Short Story (part 4 of 5)

[Don't worry, folks, this story's almost done. Here are the first three parts in case you need a nap.]

“So why haven’t you called?” I asked with a smile while throwing my pack of cigarettes to Kent.

“Oh, I’ve been busy with school,” he fumbled, obviously lying.

After lighting his cigarette, Kent tossed the burning log back into the fire. The embers were like fireflies popping out of the fire pit and disappearing as they slowed through the air. Sometimes they wouldn’t go out and we’d have to move our legs to dodge them. We took another shot while Vin’s girlfriend sat next to him playing on her cell phone. At first it was annoying as we felt we had to accommodate her, but it didn’t matter after our third drink. The nostalgia was powerful and all that mattered was contained within the light of the fire. Then, jealous and unable to handle her boyfriend having fun:

“So, have you gotten a job yet,” she asked me.

“No.” The smile on my face disappeared and everything was quiet except the popping fire.

“When do you plan to look for one?” She gave me an insidious smirk and looked back to her phone, thumbing it quickly.

“I will soon.” My face was hot with embarrassment.

“Really? That’s what you said last time. Why haven’t you gotten a job yet?”

“Well, I’m an anxiety prone alcoholic. Remind you of anyone?” I thought I’d gone too far with that last comment but it didn’t even phase her. I filled my cup of gin with tonic, began sipping it and said to her with the most spiteful sarcasm I could muster, “How’s your acting going? I heard you had an audition, for a commercial was it?” Her face lifted and her gaze turned from her phone to me. “I mean, that is going strong, right? You’ve been actively looking for and attending auditions, haven’t you? That was, after all, your intention. That’s why you abandoned everything up north and moved to LA, right? For your acting?”

“She’s actually been going to a few auditions lately. Will you pour me another?” Vin said trying to defuse the situation.

“I’m sure you’ve landed several lead roles in a couple future blockbusters! How’s your job going, then,” I continued while pouring Vin another drink, “still hate it?”

“Frank,” Han told me in the way an older brother advises his younger sibling to shut his mouth.

Kent dropped another log into the fire and embers began popping violently into the air. The fire grew and I wasn’t able to see her face through it.

“Frank, pour me another shot, yeah?” Han decided to break the silent tension. I decided to pour everyone a shot. My face was red with heat and embarrassment and my pouring hand was trembling a bit and I stumbled as I handed the cup to Vin, spilling a bit of gin onto his pants. I apologized and Vin said it was no problem. His girlfriend said something in an antagonizing tone under her breath but I couldn’t make it out.

“Let’s drink to good friends this time. We rarely do that,” I offered.

Adventures in Therapy!

I’ve been introverted, anxious, and timid all my life. I’m afraid of stepping out of the house unless accompanied by another. My therapist said I should take baby steps and make a conscious effort to notice how irrational my anxiety is. He said a good starting point would be my complimenting a stranger.

“Try complimenting the first person you see as soon as you step onto the street. If you misspeak, or you think you did something wrong, remember your safe word. I know you can do this.”

“Thank you, doctor.” I stepped out of his office feeling invigorated and excited like when you first drink coffee and it doesn’t make you jittery. I visualized the encounter and I pictured myself making eye contact with a woman, smiling, waiting for her to walk by before walking back to her and telling her she’d lovely perfume. I stepped outside and caught the eye of a beautiful blond professional in high heels. I smiled and walked by her and attempted to take in her scent. Instead my nose was assaulted by the most potent musk I’d ever smelled. I decided to keep walking as I felt her eyes burrowing into the back of my head.

I walked by a coffee shop and noticed a stroller with a baby inside. I’ll do this one, I thought to myself. I’ll tell this lady she has an adorable baby. I neared the stroller and smiled to the lady who was drinking espresso. I figured I’d say she had an adorable baby, see that it made her happy and walk away. I bent over the stroller and noticed the stroller was empty.

I decided I needed a drink to soothe my frayed nerves. I walked into an Olive Garden and asked the hostess if I could have a seat at the bar.

“This way, sir.” I followed her and she led me to a table. “Your server will be with you in a second, sir. Enjoy your meal,” she said and handed me a menu. I decided to make the best of it and tried to compliment the server when she arrived. I’ll tell her I like her makeup, I thought to myself. I flipped through the menu and decided only to get a drink. I began getting anxious and sweaty when I realized I’d been waiting for twenty minutes.

