The Dirty Jerz

So I'm sitting in a hotel in Saddle River, New Jersey, right now, my wet hair up in a towel and dog tired after a red-eye to Newark from LAX, with a brisk layover in Chicago yesterday evening-melding-into-this-morning. It feels good to be back in Jersey, and it's neat because I'm out here on business (my first business trip in a long time, pretty kickass!).

The sky is tinted yellow with smog and it's nice and muggy, just like I remember those Jersey and Connecticut summers to be! I recall afternoons getting sweaty rollerblading around New Haven and up and down Grand and Marin streets in Jersey City. I recall afternoons moseying around Canal Street and roasting on the PATH or NYC Subway. Sigh!

It feels good to be back out here, feels like I never left. I feel myself settling back into the soul of a melancholy, hardened, cut-to-the-chase East Coaster.

Friday night I opened up the open mic at the Unurban with a 30-minute set of six faltering songs. I was nervous to begin with, as I had never played a 30-minute set in front of people who were actually paying attention to me (I've busked before, but that's a little different).

In addition to my horrible case of the stage shakes, I had cut my fingernails too short so I was forced to use a thin teardrop pick - and I'm not used to picks at all. Bummer. Although I received plenty of compliments afterwards, I was disappointed with the recording on the CD that they made for me. The crowd, though, was surprisingly a lot more young and femeil than it had been the week before. Maybe it had something to do with the holiday weekend.

Saturday morning I surfed Countyline again, then picked up my old roommate from New York, TC, from Burbank. On my way to the airport, I got lost and ran out of gas. Great thinking, Punky! I ended up on some buttfuck exit off of the 134 before Buena Vista with my car in neutral, pushing my car up the shoulder to get it out of traffic.

Luckily, a guy driving an old Caddy-style car stopped and offered to push my car to the nearest Chevron station on Pass Street. Of course, I saved myself the hour-long wait for Triple A and took him up on the offer. Without power, braking and steering take quite a lot of effort. What a sight we must have been on the road!

TC and I ended up spending the rest of the weekend doing touristy things, like talking to a photo crew at Melrose Place, gawking at the Chinese Theater and the Kodak Theater (I had no clue that this is where the Grammys are held) on Hollywood Boulevard and taking pictures of each other holding up fake Grammys for "Best Lover" and, my favorite, "Best Person".

We dined on Florida grouper, lamb, delicious pomegranate martinis and a sumptuous souffle while dropping some serious coin at Spago. We took a million pictures with countless Lamborghinis and Rolls's in Beverly Hills, and drank nasty-ass organic tea at 208 Rodeo.

Saturday night, we chatted with drunk guys from Boston at Renee's, and on Sunday, I donned my spiked leather bracelet and studded belt and we blitzed through the Rainbow, the Whisky, and the Viper Room. We ended the night at the Saddle Ranch, where we both rode the mechanical bull, and my groin still hurts. Both bull operators were from Texas!

On Memorial Day, strolled the Promenade and then made our way to the Santa Monica pier, where we munched churros and chatted with Elian the Argentinian reggae guitarist. The beach was decorated with hundreds of white crosses and the occasional Muslim crescent. TC, who is "Grecian," as George Bush would call her, commented on the congested "situation of American beaches" as she snapped a picture of the throngs of people dribbling onto the shore.

Afterwards, we met parrots and didgeridoo players at the Venice boardwalk, danced to the giant beachside drum circle, browsed the hippie shops, and checked out the graffiti walls. We ended up inhaling the best goddamned touristy-beachfront fish tacos at the Venice Beach Bistro, before heading to the airport for my midnight flight to Newark.

Chatsworth, Pron Capital

Note: the picture above is not a picture of Chatsworth, although it is ghetto enough that it could/should be. It is actually Abbot's Habit in Venice. More on that below.

My friend JV claims that Chatsworth is where all the porn stars live and work. I am not so sure, although several nudie bars did catch my eye as I took the scenic route along Topanga Canyon Road to Lassen and then to Canoga. I made the hour-long trek over to Chatsworth, during the hottest part of the Valley afternoon, via the 101, to get my car checked out by TK, an aging auto mechanic hailing from Tokyo with a penchant for fast Japanese cars. Perfect.

