I have to applaud the NAACP for their approach to the travel ban, and not, you know, hanging out at airports. This should be a big clue for protestors --follow the smart people!
Every time I see bleeding heart white liberals fighting for brown people, I just think back to Louis Farrakhan calling Hilary Clinton an "evil woman" and, well here https://youtu.be/cu41CPQw0hg this makes my day! --Where's the clip where he calls President Obama a failure.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Help us Eminem!
What we need is a voice of reason. We need Slim Shady! Why are people surprised about the travel ban and his wall? It was his entire campaign. Right or wrong you shouldn't be surprised. It was his ENTIRE campaign!
And...
He won. Which speaks volume for the epic failure of the Democratic Party.
I spent a little time on the NAACP website. They have a program in their organization that truly interests me, and I'm always right [here] in being a supportive member, but it seems, and I could wrong, still when they say "advancement of colored people" they don't really mean advancing all colored people aka colored people like me (nudge).
Kennedy, that was my president. Martin Luther King jr, that was my civil rights leader. I would have followed those two men anywhere, even to my grave however young. Civil rights leaders should be for ALL people. Travel bans are nothing new. Countries have them as a precautionary measure especially after terror threats/attacks, and rightfully so. Had our current president signed a travel ban under more sensible diplomacy, people wouldn't be so outraged. Whatever.
I have today off. Yesterday I had the presence of mind to visit the Santa Monica/Venice branch of the NAACP, but I just can't get over this nagging feeling...
And besides...
The Santa Monica/Venice branch isn't actually in Santa Monica, or Venice, it's listed as being located downtown. I'm not going downtown today. I don't blame the west side chapter of the NAACP for being located downtown, there's a bunch of scary white people in Venice after dark.
And...
He won. Which speaks volume for the epic failure of the Democratic Party.
I spent a little time on the NAACP website. They have a program in their organization that truly interests me, and I'm always right [here] in being a supportive member, but it seems, and I could wrong, still when they say "advancement of colored people" they don't really mean advancing all colored people aka colored people like me (nudge).
Kennedy, that was my president. Martin Luther King jr, that was my civil rights leader. I would have followed those two men anywhere, even to my grave however young. Civil rights leaders should be for ALL people. Travel bans are nothing new. Countries have them as a precautionary measure especially after terror threats/attacks, and rightfully so. Had our current president signed a travel ban under more sensible diplomacy, people wouldn't be so outraged. Whatever.
I have today off. Yesterday I had the presence of mind to visit the Santa Monica/Venice branch of the NAACP, but I just can't get over this nagging feeling...
And besides...
The Santa Monica/Venice branch isn't actually in Santa Monica, or Venice, it's listed as being located downtown. I'm not going downtown today. I don't blame the west side chapter of the NAACP for being located downtown, there's a bunch of scary white people in Venice after dark.
Monday, January 30, 2017
Minorities
I'm a woman of color. It's pisses me off MORE when people of color throw temper tantrums to get awards and attention rather than earning it. Life isn't fair. Not everyone gets a ribbon. It's not about fairness. You rather get a pity award? Blocking traffic and jamming airports is stupid. Brainless monkeys can do that. Where's your self respect? You have four years to groom a person you like, GO DO IT. You're not grooming anyone by being human herds at an airport. You're just wasting time. It's called an election. Find a guy (or girl) you actually like, and make him or her the next president. I see marches and airport protests and all I think is, wow look at all that time and energy being wasted instead of finding someone to believe in, and supporting THAT person. Common sense.
Dirty American Postcards
Look up the history of 'dirty French postcards'. The images were classy. Models were elegantly dressed, styled hair and makeup, sensually posed yet extremely suggestive. Very artistic. I'm not a photographer. I'm still carving a photo style. It's a hobby. I'd like to present an exhibit of elegantly sensual 'dirty American postcards' once I've found my niche. Finding the right models will be difficult as it usually is these days.
Age gage
I'm WAY too old. I aged out over 10 years ago.
If I'm (still) better looking than her, she shouldn't be there.
If I'm (still) better looking than her, she shouldn't be there.
Monday, January 23, 2017
The whammy drawer
THURSDAY
Alongside all this beautiful Southern California winter rain, came all this fantastic mountain snow. Last I read California drought was replenished by 40%. And it's not done raining yet. Thank goodness.
However...