I was relieved when my server finally made eye contact with me. She walked towards me and told me that they were closing. I was very embarrassed and my eyes watered up because of it. “I like your makeup,” I told her meekly. She said she wasn’t wearing any.

Misadventures in Driving in LA: Parking Edition

I'm happy that my commute to my new job is only 4 miles long. What I'm not happy about is that in the grand spirit of working in an office in Los Angeles proper, FREE parking is not that easy to find.

Fortunately for me, I'm cheap enough and have the wherewithal to make sure I don't have to resort to such things.

Sure, I could pay for parking at the 2 hour max. meters around, or pay $5 flat rate at the indoor and pretty secure apartment parking structure a block away, but why do something like that when a little bit of effort nabs you a spot for $0? Also by looking for free places to park, you get a better sense of your surroundings and possible shortcuts you may one day have to take.

I now have a "system" to find myself some parking. I take my usual route, and when I'm getting kind of close, I start scoping out my last resort spots. They're relatively close, but kind of not in a safe area, and even though it's supposed to be in a 1 hour only zone, it doesn't seem that most of the cars on the street actually move from their spots. When I'm closer to my work, I look for some Golden Spots, and if there aren't spaces, I'll go down more and around the corner to a street that has poles for meters, but no meters on them, so you don't have to pay, but they sometimes enforce the 1 or 2 hour parking limit, but I've been lucky so far.

Of course, the ideal place to park are these aforementioned Golden Spots. For some strange reason, there is a strip of curb long enough for 6-8 cars and has no meter, no parking or street sweeping restrictions, and is directly across the street from my office. By the time I come in, most of the spots are taken, but there is a bit of curb that's after a driveway and right before a fire hydrant at the corner that can hold two cars; sometimes someone parks like a jerk and it becomes one space, but sometimes, that place is completely empty.

Today, was one of those days.

I was happy when I saw the entire spot completely free, which allowed me to park the way I want, so that someone else could park behind me (good parking karma). The only thing is that I work in a rather busy area, and that intersection gets pretty congested, so when I was going for the space, I was able to squeeze past the last parked car and the car in queue at the light so I can pull over and park. The only problem with that was several cars followed suit, but they were planning on squeezing through so they could get into the non-official lane to turn right, so when I parked, I essentially blocked their way.

When the light turned green, people were baffled and honking as to why I was just sitting there, gathering my stuff, and I tried to mime in the best and most polite way possible, "I'm staying here. I am parked."

Yes, some people were pissed. When I got out of the car, the woman who was behind me the entire time looked angry and started talking to me.

"Why did you park there? You're blocking the way."
"This is a parking space."
"You can't park there."
"Yes, I can. This is a parking space...there's no red here."
"Well, this isn't a good parking space."

I do have to agree with her in a way, but still, it's right across the street, free and unrestricted, so I'm staying.

After seeing several cars were behind her and honking, I didn't want to risk crossing right there and took the 10 steps to the crosswalk, where a man who got backed up because of me rolled down the window at the light as I was waiting to cross.

"You have to make a right turn! You were blocking the way!"
"I'm sorry, but I signaled, and that is a parking space."
"You can't park there! There's a hydrant!"
"No, I can park there, sir. There's no red on the curb."

As he continued to try yelling at me, I got the go to cross, and I swiftly went behind his car and crossed the street.

Free parking isn't always the nicest and easiest thing to do. But if you've got the fortitude and the belief that parking should be free, it can be found.

Here's a quick and dirty tip on free parking:

FIND THE BROKEN METERS. Sure, it does say sometimes that you're not supposed to park there, but the trick for these is that you should take a minute to call the number listed on the parking meter and report that failed meter, and make sure to get that person's name. Sometimes failed meters reset on their own, or get fixed while you're gone, and if that happens and you get a ticket, you can say you're the one who reported the broken meter and can contest the ticket. If you do this, make sure to get the location and time you're there. Also make sure to obey any other parking rules of that space, including if there are time limits at certain times of day or street sweeping the day and time you're there.

Thankful to be Home, but...