He charged me $20 for a quick inspection, wherein he told me that (1) my motor mount was not in need of replacement, (2) nor were my struts, (3) timing belt needs another 15k miles to go (replace at 105k) (4) I need the 90k service, (5) I need new rear bushings because the rubber is cracked, (6) and I definitely need new tires. Thank goodness I don't need a motor mount and struts like those other bastards at the dealership told me. What a crock of bullshit!

But the point is, Chatsworth is an interesting town. It's kinda ghetto with all the nudie bars and auto repair shops, yet Valley-ish with the big Nordstrom-anchored mall and nice houses south of the 101. The Carl's Jr. bathroom had a large bedpan-shaped toilet seat bolted to the toilet. I wish I had had my cell phone to take a great picture.

But TK was cool, he straight up told me what I needed and offered to help me find a stick shift and to sell my car if need be. He liked that I played guitar and lent me some tools to attach the pickup to my guitar's soundhole. He wanted my North Carolina license plates too, whenever I got a California registration. LOL, of course I'm not giving them to him!

Later that evening, I went to Abbot's Habit on Abbot Kinney Road in Venice for their open mic. One woman, Jenny, had a beautiful country voice and cute blonde children who chatted with me. But the other guys there were complete posers, and I heard more covers in the hour and a half I was there than I'd ever heard at all the open mics I've ever been to combined! So much for my preconceptions, that funky Venice people would scorn anyone playing a single cover.

The coffee shop was staffed by a grungy looking guy with lots of facial hair. The sound was decent, the crowd was weird and bohemian, a la: I stink, I have blond dreadlocks, I smoke weed five times a day, I'm so great because I'm alternative ... I'm so glad I elected not to live in Venice because it fucking sucks! Yucky hippie-wanna-bes up on their high horses. Puke!!!

This guy was blocking the door when I was going outside to tune up, then when he finally let me pass, he slammed the door on my precious baby guitar. WTF??!!!!! I was so pissed off. What a lame crowd. The Lower Haight, my old stomping grounds, is similar in holier-than-thou hippie vibes, but not as mean. No way this would've happened in the Lower Haight.

Oh, the only good thing about Abbot's Habit is their biscotti: pumpkin spice, lemon ginger, mint chocolate chip. Yummy!

After playing my two songs, I bounced and met this guy in Marina Del Rey to test drive his beautiful white '99 Prelude. Love that car. Wish my legs were longer so I could reach the clutch more comfortably.

Malediction Society

My antics in L.A. just don't seem to stop, do they? I'm getting way too burnt out to keep this up.

Friday night I stopped by the Unurban coffee shop on Pico in Santa Monica for their open mic. Loads of skeezy old men and just me and two other girls (the host jokingly referred to us as "skirts" and jokingly admitted his misogyny). I'm amazed how forward and aggressive the guys in L.A. are. Even the gross old ones. They were extremely forward and it made me feel very uncomfortable.

But the coffee shop was cozy, with theater chairs and couches and sofa chairs for seating. The sound was brilliant, and the blonde lesbian barista was very friendly, especially after we compared tattoos. We girls stuck together and gushed about each others' music. One girl had a wispy romantic voice, and the other had a forlorn country twang, both played beautiful songs. My name was drawn last, which meant I got to play three songs instead of two, and I get to play the opening 30-minute set next week. Wow!

I made friends with the other girls and I ended up having drinks at Joker with one of them. We each had beers and saddled each other with the woes of our love lives. C traveled here from Jersey to pursue music and acting, but she's spent time in Australia as well. By the way, if you ever make it to Joker, which is on Pico, it's quiet an interesting crowd. The bartender is a Harley woman with a large forehead - very cute personality, though. You get all kinds of Harley-ish types as well as little starlet-looking girls and gay-looking pretty boys.

