Los Angeles

There is a certain secure insecurity about this city; an overwhelming sense of need to impress everyone; to leave a lasting mark that will cut straight through the throngs of designer bags, hair extensions, faux tans and purchased smiles; to spear through it like a searing bow cast through soft flesh, cauterizing an image of their constantly changing perfection.

In an instant, you can tell who belongs here and who doesn't. I doesn't.

In my pinstriped business shirt and black capris, I am a sharp contrast to the sea of carefully distressed denim, billowy tank tops and carefully coordinated flip flops. The local Starbucks (one of the many) runneth over with men wearing pastels and women wearing skinny jeans, all of whom are ordering drinks with titles longer than my own.

Dusk decends over the city, wrapping her cool grey blue satin blanket across the skyscrapers (most likey desinged by Valentino) and palm trees. It is a place where the chocolate cakes can put you into diabetic comas and alcohol is every season's must have accessory in order to feel like you belong.

Waiter, I'll have another....

And I Call Myself a Writer...

As I sifted through the dust and piles of decomposing and moldy carboard boxes in my garage, I stumbled upon a few treasures that had long since been lost amongst the mountains of paper, unwashed clothing and unsightly knick knacks I'd collected over the years. To date I have unearthed a pile of journals dating decades back when I was still trying desperately to perfect my cursive writing at the ripe old aging of thirteen; many, many outfits that I wished I'd never worn, but offer some wonderful memories of days that will only ever be etched in my mind, and even some useful items that I can still utilize today, like that picture of the rotten ex whom I can use to line a birdcage with if I had one.

However, the most beautiful artificat that I stumbled across had absolutely nothing to do with me, but rather it is a letter written by a very dear friend of mine whose words brought me to tears as I read it until my vision was so blurry I could not go on. She is one of those effortlessly brilliant writers who is so talented it oftentimes makes me quite ill, but I support and love her because she is not only wonderful, but one of the few people on this earth who I hope to know until the day I die.

Over the years we have had our share of trials and tribulations, coming of age discoveries, laughter and tears... but above all, we have been there for each other as much as our busy lives will allow. We don't speak very often, but when we do I always end up amazed at her quick wit. It is foolish of me to think I can possibly keep up with her.

Tonight I was reminded of just how talented she is.... As I brushed away cobwebs, filtered through sand and cracked open the pages of my journals, a singular paper fell onto my lap amongst the dusty, dry garage on this quiet Spring evening. It was a letter she had written me six years ago that she titled "The beauty of pain, as felt by a writer". I will not say what caused her this pain, nor will I disclose her name or even the letter in its entirety, because pain, especially this type, is always best kept private; however, her words were so emotionally raw, so haunting, so perfectly heartbreaking, that it would have been selfish of me to simply return them to the confines of a dirty old journal. So here they are, words that exquistely describe a pain that we have probably all felt at one time or another but have never quite had the talent, or the courage, to express. As I read it again, I feel honored that she chose to share this sorrow with me.

And my friend, if you ever read this, please know that I will always be at your side, no matter how dark the world may seem. I will hold a light, even if it is the tiniest flicker of a candle, to help you out of that darkness....

"You know, pain is a very diverse thing. To say that pain hurts is a very inaccurate statement. When I discovered [this secret] the pain was a dead feeling... almost not a pain at all, but a dull ache of just another mystery (unfortunately) solved.

We writers are a very...'feeling' bunch. You could say we're drama queens, but to feel and to write about how we feel is a gift, I believe, and to be eloquent about it is an important skill for all of humanity to learn from.

Do I welcome pain? Not necessarily. But I suppose I can learn from it, and write about it, and remember how to deal the next time....

Yes, this is a new kind of pain. Does it hurt? Hardly. It[s] an exquisitely sharp pang that radiates from my chest. It makes me nauseated and yet also heightens my senses. It has a sound, too... it is a crushing sound, and there is a monstrous roaring in my ears, so loud I am dizzy from it.... Dramatic? yes. But so is the breaking of my heart."

The Saints Don't Come Marching In

OK, so I am asking for forgiveness beforehand for any spelling or grammer errors that I might make in this entry due to the fact that I am a bt tipsy. The reason for my tipsiness being that I have just watched, nay, survived watching "Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day." Even now as I see the title in courier font before me I cannot help but close my eyes and shake my head.

