN FINE.

Today I met my deeply wonderful friends Ray and Patty at the Venice skatepark. It was fairly busy, and a thick snake of tourists pushed against the railing to watch skateboarding and California happen. I performed skating in a Mellow Way. Snake run many times, middle bowl a few times. Local super-shredders Shane Borland and Chris Russell were out, getting everyone stoked. Toward the end of our tenure at the park, a wonderful, shining, beautiful woman appeared. Like she had ripped herself out of a John Hughes movie. She looked like Brooke Shields meets Kristen Stewart, with olive skin. Thick eyebrows, gorgeous long, dark brown wavy hair blowing out behind her as she skated the snake run. I fell in so much passion with her I couldn’t believe it. As of now I think I will bring her to mind at least once a day for the rest of my life. She was wearing a cream color, collared blouse buttoned all the way to the top. Black tight jeans, navy blue woven belt and black Chuck Taylor high tops. She was so fine it was insane. I was wearing my purple TITS (the band) shirt…”TITS” is written in huge hot pink letters. With ENORMOUS tan shorts (me truly bottoming out with my body dysphoria…bought a pair of size 11 new shorts at the Log Shop’s closing sale. Get it together, lady.) I felt like such a clown next to the vision of what I WANTED to look like. Her eyes were dark and moody and wouldn’t look at anybody while she was skating. She had great skate style. Appeared that she was with some generic-looking skate doodz. I’m sure they’re wonderful people. But who is SHE. I didn’t even know how to ask because I felt like I would just be like, “Hello can I kiss your face into mine?” And she would be like, “GO AWAY GAY CREEP.” and I would never get over it. So I really prevented anything bad from happening in my life ever by just staying away and feeling like Cher next to Joni Mitchell yet again (buffoon to genius).

Unrelated (?) thought: Rihanna’s performance of “Stay” on SNL. Holy bittersweet dysfunctional devotional love from a bruised land. Dear goddess, keep her in your sweet palm and never let her go.