Saturday started off poorly, as they were doing work on the doors and the sawing kept me from falling back asleep. I made my way to Carrillo for an OK surf session ... It's been really big in Malibu on the weekends; it's too bad I didn't go out during the week when it was smaller. But the climb down to Carrillo from PCH and then back up was definitely interesting, to say the least, if not acrobatics-worthy. The water seemed slightly dirtier than at Countyline and there was a ton of kelp in the water (another sign of pollution). The waves were large and ill-formed, and ill-distributed, and after about an hour and a half of getting incrementally more seasick, I was tossed to the rocky shore and decided to call it quits.

As I was walking out of the water I noticed some boys squealing over a patch of sand ... and they introduced me to the white sand crabs, which can grow as large as an egg, but are very cute, squirmy, and ticklish when they are wriggling around in your hand. They are definitely cute but they also sort of gross me out.

On Sunday, I ran at Zuma - this time with the tide low, I didn't have to feel like I was running along on an Indy 500 slanted racetrack. A surf school was holding a class that was crowded with screaming kids. Again, I parked at the wrong lifeguard station - #13. It was a long walk back, but I did half of it barefoot, enjoying the cool water and the soft sand.

Later in the afternoon, I test drove a manual 2001 Prelude because my car's fucked up, but my feet are too short to reach the clutch unless I push the seat all the way forward, which is impractical. But I was extremely proud of myself for being able to drive it in the first place - and put it in reverse, three-point-turns, the whole deal. I only stalled out 3 times. Not bad for someone who's never owned a stick.

I also swung by the guitar store and ended up having a blast playing all the instruments, banging around on the drums, and ripping it up on the electrics on the humungous Crate amp. People were talking to me and I couldn't hear what they were saying so I just kept on playing. Even though I only came in for wooden acoustic stand, I left with some picks and my favorite medium light DR strings and ... a Fishman passive pickup! With my employee discount it ended up being a steal. It didn't hurt that the checkout counter guy was trying to impress me.

Of course, with my luck, I got rear ended at Fountain and La Brea after leaving the store, while stopped at a red light by an unsavory-looking gangster-type driving a gangster-type lowered old model Lincoln. Fear from previous run-ins with gangster types almost kept me from getting out of my vehicle but I decided I ought to see how much damage there was. Fortunately, he was pleasant and even tried to flirt with me. Thankfully, he gave me his insurance information and agreed with me that my bumper was cracked and buckled and needed replacing.

At this point, I almost threw in the towel and called it quits on the evening, but I decided to make it a good one. N from Pasadena called me to let me know her crew was headed to Malediction Society at the Monte Cristo. Undeterred by the rain (this just means driving in 2nd or 3rd gear the whole way), I stopped home to change into my corset, black velvet coat, satin gloves, and boots and proceeded to Wilshire and Westmoreland, at the edge of Koreatown, with curiosity and caution.

I was not disappointed at all. The music was a mesmerizing blend of industrial, trance, dancehall, and Goth. I loved it. The vibe was peaceful, warm, strangely "happy." Everyone was dressed to the nines in corsets, long black coats, tall boots, lace, ruffles, fake leather and chains. It was like coming home. Before long, I was dancing away happily, oblivious to all but the music and the other moving shapes in my midst.

Calabasas Hockey

On Monday night I made the mistake of attempting to "run" at the Zuma beach boardwalk. Ha-ha-ha. As per SD's instructions, I drove up PCH to Trancas Market, made a U-turn, and then parked on the side of the road, behind some other cars. The Zuma beach boardwalk is somewhat deserted at the dusky hour of 7.15 p.m. on a Monday, save for the occasional drunk person, meandering couple, like-minded jogger, lazy beach bum, and surfer unwinding.

I began my jog along the paved boardwalk, which was separated from the sandy beach by a salmon-colored, waist-high wall imprinted with leaping dolphins and sea shells. I gazed towards the shore longingly, though, and it was only a matter of minutes until I had succumbed to the undertow, if you will, and was at the beach, running along the damp, hard-packed sand on a steep sideways incline, with the waves licking at my new red-and-gray New Balances.