All this much needed rain knocked out the cellular tower by my apartment for almost the entire day, about 13 hours, which isn't a big deal EXCEPT...
I live in a community close to the ocean, most residents only drive to work and back, that's it. Not a whole lot of driving on the weekends. The cars you see on the streets, most of them belong to people who are either just visiting the beach, and/or visiting friends who live near the beach, and/or picking up drugs from their dealers who live at the beach, or it's the third vehicle of a resident who can't fit it in their driveway. But mostly it's non residents. Like this one guy...
He's (somewhere around) 19-25 years old and recently, in the past three months, he made a friend who lives across the street from me nearby. On occasion he parks his car in front of my apartment, a heavily rusted dark brown Chevy, El Camino, and I use the word "car" very loosely. It's barely a car. When he turns the ignition it's like a Boeing 747 is about to crash on my roof, followed by ten minutes of solid thick blinding smog. He lets his car run for about 15-20 minutes regardless of the hour, early morning or late night. I bear in mind he's only been around maybe six times at the most, twice a month, but on THIS particular day when my cell tower was down, the sun came out, I opened my apartment windows and doors to air out the place, and there he was, starting his car in front of my apartment filling it with noise and smog.
My apartment wraps around the corner of the building. It's a unique "U" shaped apartment. Beside me are parking entrances, one on each side, and on the other sides of those parking entrances are outdoor stalls for the garbage bins...
After this guy gunned his ridiculously LOUD engine, filling my apartment with smog and noise I, very calmly, walked over to his car, got his attention and said, "Hey can you please do me a favor, can you please roll your car back a little ways so the bulk of smog coming out of your exhaust goes into the garage and garbage bins rather than directly into my apartment. I've got the windows open and I'd really appreciate it."
I was very nice about it.
All I was asking him to do was roll his car back a little, maybe 10 yards, and this is what he said to me in response, "Look, I'm just starting my car. I have the right to start my car. It takes 20 minutes for it to warm up. If you don't like it call the cops!" And then he gunned his engine again so a brand new batch of smog and toxins waffed into my apartment.
Aside from being a total asshole, I also observed an open bottle of alcohol sitting in his passenger seat, and here he was taunting me to call the cops? Really?
Noise and smog plus an open bottle of alcohol sitting next to him. Had I use if my cell phone, I would have called the cops because this guy probably doesn't know the police station is less than 5 minutes from my apartment. I considered walking over to the station with a photo of this guy's car, but by the time a cop would show up to my apartment, mister "smog" would be long gone, and then really what am I reporting?
"Newsflash! There's assholes in Los Angeles!"
I'm sure the LAPD would be amused.
Um. Search and seizure?
In my younger and dumber days, I would've been far more confrontational than a simple "Hey buddy can you do me a favor"discord. In my younger and dumber days, I would have already had (something like) a hammer in my hand as I approached his car. Prepared. When I was a little girl, 10-12 years old even, things that pissed me off built up in me. If a woman had a bruise on her face, I was mad. When I saw a news report about cats and dogs and their brand new litters being used for cruel laboratory testing, I couldn't eat for days, just sick to my stomach, and if you couldn't understand why I was so sick to my stomach then you were part of the problem, fuck you. I got shot in the leg for yelling at neighbor boys who were shooting squirrels and rabbits in MY yard. As a little girl, bad things got to me in such a way, with no release, I internalized until mass overload and then I didn't give a shit. Go ahead, shoot me. Fuck it. Put a bullet in my face if that's what it takes to make you feel like a man but you're first going to know what a worthless piece of shit you are, and quite possibly feel this little cheerleader's twirling baton dislocate your jaw even if it takes me 15 swings to get there. --Killer cheerleaders, not just a Quentin Tarantino, film.
In my teenage years, after my dad finally removed his (then) mentally unstable wife from our home, what a mess that was, I was sent to see a shrink (for a second time) who made the same diagnoses the first shrink made, "Your daughter is a normal kid. She's just been exposed to too much violence and instability..." and then told my dad to expose me to less adult situations my adorable little brain couldn't/wasn't yet mature enough to comprehend. In other words both shrinks blamed my parents. Ha! Isn't psychology GREAT. All this confused my dad because he didn't understand where a kid would get exposed to violence in a small upper middle class suburban Midwest neighborhood, safe enough to keep the doors unlocked, all pre Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat.