Every year on St. Patrick's Day, it has become a tradition to eat a hearty meal accompanied by potatoes paired with green beer and on eof the greatest movies every made... "The Boondock Saints." my nephew and I look forward to it the way most kids look forward to opening presents on Christmas morning. Tis year was no different, except that while I was purcahsing our dinner items at the store I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to rent "The Hurt Locker" (fucking awesome film!) in case we wanted to watch it afterwards. Lo and behold, this movie made its way into my eyesight and I decided "what the hell."

Have you ever had one of those moments? The moment where something v ery embarassing happens to somoene you know and you cannot help but actually feel emabarrassed for them? Well, I have. In fact, I felt that all throughout this film....

Guilt is weellling up inside of me now as I type this entry. Guilt for the director and writer of this film, this cult classic, this brilliant first film known simply as "Boondock Saints" that should have been left as a single piece of art. Someone should have stood up in his cofnerence room and shouted "Leave well enough alone!" Or even "If it aint' broke...." Any of those cliches would have worked splendidly and probably have gotten the point across just fine.

Anyone not familiar with Troy Duffy's first brilliant film should make themselves familiar with it and anyone who has seen it and been blessed enough not to watch the second bastardization of it should, you guessed it, leave well enough alone.

Within ten minutes of the movie, my nephew and I had ecvhanged the familiar "What the fuck?" look until I mad eth eexecutive decision that before we started drinking, we were going to need a lot more liqour if we were going to get through the rest of the film. Once we were well stocked and ready to watch the rest of the movie it still failed to get any better looking.

I cannot even begin to tell you everything that was wrong with the sequel, nor would I be able to seeing as how I can barely keep my eyes open right now. It is no wonder that this film barely made it into two theaters across the nation, and even so, it should not have made it into one. the acting was overdone, the script was, how shall I put this... unfunny and desperate and i still cannot figure out if the saints themselves were weraing too miuch makeup or if they went under the knife and under bad lighting. I hope againts hope that they just had a bad makeuup artist. If so, Mr Duffy, call me. I can do a much better job.

I will be watching the first movie momentarily in attempts to wash some of the sequel out of my brain, but like any bad dream or dissapointment in life, I know it will be etched in my thoughts everafter. I just hope I'm drunk when it does so.

All in all, the only way to watch this movie is captured in the picture accompained with this blog.

With All Your Faults

We are all opinionated people, whether we would like to admit it or not. Some of us have our opinions proudly pinned across our chest like colorful patches received with honors; some of us keep them shyly hidden away like dirty underwear we hope no one ever, ever catches a glimpse of; then again, there are those few who gather their opinions like so many precious jewels and only take them out when they feel the person they are showing them to is worthy enough. Is there a right or wrong way to express our opinion? Do any of us ever really have the right to express certain types of opinions such as, oh I don't know, relationship opinions?

We all think we know that the guy our friend is dating is a total loser and she could do so much better because he doesn't invest or own his own house yet. We all think we know that our male friend's girlfriend is a bitch who is just taking advantage of his kindness while cheating on him with his best friend. We all think we know they are secretly agonizing over how to break up with them so they can be set free and rejoice over drinks and a pinata full of condoms at their "I'm Not Getting Married" party. But really, the truth is... we don't know. We don't have all the answers and we don't have all the facts, because the only two people who truly know what is right or wrong for a relationship are the people actually involved in the relationship itself. All people like to see are the faults and cracks in some buildings instead of the beauty it is capable of holding within.

Do any of us ever really bother asking what the "loser boyfriend" does for his significant other? Probably not because we were all too busy mouthing off opinions. One of the major thrills of his day is probably getting to come home just in time to wash his girlfriend's hair or run errands with her on their day off. The "bitch" we love to criticize? She's making her boyfriend a lunch with a note that says she loves him, or spending five hours trying to perfect a cake she made especially for him just because she wanted to see him smile at the end of a long, arduous day. At night, when their heads are on the pillow, we don't see them staring at each other lovingly, we don't hear them making each other laugh over coffee in the morning, we don't see them sharing genuine apologies after they've fought over a scene in a movie. All we see are those days when her eyes are red and puffy because she's been crying. All we see is when he's upset because she tore his favorite shirt in a fit of rage. We see the big moments, not the little ones... and even then, we fail to realize how incredibly big those little moments are to the people in love.

When it comes to love, we are all blind, especially those who criticize it. Just a few days ago I found myself telling a friend of mine that perhaps it was time to leave his current relationship because he was too good for her; she didn't appreciate him the way he ought to be appreciated. I saw the hurt in his eyes and thought it was hurt of hearing the truth, but even though lately he has had nothing but complaints for her seemingly lack of interest in their union, he can't find it in his heart to say good-bye to two years of his first love. And really who the hell am I to tell him its the right time to let go? I realized that look in his eyes wasn't a look of hurt, but a look of disappointment that I wasn't as open minded as he thought I would be. I only realized this until recently when one of my friends asked me how sure I was about my own relationship....