So beautiful! I ended up jogging to the end of Zuma, but ran out of steam to run the whole way back. At this point night had fallen and I hastened back to the car, making very slow progress. The sunset draped the sky with mellow fuschia and pnk. Lesson: Don't try to "run" from the "Food" to "Food" snack shacks at Zuma (in other words, from one end to another) if you're starting at 7 pm, unless you've got a buddy. It was a little scary.

I had a grueling Tuesday and Wednesday, whereby I (1) tied up loose ends with my old job, a task that gave rise to a boatload of stress and a number of difficulties, which I shall not get into here; suffice it to say I was very much under the gun, (2) sealed the deal on my new place in Malibu, only to get an earful from the spouse of the owner, then to rethink whether or not I wanted to live there for the summer and deal with a very rude and meanspirited spouse nagging at me from San Diego, where they live, (3) booked tickets for my friend to come visit me from New York, only to realize that my new job wants to send me on a business trip out to northern New Jersey during the same week that she booked her tickets to come here, what the fuck do I do now? (4) played phone tag with several people, including Chewbacca, who's sniffing around for a second date with me, and my hotel roommate for CG's wedding in New York, (5) took my car in to an independent Honda mechanic to figure out what the fuck is wrong with it, only to find out that I've got three different mechanics telling me three different things, so ... what the fuck???, and finally, (6) ironed things over with the "sweet"-boy turned asshole who is now back on my good side.

Life!

Yesterday evening, I stayed late at work and headed over to the pickup roller hockey rink-cum-basketball courts (it doubles as both) at Juan Batista de Anza Park at Las Virgenes and Lost Hills Road in Calabasas. Oh, proximate Valley suburbia! Beautiful rolling hills covered with dense brush and perfumed with the scent of bright yellow flowers!

The game started a little after 8 pm, and I was the only girl, as usual. The players consisted of high school-age boys and their fathers, or men their fathers' age. Maybe one or two college-aged guys as well. They all wore jerseys so I donned my (uh-oh) newly washed Urban Outfitters sweatshirt, so as not to appear too skanky in just my girlie baby tee.

The rink was large and therefore much more menacing for me. The reason being that a larger rink means more room to pick up speed - and that makes for scarier collisions. Since I weigh 110 tops, I function better in a smaller rink, where the emphasis is on maneuvering and whacking people with your stick to get the puck. In a larger rink, speed (not my forte as a short person on small hockey skates) and momentum become more important, and that's where I lose out.

One guy was trying to be nice to me and pass me the puck but he never got a chance to. Another guy kept on commenting on how all my gear fit into a "small" Rossignol ski boots bag (small only compared to the large-sized hockey bags that can fit two dead bodies and a dead cat).

I left early. It was loads of fun, but I doubt I'll be back anytime soon. I miss the little rink back home!

By the way, the pic above isn't actually the rink at Calabasas, but it gives you a good idea of what it looks like. And the dude pictured above in the old school fuck-me rollerskates just cracks me up. I found this image on a UK website. Figures!

Neptune's Net

I almost posted twice in one day yesterday after returning from an outstanding surf session at County Line in Malibu. Can I just mention that I love living in Malibu? The waves were too big for me to handle, especially since I hadn't been in the water in about three months (thanks to eye surgery). But the water was a beautiful aquamarine, the sky was gorgeously overcast, and the Santa Monica hills rose primly in the distance. It was heaven.



I first checked out Zuma, which looked deserted, then Cabrillo, which looked very rocky, and finally one dude I talked to mentioned that I should drive up to the Ventura County line, where Neptune's Net is. Was I shocked to see beautiful lines approaching the shore, and surfers evenly spread out all over.

After struggling into my wetsuit in front of all the Harley bikers fraternizing in front of the Neptune's restaurant, I plunged in to the left of the Point, and just enjoyed sitting out there with the other surfers. Birds flew overhead in perfect V's and I met a woman on a 7'6" Mal who is travelling to Bolivia and Ecuador for four months to study Spanish. Both her and her boyfriend are nurses and are able to have that kind of flexibility.