My last post from last week was actually written one week prior to its publishing, to give myself yet another reason to come home to LA (next to the fact I'd want to come back to mild weather and my life), and treated myself to a bacon-wrapped hot dog. Sure, I was going to Germany, the land of Wurst, and a silly Street Dog may not be up to scratch to what they have there, but I thought, "Hey...this is what they've got here, and that should be good enough for me..."

I kinda want to take that back.

In the eight full days that I was traveling through Bavaria and Salzburg, I cannot begin to count how many Würste I actually had, but I sure had A LOT. Being based out of Munich, the traditional Weißwurst made of veal and pork was a common breakfast staple and those come in pairs, much like many other traditional Würste. Whether they were served on a plate or in/with a Semmel (bun), a Brezn (pretzel), currysauce or Senf (mustard), etc., I don't think there was a sausage I had that I didn't like (Though it seemed I offended a few Salzburger Wurststand workers when I tried ordering the city's popular "Bosna" and didn't have any ready and actually served me a pair of regular Frankfurters instead, and I just walked away from it).

I'm not that big on meat, which is funny to write after all this talk about meat and meat-wrapped meat...but it seems that I'm not fond of the texture of solid a lot of the times, so having the muscle fibers finely ground, made with quality ingredients like I've had on this trip kind of makes things easier for me to take down. And really, who can blame me? I'm not really sure if there are other places that could make better sausages than I had on this trip, and quite honestly, when it comes down to it, the cheap and greasiness of the bacon-wrapped hot dog just doesn't compare...not even the All-American hot dog with some onions and ketchup that I had today doesn't stack up to the taste and snap of the casing of a perfectly made sausage.

This isn't the first time I've come back from Germania and the amazing selections of Würste only to come home to be sad that it's pretty hard to come by some sausages of that caliber. That said, that doesn't mean that I can't and won't ever have a hot dog, bacon-wrapped or not ever again. I enjoyed the one I had earlier today, and I look forward to the talks of having yet another bacon-wrapped hot dog night at some friends' very soon. I'll be happy with what I have here, and the thought of making a Germanic version of the Dirty Dog makes me shudder. Will I crave for another "Bosna" from the Salzburger Adventsmarkt? Oh yeah. Am I kind of wishing I didn't declare my package of Weißwürste to only see it confiscated? You betcha. Did I miss the bacon-wrapped hot dog I so lovingly missed before I even went on this trip? OH HELL NO.

But that's the beauty of travel...it gives you something to which to return...right?


FYI - for those international travelers who would like to take meats home with them back to the States, do know that beef and pork are prohibited unless the product has been prepared for shelf life (IE, canned or jarred) in order to kill the certain pathogens that the meat may or may not contain. I have brought Weißwürste home in the past, but I had to subject myself to a lot of scorn from the locals when they were hand-inspecting my backpack and found a giant can of the stuff, laughing at it and me and showing it to their co-workers saying what an abomination I had. At least I was able to take it home to my sister...vacuum-sealed packs and smoked/cured meats are not acceptable. Of course, you could take the gamble and try to sneak the stuff in without declaring it, hoping they wouldn't find it and fine you $300+ and get your meats taken away...which is something that we could have done...IF we weren't law-abiding citizens! Yes...*tear*

Short Story (part 3 of 5)

[Here's part three. Here are parts one and two.]

I woke the next morning in my bed shaking with anxiety. No headache, no nausea, just shaking, anxiety, and a fear of I don’t know what. I stood dizzily and staggered to the aspirin and chased it with a shot of rum and in a minute I was able to enjoy my own company again. The highlight of my day was the cigarette I had with my coffee on the balcony after the rum while reading in the shade of a flapping blue tarp attached to a tree that swayed with the wind.

The sun was setting when the wind picked up. The sun lit the roofs of the houses that led up the hills like golden steps into the horizon when my phone rang.

“Let’s go get fucked up!”

“All right,” I said.

“Han will pick you up in--”

“An hour. Needa get ready.” I flicked my cigarette onto the barren property next door and went inside and showered.

At Kent’s house Vin was sitting opposite Han with a beer in his hand. Through the fire, I caught the face of his girlfriend who looked despondent and shy at the same time. I smiled at both of them and they smiled back, but Vin’s was genuine. It was nice to see him again and it was as though no time had passed at all. All the resentment I harbored over the last year or so had dissipated. I took the bottle of gin and filled halfway six plastic cups.