Thing is...
I read
I watch the news
I pay attention
But...
This was also during a time and place where referring to women and minorities with derogatory slang was acceptable as long as you weren't, you know, physically hurting us. You could call women bitches and cunts in public (people just assume she had it coming) it was ok. It was also a time and place where schools had smoking lounges, health class showed slides of aborted fetuses, and bringing little kids to a bar with you rather than leaving them home alone was considered responsible parenting.
Furthermore...
Both shrinks told my dad to let me "creatively" express myself because it was a healthy outlet I seemed to enjoy. --Honestly, I really could have just murdered people at this point and gotten away with it.
In my adult years I teased dad (a lot) about being a supposedly bad parent because not just one, but two, two board certified psychiatrists told dad my mental anguish was his fault, which resulted with my dad (then) telling two board certified psychiatrists to go fuck themselves.
But before that...
The shrinks told my dad to monitor my reading material, and not discuss politics in front of me anymore, and not let me watch the news or horror movies. Of course, this was all before giving troubled kids drugs was en vogue. The solution of MY era was prevention via psychiatry and denial. --Therefor, Mrs Henderson was just "clumsy" and ran into a lot of walls and doors, and THAT'S why her right eye was black and blue three times a year. Never mind the fact everyone knew from the 4th of July softball games, Mr Henderson bats lefty.
And according to shrinks one and two, I was an idiot with a tiny, yet adorable, immature brain. Rather than explaining/talking to me about what was going on in the world, shrinks one and two concluded I was too young to be exposed to such terrible things and my parents were advised to do a better job shielding me from violence and adult content...
My parents failed their mission.
I mentioned that part about my dad telling those shrinks to go fuck themselves, right? Ok.
This is how villains are made in Batman's Gotham, by the way. Both villains and heroes. Amazing how thin a fine line can sometimes divide the two.
Back then, I needed something to ease my tiny, yet adorable, underdeveloped brain. I accepted anything. How many kids did you know who wanted to spend their summers at bible camp? No one? Just me? Sounds about right. Everyone else's parents made their kids go. I wanted to go. I saw things I couldn't explain. No one could explain. I needed answers no one could give me. I needed to believe there was more to life than THIS. There just had to be.
So...
When some adult asshole makes the decision to intentionally drink and drive, and intentionally smog up my apartment after I asked him very nicely not to, (back in the day) it would have been a trigger for a lot of hammer-therapy on his vehicle. --Excuse me officer, my psychiatrists told me I needed to creatively express myself when feeling emotional. THIS, breaking his windshield, is art!
Lucky for "Smog" an English teacher introduced me to the philosophy of Buddhism.
No
Really
Lucky for him.
Studying philosophy did more for me than two psychiatrists.
Cheerleaders back in my day used to spin metal batons with fat pieces of rubber on the ends, but swear to god, even with the rubber stoppers, you could still break every bone in the human body with it like a hammer. Brass knuckles? Amateur. I was little cheerleader with a metal baton. I could wreck you for life!
Today, much (much) older, and wiser, I know my young hammer-therapy is nothing compared to the miserable existence for a life this smog-El Camino-asshole has before him. If he's an asshole to me. He's an asshole to everyone. What's a girl and her hammer compared to a society sick and tired of assholes like him. Karma. He's all yours, world. Enjoy.
Do I blame "Smog" for being a dick with an open bottle of booze in his car, and not having any general decency? Yes. Absolutely. He's an adult. But he's also an adult who was born during the Facebook social media era where his earliest memory could have been being duct tape to a wall, mouth taped shut, by his own mom, as she updated her FB page by filming her son crying for "likes" by other young disgruntled 19 year old moms everywhere.
And
So
That happened.
The additional thing that happened when the cell tower was down...
Mr Gordon called me about going to the Getty on Saturday.
When the cell tower was down I could text and receive incoming calls, but I couldn't call out.
FRIDAY
Somewhere between noon and 12:30pm I returned Mr Gordon's phone call. My phone was working once more. Yay! I hit "return call" and got (the studio lot) where he was working. The nice operator who answered my phone call said, "No problem. He's signed in. I can patch you through to his extension if you like."
I didn't want to disturb Mr Gordon at work. I left a message on his private voice mail instead. It's supposedly going to be a beautiful day out tomorrow. I didn't want to spend the day inside a museum in between all these rainy days. I suggested perhaps hanging out by the ocean.