I tried catching a few waves and was propelled with incredible speed towards the shore each time. After about two hours in the cold water, I struggled to shore and got to my car, shivering. I tried driving home with my wetsuit on - since I could, because I lived so close, but it ended up being a bad idea. I was cold all the way.

And I do plan on visiting Neptune's for a meal soon. As soon as I get the old Banana Slug down here and can ride it over and get ridiculed for having a sportbike.

Big Fish Boxing

I know you all have been waiting for the latest installment of my adventures in Los Angeles. Let's see, on Thursday I had an "interview" for a "reality show," which turned out to be a very sketchy voyeuristic soft-core pron internet site wanna-be, produced on a shoestring budget, in Marina Del Rey. My other compatriots turned out to be (1) a dancer/stripper fresh off the boat from southern England, and (2) a home-bred Los Angeles girl who works for ChopperHead magazine.

Phenomenal. I had no idea that such ugly women could consider themselves models. I guess there's more than enough to go around for everyone. The thing about pron is, it can really be career suicide, not just for acting, but for everything else in life. And you can do pron when you're 35, or even 45, because there's a market for every kind of kinkiness. But it was somewhat of a no-brainer to figure out that it was a super-sketchy proposition (although I have to admit, I gave it some consideration, for the cash).

So I discovered this amazing boxing gym just across the street from where I work. It's the real deal, like in Million Dollar Baby. There's a ring, a shitload of different kinds of punching bags, and jump ropes. They made me do 3-minute sets of everything, including jump rope (I couldn't make it through the entire three minutes without tripping over myself, or, more likely, just stopping because I was out of breath).

Then, I did shadow boxing and worked on my left hook, then we did the mitts where you get to punch the person who's holding up little mitts. That's probably my favorite part. Next, we had the little bag, then the big hard bag, then the speed bag. Oh you should have seen me flubbing my timing on the speed bag. It looked like I was punching air as the bag flapped all over the place! Hilarious!

My trainer, Jorge, said that I had pretty good form, considering my last few lessons occurred at New York Sports Club on 32nd & Madison 5 years ago! The owner, Adam, immediately recognized my old G&S 10-oz fight gloves as being "good gloves from New York," and I felt right at home. There were also two other girls fighting at the gym, so I didn't feel too out of place. We then wrapped up with a bunch of sets of push-ups, sit-ups (heinously difficult) in the boxing ring, and a push-up-abdominal work thing. I hadn't sweated that much in ages ... my clothes were drenched!

Afterwards, I trundled off to Santa Monica on a date with a freakishly tall guy I had met while looking at apartments/roommates. I had forgotten how tall he was, and later on I asked him if anyone had ever mistaken him for Chewbacca. Well, it was 2 in the morning and I was munching quesadillas he had made for me, while drunk off my beer and Appletini; you can forgive me! We had been sharing Dunhill Lights and trading sarcastic remarks all evening at the Wilshire, which looks like the set of Survivor and supposedly is a "cougar bar," and later on at Busby's, which was filled with crazy fake-looking fratty-sorority-people.

Yesterday I made the 2 hour trek (mainly due to the 405 being a parking lot at 5 pm on a Saturday afternoon ... who knew?) to Huntington Beach to hang with JV, whom I hadn't seen since high school. Strange that I live by the beach but I drove 2 hours to get to another beach ... Whatever! I met one of his friends who used to frequent the Goth Bars and go to Malediction and Perversion, and other Goth nights. I'm so there! Anyway, I am just glad to be able to be doing my laundry today. Yay. And I can't wait to go boxing again next week. =)

24-Hour Shitness

My exciting weekend consisted of visiting a plethora of roommate-situation dealio's, ranging from the self-confessed uptight, balding lawyer with three ungodly shrieking cockatiels in his swanky Santa Monica appartement to the 18-person commune-co-op type house in Venice where folks even slept outside in the backyard in burningman-style "Pods" covered with tarp and garbage bags. I got rejected by the nice folks who lived near SMC, but that was cool with me, because I met a supercute girlie who'll be living just steps from Venice Beach this summer.