“To Vin,” I said and we took it in two mouthfuls. It was a great feeling sitting there in the dark around a warm fire with my friends. “Cigarette?” I mumbled to Vin, cupping my hand over my cigarette to light it.

“I haven’t yet picked up the habit,” he said jokingly and his girlfriend glared at me. She was still angry at me for dropping him off that one night leaving him smelling of vomit, cigarette smoke, and liquor. She decided that night that she would leave Vin if he didn’t stop drinking or going out with his friends--not all of his friends, just us.

Reason to be Thankful (and to Come Home)

It's the day after Thanksgiving, and yesterday most people in the US have celebrated thanks for the early US settlers' exploitation of the indigenous people of this great land, and perhaps done so by eating lots of this country's native bird. I, on the other hand, am a few thousand miles away not having had a turkey meal while traveling around or out of Austria, hopefully thankful I'm warm enough.

Some may know I'm a bit of a Germanohpile, and since this is my first trip to this area in a few years, the notion to not come back has crossed my mind. Along with the fact that Germany is now in a recession with its already difficult foreign work visa process, there are several other reasons, like a milder climate and the frequent use of the English language that will have me coming back.

There is one thing in particular that sticks out in my mind that will have me coming home to the U.S. of A., but more specifically, back to the love-to-hate city of Los Angeles:

THE BACON-WRAPPED HOT DOG


For those who can/choose to eat meat and haven't had one, you're really missing out. They go by many other names, such as the "Dirty Dog," the "Hollywood Dog," these illegal hot dog carts can be found in high-foot traffic areas, most notably around the Fashion District and in Hollywood late at night where many inebriated and hungry clubbers roam the streets. Its execution is simple: bacon is wrapped around a hot dog and is cooked over a metal surface heated by propane below. Onions and jalapenos are typical toppers, along with the usual ketchup, mustard and mayo on the side.

I have been vexed by this one particular bacon-wrapped hot dog cart that's just around the corner from my work, and there is usually one time each day I have to walk past it, and each time, I have to stop myself from getting one each time. It's the smell of the meats being cooked with the smell of caramelizing onions that one just can't deny.

On my last day of work before this trip, the allure seemed even stronger. It also didn't help that the fruit stand guy that's usually stationed 10 feet away wasn't there, for there wasn't as much as some sort of angel-devil contrast between healthful fruit and artery-clogging goodness.

But why, of all things I could eat, would I want a bacon-wrapped hot dog before I'm going to Germany, the land of Wurst? This dog is a sad bastardization of the glory of its source, so why taint that? After much thought, the answer was simple: This is cuisine that's so L.A., and if anything, I would need something to remind me what I need to come home. With that, I went out and got myself one hot dog with onions, jalapenos, a bit of mayo and ketchup for the road.



I had the dog packed to go and took it back to my office, and in that short trip, the grease had already seeped through the paper in which it was wrapped and already hit the paper bag it was in. It was beautiful when I unwrapped it, and that first bite was divine. The jalapenos weren't that hot, unfortunately, but the onions and the bun were slightly sweet and mixed perfectly well with the saltiness of the entwined meats.

Though I'll be sad to be leaving my current location (at the time of this blog entry's posting) so soon, I at least have a few things to look forward to when I'm home. I'll probably be wearing skirts and tank tops when everyone else is in scarves and coats if it does get cooler in LA, and when I go back to work, I'll know I've got these bacon-wrapped goodness waiting for me.

Short Story (part 2 of 5)

[Here's part two of my story. Part one is here if anyone is interested. Part three of five will be posted next Monday.]

Between the four of us we’d had a bottle of Gordon’s and a twelve pack of Pabst. Both were vile, something moonshiners wouldn’t touch. I’d had the majority of the gin and thought everything was hilarious, especially the fireworks and the lighters in the fire pit that would explode with a comfortable, luminous pop. We were stupidly drunk every time we were at Kent’s house, doing the stupid things stupid young kids do while drunk. I’m sure it was annoying but time is the least thing we have of.

“Let’s--take a shot,” I spat.

“To what!”

“To Vin!”

“We did that before.”