About a half hour later Mr Gordon called me back.
"So no Getty." Mr Gordon confirms.
No. Another day. It's supposed to be beautiful out tomorrow. I want to be outside. After all this rain the air is going to be crisp and clean like we're in the mountains. We could get a bite to eat at a nice patio café. Have coffee by the ocean.
"Tempting. What time do you want to get together tomorrow?" Mr Gordon asks in his Tom Brokaw voice.
11am?
(No answer)
Noon?
(No answer)
1pm?
"11am." Mr Gordon says.
11am. What do you want to do? Coffee? Late breakfast?
"Lady's choice. Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets." Mr Gordon replies.
Ok.
"Ok. I'm going back to work now." Mr Gordon informs me. "See you tomorrow."
(Click)
That's one thing about talking on the phone I appreciate, you know when the conversation is over when someone hangs up. With texting I THINK I know when the conversation is over, only to have that person pick up on the conversation with a new text message three days later. --Very irritating.
After Mr Gordon hung up, I made the decisive plan he and I should get box lunches at Whole Foods, and then drive up the coast to Malibu, for a picnic and a nice sunny afternoon on the beach.
SATURDAY
9am. Mr Gordon called and cancelled.
He sounded awful and he was losing his voice.
"I think I came down with something, kid." He says. "I'm sorry. We'll have to do this another day."
I understand. Just feel better.
"I've been looking at the Huntington Library." Mr Gordon says. "I think we'll have to go there a few times to see anything."
Yes. You're probably right.
"Ok. I'll talk to you soon. Forgive me."
(Click)
SUNDAY
The El Camino smog-mobile is back. Only this time he parked across the street. There were at least three parking spots in front of my building, even a wide open parking spot in front of my apartment, but the guy squeezed in between two parked cars on the other side of the street.
Maybe confrontation ain't his thing.
Too bad
I just bought a new role of duct tape.
With all these women's marches sparking a new women's empowerment movement. If a woman was going to murder a man, now would be the time to do it!
And if she's little and adorable, trust me, cute females can get away with A LOT. Just as god intended.
Alongside all this beautiful Southern California winter rain, came all this fantastic mountain snow. Last I read California drought was replenished by 40%. And it's not done raining yet. Thank goodness.
However...
All this much needed rain knocked out the cellular tower by my apartment for almost the entire day, about 13 hours, which isn't a big deal EXCEPT...
I live in a community close to the ocean, most residents only drive to work and back, that's it. Not a whole lot of driving on the weekends. The cars you see on the streets, most of them belong to people who are either just visiting the beach, and/or visiting friends who live near the beach, and/or picking up drugs from their dealers who live at the beach, or it's the third vehicle of a resident who can't fit it in their driveway. But mostly it's non residents. Like this one guy...
He's (somewhere around) 19-25 years old and recently, in the past three months, he made a friend who lives across the street from me nearby. On occasion he parks his car in front of my apartment, a heavily rusted dark brown Chevy, El Camino, and I use the word "car" very loosely. It's barely a car. When he turns the ignition it's like a Boeing 747 is about to crash on my roof, followed by ten minutes of solid thick blinding smog. He lets his car run for about 15-20 minutes regardless of the hour, early morning or late night. I bear in mind he's only been around maybe six times at the most, twice a month, but on THIS particular day when my cell tower was down, the sun came out, I opened my apartment windows and doors to air out the place, and there he was, starting his car in front of my apartment filling it with noise and smog.
My apartment wraps around the corner of the building. It's a unique "U" shaped apartment. Beside me are parking entrances, one on each side, and on the other sides of those parking entrances are outdoor stalls for the garbage bins...
After this guy gunned his ridiculously LOUD engine, filling my apartment with smog and noise I, very calmly, walked over to his car, got his attention and said, "Hey can you please do me a favor, can you please roll your car back a little ways so the bulk of smog coming out of your exhaust goes into the garage and garbage bins rather than directly into my apartment. I've got the windows open and I'd really appreciate it."
I was very nice about it.
All I was asking him to do was roll his car back a little, maybe 10 yards, and this is what he said to me in response, "Look, I'm just starting my car. I have the right to start my car. It takes 20 minutes for it to warm up. If you don't like it call the cops!" And then he gunned his engine again so a brand new batch of smog and toxins waffed into my apartment.