My place of employment, which I shall not divulge just yet, happens to be pretty cool and a real winner with the potential-housies. They love that I work there and they are salivating at the thought of taking advantage of my hefty employee discount. It also helps that I throw in "surfer girl" (no lies there, see my board below, with artwork designed by yours truly) into my description and I get plenty of callbacks. Amazing. I love working for a cool company. It's like a breath of fresh air. I wake up happy each day.



On another note, the so-called "sweet boy" that I dated for two weeks belied his "sweetness" and turned out to be a major asshole. Oh, the irony that I originally wasn't too into him because he seemingly was not the asshole-type guy that I normally swoon over. Yes, a couple cries were involved (by myself, of course). I am sick of getting hurt by guys, but in the end, it's all my fault for being so vulnerable. Bad Punky! Punky Must Learn, Or Get Hurt! Dumbshit!!!!

The roommate-hunting had gotten pretty bleak (and still is, by the way) and I was approaching burnout after 3 days of non-stop action. I was stressed out and the number one remedy was a good, heart-thumping workout. So, which gym should I pick but the 24-hour Fitness at 31st and Ocean Park in Santa Monica? What pretense! What stuffiness! What ungodly body odor fumes!

After driving around 31st and Ocean Park for what seemed like hours trying to find the goddamned gym, and getting play-by-play directions from the guy at the front desk, I had to take a parking ticket to make the gate open to get into the lot. I had never validated parking in an office complex where a giant-ass gym was located. Getting my 10-day free pass was a nightmare, as they explained a thousand different pricing options for me, the cheapest of which being $100 to join and $42 a month thereafter, no contract. What a crock of bullshit.

I went to the gym to de-stress but ended up nearly having a heart attack, and I hadn't even made it into the locker room yet. Of course, the locker room was a fluorescent-lit maze of mirrors, ugly gray bathroom tile, and scales to weigh anorexic women around every corner. Blech!!! The cardio and weight rooms were okay, filled with the requisite body-builder type guys and cutesy girls. However, they were definitely very stuffy and a little too warm for my taste. And the squat cage didn't have the bar at the right level for me to do squats so I ended up just clanging the bar on as soon as I managed to hoist it up to the right height after a set of 12 squats.

So, I am totally put off by 24-Hour Shitness. Yuck yuck yuck!

Cinco de Mayo on Highway Cinco

Welcome to the inaugural post of my Punky Brewski blog!

You've won a million dollars by being the first goddamned person to look at this piece of crap.

(Here is a cool random pic I took this winter during my fast-forward trip to Asia/Australia. Cool, huh?)

Anyway, nothing is new with me. This is a reincarnation of the hallowed and holy "Poshlusty" blog, discontinued recently, that all of you have been clamoring for ...

So, enjoy. As soon as I figure out how to link up the old blog to this one, you'll be getting your history fix. In the meantime, I'll update you on my shit. I had a fabulous Cinco de Mayo, which consisted of a long drive down to Los Angeles on Highway Cinco, arriving at 2.30 a.m., only to head to work at 7.30 the next morning.

This was, of course, preceded by (1) a harrowing day at my old work where I was yelled at by my old boss for fucking shit up because I frankly don't give a shit anymore, (2) a fly-by-night load-up-the-car-with-all-my-shit session (hockey equipment, surfboard, motorcycle gear, boxing gloves, to name a few choice items), and then (3) a quick make-out session with a sweet boy I dated for 2 weeks (boo-hoo) before (4) hitting the long and dark road.

This was, by the way, a long and dark road made even darker by the fact that I was with hindered vision due to my recent laser eye surgery (yippie) but I was fortunate enough to make the drive down safely, thanks, in part, to yakking with my dear friend TL on the phone and to a depth charge from ghastly old Starbuckaroos.

More to come on my adventures in this fake fantasy city. I love it already.