“Then to his last drinking adventure!” Up until recently, we’d been binge drinkers. Liquor would settle in our bellies in the form of shots or entire cans of beer at a time. As a result, we learned how to gauge our drinking through our mistakes. I, for example, learned not to swill a half bottle of gin in twenty minutes. Kent and Pablo learned not to take more than two shots in a row. Han never learned. Vin, well, he learned to never drink again, an exaggerated response. Han, Vin and I were at a friend’s house when we were twenty and we, for whatever reason, probably good weather, decided to get drunk. Han passed out an hour after arriving and Vin accepted challenges to chug beer and martinis. Eight or ten challenges later, Vin was rendered a crawling mess, unable to raise his head above ankle level unless it was over a toilet. I remained sober, drove him home and he vowed never to drink again. Pansy.

Han finished his cup of gin after our last shot and he was sick thirty minutes later. He threw up on the grass next to the wall of foliage far behind Pablo. I walked over and he looked up at me and insisted that I go have fun with the rest of the guys while slobber and tears crawled down his face and onto his crossed legs. He was belligerent and in my drunken state I had to try hard not to laugh.

I went back to my seat and Kent, putting a burning log to his face, lit a cigarette. I followed suit but with my lighter and exhaled breath thick with smoke and coughed.

“How long have you had that cough?” Kent asked.

“Around a month.”

“Are you gonna get it checked out?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Yer gon’ die of lung cancer, Frank!” Han yelled through sobs from the grass outside the warmth of the fire. He may as well have not been present at all. He would always tell us stories about cancer of the throat, and how you’d lose your ability to talk unless you had a voice box or spoke with burps or some stupid garbage like that. He knew it got on my nerves. When he pissed me off enough, I would blow smoke in his face and we wouldn’t talk for the rest of the night. It would be awkward sober, but drunk I was impervious to emotion.

Kent’s phone rang, “just us four. Absolutely, whatever beer you want. Yes, twelve is fine. See ya.” His phone clapped shut, “David’s on his way. He’s bringing more beer.” It was midnight and Han was sobering up beside us around the fire. His eyes were red and glossy. I had another beer and didn’t remember anything after it, not even David’s arrival.

Short Story (part 1 of 5)

[Here's a short story I wrote last year. I've developed my writing a bit since, so I ask for patience. I plan to one day pull a (polished) novel from this short.]

“Somebody call Vin.”

“Vin is dead,” I answered.

“Yeah, fuck Vin.” Pablo added.

We all missed Vin dearly and hadn’t heard from him since his girlfriend moved in with him. He’d been an avid fan of liquor, but one night he’d indulged a bit too hard and decided to not drink ever again. That and his girlfriend was a tee totaling wet blanket who had him by his balls.

“Let’s take a shot,” I said.

“To what?”

“To Vin.”

It’s not that we really considered him dead. We were happy for him, where ever he was. We were all single most of the time so I guess we were jealous, or we resented the fact that he stopped calling, but that’s the nature of the beast, right? Friends lose touch in time and sometimes it coincides with one of them being taken by a lover. I resented him deeply for that.

After several shots we sometimes called Vin. Well, I never called him, I’d no intention of speaking to him again, but Pablo didn’t have a problem dialing the number. Vin would never answer, of course, and so ensued Pablo’s default message: “Hey, Vin, it’s Pablo, we’re hanging out at Kent’s house drinking beers around a fire. You should come over.”

“Hey, remember that time after the movie when we wanted to go to a bar?”

“When Vin looked to his girlfriend for permission?”

“Ha, yeah.”

“Did you know he transferred to CSUN?”

“What the fuck! When?”

“Last year.”

“Wow. How’d you find out? Oh, when you still talked to his girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you stop--oh yeah, you told me. So why does she hate us?”

“Her dad’s an alcoholic, her grandparents died of lung cancer.”

“Makes sense.”

Sometimes, I'm a Girl

In about 30 hours, I'm going to be on a plane to Europe. Most people would be very excited and looking forward to such an occasion if they were in my place, but I'm very anxious about this trip. It's not that I have a fear of flying or that I get airsick…It's that I'm really afraid of freezing my butt off (and the fact that at the time of this posting, I'm not finished doing my shopping and have not begun to pack).

I knew that it was going to be cold during this trip, but I never thought it was going to be rainy and SNOWING. For a gal who grew up in "The Armpit of the San Gabriel Valley," the thought of spending extended periods of time in the cold, cold cold really scares me.