Aside from being a total asshole, I also observed an open bottle of alcohol sitting in his passenger seat, and here he was taunting me to call the cops? Really?
Noise and smog plus an open bottle of alcohol sitting next to him. Had I use if my cell phone, I would have called the cops because this guy probably doesn't know the police station is less than 5 minutes from my apartment. I considered walking over to the station with a photo of this guy's car, but by the time a cop would show up to my apartment, mister "smog" would be long gone, and then really what am I reporting?
"Newsflash! There's assholes in Los Angeles!"
I'm sure the LAPD would be amused.
Um. Search and seizure?
In my younger and dumber days, I would've been far more confrontational than a simple "Hey buddy can you do me a favor"discord. In my younger and dumber days, I would have already had (something like) a hammer in my hand as I approached his car. Prepared. When I was a little girl, 10-12 years old even, things that pissed me off built up in me. If a woman had a bruise on her face, I was mad. When I saw a news report about cats and dogs and their brand new litters being used for cruel laboratory testing, I couldn't eat for days, just sick to my stomach, and if you couldn't understand why I was so sick to my stomach then you were part of the problem, fuck you. I got shot in the leg for yelling at neighbor boys who were shooting squirrels and rabbits in MY yard. As a little girl, bad things got to me in such a way, with no release, I internalized until mass overload and then I didn't give a shit. Go ahead, shoot me. Fuck it. Put a bullet in my face if that's what it takes to make you feel like a man but you're first going to know what a worthless piece of shit you are, and quite possibly feel this little cheerleader's twirling baton dislocate your jaw even if it takes me 15 swings to get there. --Killer cheerleaders, not just a Quentin Tarantino, film.
In my teenage years, after my dad finally removed his (then) mentally unstable wife from our home, what a mess that was, I was sent to see a shrink (for a second time) who made the same diagnoses the first shrink made, "Your daughter is a normal kid. She's just been exposed to too much violence and instability..." and then told my dad to expose me to less adult situations my adorable little brain couldn't/wasn't yet mature enough to comprehend. In other words both shrinks blamed my parents. Ha! Isn't psychology GREAT. All this confused my dad because he didn't understand where a kid would get exposed to violence in a small upper middle class suburban Midwest neighborhood, safe enough to keep the doors unlocked, all pre Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat.
Thing is...
I read
I watch the news
I pay attention
But...
This was also during a time and place where referring to women and minorities with derogatory slang was acceptable as long as you weren't, you know, physically hurting us. You could call women bitches and cunts in public (people just assume she had it coming) it was ok. It was also a time and place where schools had smoking lounges, health class showed slides of aborted fetuses, and bringing little kids to a bar with you rather than leaving them home alone was considered responsible parenting.
Furthermore...
Both shrinks told my dad to let me "creatively" express myself because it was a healthy outlet I seemed to enjoy. --Honestly, I really could have just murdered people at this point and gotten away with it.
In my adult years I teased dad (a lot) about being a supposedly bad parent because not just one, but two, two board certified psychiatrists told dad my mental anguish was his fault, which resulted with my dad (then) telling two board certified psychiatrists to go fuck themselves.
But before that...
The shrinks told my dad to monitor my reading material, and not discuss politics in front of me anymore, and not let me watch the news or horror movies. Of course, this was all before giving troubled kids drugs was en vogue. The solution of MY era was prevention via psychiatry and denial. --Therefor, Mrs Henderson was just "clumsy" and ran into a lot of walls and doors, and THAT'S why her right eye was black and blue three times a year. Never mind the fact everyone knew from the 4th of July softball games, Mr Henderson bats lefty.
And according to shrinks one and two, I was an idiot with a tiny, yet adorable, immature brain. Rather than explaining/talking to me about what was going on in the world, shrinks one and two concluded I was too young to be exposed to such terrible things and my parents were advised to do a better job shielding me from violence and adult content...
My parents failed their mission.
I mentioned that part about my dad telling those shrinks to go fuck themselves, right? Ok.
This is how villains are made in Batman's Gotham, by the way. Both villains and heroes. Amazing how thin a fine line can sometimes divide the two.