I knew she had been having problems in her relationships since, well, forever and even though she is currently single, I never thought of her as the resentful type. Then suddenly she said "Be honest, he's so lovey dovey with you in public, but in private he's not really like that right? Come on, be honest." She must have caught us dancing in the parking lot of my office building. When I assured her that not only was he that attentive and romantic in private as he was in public, but was actually more so, I was sure she would be convinced. Unfortunately, a few seconds later she came back with "But you must feel smothered sometimes, right?" That was it. That was the moment when I simply looked at her as she stared at me quizzically, waiting for me to vent all the bad things my fiance does. I didn't. I simply said "So first you think he's not really that attentive but now that you know he is you think he might be too smothering?" Her look went from inquisitive to confused. Even she wasn't sure. But I was.... All I could do was smile and say "I love him and he loves me and that is the only thing that matters. He makes me happy and if that doesn't make you happy, well, I can't help you with that." At which point she began to apologize profusely and back peddle like I've never seen anyone back peddle before. "That's OK," I retorted, "I can only hope that when you're in a relationship again, he loves you as much as my fiance loves me...."

The truth is that I am in a loving relationship and, like everything else in life, it has its ups and downs... but what people don't know is that not a day goes by when he doesn't make me coffee in the morning, not a day goes by when we don't say "I Love You" and kiss passionately. And yes, he dances with me in parking lots as easily as he pulls me close to dance with him in our kitchen where he always helps me make dinner. We may not always agree on things, but we don't have to because our love for each other fills all those nooks and crannies that people are so quick to point out. We see beauty in those tiny crevices whereas someone else might see fault. We see the beauty in each other, even when others don't... and truth be told, I don't care if they ever do or not.

Why I'm On Team Conan

There are certain moments in life where it is not even a question of taking sides, because it is as transparent as Paris Hilton's head; you just automatically know where you want to stand. In the case of Leno Vs. Conan, well, let's just say it was another no brainer.

When I was younger I was first attracted to Conan's show because he seemed like such a caricature with his little mermaid style flippy bangs, beady little eyes and pointy nose. He never cared about being a heart throb of late night audiences or even the most clever guy who tried to make other people look and feel stupid so he could look witty. No, he was this Irish bloke who was just plain funny. Even his mannerisms made laugh. I thought, if I'm ever a celebrity I would beg to be on his show cause really, what a swell guy to know. He's that kind of person who makes me want to say things like "swell" and mean it.

So it was clear that as soon as NBC decided to cancel him in favor of Leno, there was no team I would rather be on than team Conan. The last week of his show was nothing short of spectacular. Thanks to the Internet, I did not miss a single beat and have watched it several times now. I think my favorite skit was when he was ordered by NBC to not speak ill of the network at all; no making fun of it, no bad mouthing it, nada. So what did he do? He bad mouthed them anyway... in Spanish. It was simple, comical feats like these that make him so damn lovable. Furthermore, he was unselfish.

When the time came to pull the plug he not only argued for his "severance" fee, he also argued the severance for that of his loyal staff. Not only were these incredibly fortunate people able to work for someone who didn't bang interns or have an abnormally large chin and drive circa nineteen twenty-nine automobiles, they worked for someone who had their backs covered. OK, so maybe their going away fee was pittance compared to what he was able to walk away with but come on, it was definitely more than I make in a year so yeah, I'd be grateful as hell.

Suddenly, just when I thought the Leno Vs. Conan brouhaha had simmered down and late night was inevitably handed over to the ever annoying and egotistical Leno, just when I had placed my metaphorical "Team Conan" shirt away in the closet, just when I thought the red hair laughs were over... I heard, through the bitter Hollywood grapevine, that Conan was tweeting. Now, I hate twitter. I hate it so much I don't even bother capitalizing the "t" in its name. I avoid it at all costs and would rather be kicked in the place where babies come from rather than tweet. But then I saw the picture above that Conan, new to twitter himself, posted with a caption that simply said "This is how many people it took to write today's tweet: "JUMBO" shrimp. WTF?" and I laughed. I laughed until I cried. I laughed until I peed a little. It was that kind of simple, self-deprecating humor that made me love Conan and be a loyal member of his team ever after and say this with steadfast gusto... screw you Leno. That one picture and post is funnier than a month of your shows.

Team Conan!