To help prevent my coldest nightmares from happening, I’ve gone around and made sure that I have warm things at my ready…part of which includes taking this opportunity to use this trip as an excuse to get new shoes.

Most people will find me wearing flats, slippers, and Chucks which are all not so good for the feet with the exception of my super supportive running shoes. That said, I also don’t have the type of shoe that will keep dry pretty well while keeping them warm at the same time. I figured that maybe this is the perfect opportunity for me to get myself a pair of boots.

Part of the reason why I don’t have a lot of shoes is because I’m super duper picky on what goes on my feet. I don’t know where I got it, but the most minute detail or texture, even a fraction of an inch on a heel will either make or break my decision. It’s a painful process even I hate, but it’s a process I don’t know how to make simpler.

I’d like to hope that this neuroses of the shoe pays off in the end, for I like to think that I do have a decent eye on things that look good (on my feet). What’s funny is that despite my aspirations to obtain my entire wardrobe second hand through thrifting and clothing swaps, I do have an eye for expensive, well made shoes. Whether it’s the shoe I’m looking for or not, I always find myself drawn to some of the more expensive shoes on the rack, and being in shoe stores or departments sometimes make me wish I was more fashion-forward with a disposable income in order to finance this untapped passion for shoes. It’s almost like I have this dormant Imelda Marcos disease, where I just want every nice shoe that exists in this world.

After spending hours in the mall, trying boot after boot, I did settle for a pair of Bandolinos that look fairly weatherproof but still nice enough to be dressy and not to heavy so that a So Cal girl like me can wear it out. I’m happy with my choice as a shoe, but it remains to be seen if I made the right choice on the right footwear for this trip.

Coincidence. Appreciate it. (part II)

[This is part two and the conclusion of Tuesday's post, which was this blog's very first Adventourist entry. Thank you, Rochelle! For the rest of you, I hope you like it as much as Frank and I do, and we hope that some of you may want to hazard a guest entry! <3corazon]

In the afterglow of all this election excitement, I was trying find a personal connection to Obama's win. You know, something a little more connected than that $25 I spent on a T-shirt, or all those cupcakes I bought at my neighborhood "Hungry For Change" bake-sale. Not knowing where to look for a starting point, I took a break in front of the t.v. Then I found it! Jeri Ryan.

Look at the palm of your right hand. Your "love line"-it's right below your pinky finger. I don't know about yours, but mine has a great big gap in it. When I was just sixteen I dated the man of my dreams. It was the happiest time of my life. Cut to six-ish years later - I idiotically broke-up with him. Thankfully we are back on track together. But maybe that time away served for something more important than my feeble happiness. So how does the Star Trek Voyager star connect with Obama and my love line?

Jeri Lynn Ryan starred in an Indie movie called the Last Man. The guy I dated during my aforementioned gap acted alongside Jeri in this movie. Years after the film completed, it made it to the Hamptons Film Festival. I went along helping to promote the movie, supporting the crew. Afterwards, Jeri had written a letter to the director thanking him for believing in her. She thanked him for fostering her self esteem and for giving her the opportunity that boosted her career. She then ended her part as trophy wife to Jack Ryan. No, not the Jack Ryan from Tom Clancy movies. Jack Ryan, the Illinois senator. The senator who ran against Barack Obama in 2004. In an act of courage and new found confidence, Jeri Lynn Ryan decided to open the divorce files on her ex-husband to expose a scandal that would forever change the course of history. Way ahead in the polls versus Obama, Ryan left the race after his sex scandal was exposed. Was this retaliation for forcing Jeri to attend sex clubs? I don't know. Perhaps it was just the right thing to do.

While Jeri replaced her former husband with chef Christophe Émé, the republican party tried to replace him with Mike Ditka. Mike said no, so Alan Keyes stepped in to lose to Obama. Keyes is now attempting to sue Obama for proof of Obama's U.S. citizenship. What a crazy world...

So where is my link in all this? Perhaps it was an off-handed comment I made to Jeri about my opinions on marriage. Or perhaps that extra boost of confidence came from all those men who were looking at her instead of me. We can never know the real impact of our every word or decision. That is one of the things that is so beautiful about the effect of coincidence on life.