Back then, I needed something to ease my tiny, yet adorable, underdeveloped brain. I accepted anything. How many kids did you know who wanted to spend their summers at bible camp? No one? Just me? Sounds about right. Everyone else's parents made their kids go. I wanted to go. I saw things I couldn't explain. No one could explain. I needed answers no one could give me. I needed to believe there was more to life than THIS. There just had to be.
So...
When some adult asshole makes the decision to intentionally drink and drive, and intentionally smog up my apartment after I asked him very nicely not to, (back in the day) it would have been a trigger for a lot of hammer-therapy on his vehicle. --Excuse me officer, my psychiatrists told me I needed to creatively express myself when feeling emotional. THIS, breaking his windshield, is art!
Lucky for "Smog" an English teacher introduced me to the philosophy of Buddhism.
No
Really
Lucky for him.
Studying philosophy did more for me than two psychiatrists.
Cheerleaders back in my day used to spin metal batons with fat pieces of rubber on the ends, but swear to god, even with the rubber stoppers, you could still break every bone in the human body with it like a hammer. Brass knuckles? Amateur. I was little cheerleader with a metal baton. I could wreck you for life!
Today, much (much) older, and wiser, I know my young hammer-therapy is nothing compared to the miserable existence for a life this smog-El Camino-asshole has before him. If he's an asshole to me. He's an asshole to everyone. What's a girl and her hammer compared to a society sick and tired of assholes like him. Karma. He's all yours, world. Enjoy.
Do I blame "Smog" for being a dick with an open bottle of booze in his car, and not having any general decency? Yes. Absolutely. He's an adult. But he's also an adult who was born during the Facebook social media era where his earliest memory could have been being duct tape to a wall, mouth taped shut, by his own mom, as she updated her FB page by filming her son crying for "likes" by other young disgruntled 19 year old moms everywhere.
And
So
That happened.
The additional thing that happened when the cell tower was down...
Mr Gordon called me about going to the Getty on Saturday.
When the cell tower was down I could text and receive incoming calls, but I couldn't call out.
FRIDAY
Somewhere between noon and 12:30pm I returned Mr Gordon's phone call. My phone was working once more. Yay! I hit "return call" and got (the studio lot) where he was working. The nice operator who answered my phone call said, "No problem. He's signed in. I can patch you through to his extension if you like."
I didn't want to disturb Mr Gordon at work. I left a message on his private voice mail instead. It's supposedly going to be a beautiful day out tomorrow. I didn't want to spend the day inside a museum in between all these rainy days. I suggested perhaps hanging out by the ocean.
About a half hour later Mr Gordon called me back.
"So no Getty." Mr Gordon confirms.
No. Another day. It's supposed to be beautiful out tomorrow. I want to be outside. After all this rain the air is going to be crisp and clean like we're in the mountains. We could get a bite to eat at a nice patio café. Have coffee by the ocean.
"Tempting. What time do you want to get together tomorrow?" Mr Gordon asks in his Tom Brokaw voice.
11am?
(No answer)
Noon?
(No answer)
1pm?
"11am." Mr Gordon says.
11am. What do you want to do? Coffee? Late breakfast?
"Lady's choice. Whatever the lady wants, the lady gets." Mr Gordon replies.
Ok.
"Ok. I'm going back to work now." Mr Gordon informs me. "See you tomorrow."
(Click)
That's one thing about talking on the phone I appreciate, you know when the conversation is over when someone hangs up. With texting I THINK I know when the conversation is over, only to have that person pick up on the conversation with a new text message three days later. --Very irritating.
After Mr Gordon hung up, I made the decisive plan he and I should get box lunches at Whole Foods, and then drive up the coast to Malibu, for a picnic and a nice sunny afternoon on the beach.
SATURDAY
9am. Mr Gordon called and cancelled.
He sounded awful and he was losing his voice.
"I think I came down with something, kid." He says. "I'm sorry. We'll have to do this another day."
I understand. Just feel better.
"I've been looking at the Huntington Library." Mr Gordon says. "I think we'll have to go there a few times to see anything."
Yes. You're probably right.
"Ok. I'll talk to you soon. Forgive me."
(Click)
SUNDAY
The El Camino smog-mobile is back. Only this time he parked across the street. There were at least three parking spots in front of my building, even a wide open parking spot in front of my apartment, but the guy squeezed in between two parked cars on the other side of the street.
Maybe confrontation ain't his thing.
Too bad
I just bought a new role of duct tape.
With all these women's marches sparking a new women's empowerment movement. If a woman was going to murder a man, now would be the time to do it!
And if she's little and adorable, trust me, cute females can get away with A LOT. Just as god intended.
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
Mr Gordon
I love Saturday mornings here at the beach. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and some girl is always aimlessly walking down the streets of Venice, lost, on her cell phone, desperately trying to remember where she parked her car the night before, all while doing the 8am walk of shame, ruining another peaceful Saturday morning for whoever is on the receiving end of her frantic phone call. Personally, I would have hung up on her.
"I don't know where I am! I'm in Venice! I'm lost! And I lost Briana, at the bar!"
How do you lose a friend at the bar? I've never "lost" friends at the bar. I didn't "lose" Anna, I know exactly where she went, she's with some guy she met at the tequila station and is now "making out" with him in the parking lot.
I explain (around here somewhere) how I came up with the name I use for this blog, Simone Gordon.
Briefly...
Simone, was a young woman I met shortly after arriving to Los Angeles. She was (among other things) a calligrapher, a pencil artist, a writer, and a makeup artist. We worked together. She and I swapped written short stories, letters, artworks, animation, etc. I still have them. She was the only woman I ever had this beautiful creative relationship with until that terrible day she hung herself. Simone, that was her middle name. Though she was older than I, we were both young and stupid, doing what young and stupid people do in Los Angeles. When I think of it, the chain of events leading to her suicide, I get angry at myself for not having seen it...
Gordon, is the last name of a boy I knew when I was a young teenager. We had something, he and I, though even now I know not what. Not a day goes by, or at least not many days go by when I don't think about him... and Simone.
I miss her. I miss them both. We were all so young. I miss them in a unique and awful heart wrenching way. It just seems our relationships were meant to mature, go much further than they did, but sadly did not. I miss all the things that never were. And who's to say they would have ever been. But maybe.
And so... Simone Gordon.
I miss my dad, who died of throat and lung cancer. I miss my childhood friend Rick, who died of brain cancer. Rick was barely in his 40's. And as much as I miss them... we knew.
We prepared. We had time to say goodbye.
Artists who sell millions of copies, are different from artists who sell the (one and only) original piece to just one buyer. It's a different kind of relationship. A million people might have your CD, but only one (one) person still has the paper you wrote the lyrics on, and that's what it's like selling the original piece. And if you think things like hand written lyrics on a napkin don't matter, then you've clearly never been to the Grammy Museum, and you've clearly never been in love, or loved.
He comes to my work at least once a week, once every two weeks. I learned his last name is also Gordon. The second (male) Gordon, I've now met which, obviously, got my attention. Mr Gordon and I struck up a conversation about golf. I had just acquired some golf clubs. I don't know how to play golf but I've casually been on the green a number of times with friends just messing around.
"I have a friend who loves golf." Mr Gordon says. "You should meet him. Funniest most charming guy ever."
Huh. Disappointing. I was kind of hoping you might want to spend an afternoon on the green pretending to play golf with me. Anyway, here's my phone number if your friend wants to make a legit golfer out of me.
A week goes by. Never heard from the friend.
In walks Mr Gordon.
"Did my friend ever contact you?"
No.
"That's strange. I told him I know this really cute girl who wants to learn how to play golf, and gave him your phone number."
We talk a little about "the weather" type stuff, Mr Gordon and I, and he says, "What time are you out of here tonight. Can I give you a lift home?"
Sure. Great. Thanks.
The teenage boy E. Gordon, I once knew had every shade of blonde hair tangled into shoulder length loose curls, brilliant clear water blue eyes, and the best laugh I had ever heard. He was quiet, unassuming, a total mystery to me, but he would look at me in such way, direct eye contact, unwavering, still, calm, certain...
Enter Mr R. Gordon, 2014-to present date. He has crystal clear blue eyes as well, only his are behind thin rim glasses. His full head of hair is almost entirely platinum white. He looks like a 47 year old Tom Brokaw, and hand to god, sounds exactly like him too. But Mr Gordon, much to my surprise, I recently learned, is actually 64 years old. Amazing. Some of us just age incredibly well.
Mr Gordon, drives an old beat up pickup truck, and he still uses the Club Steering Wheel Lock, which I find completely endearing.
During the entire 15 minute drive home, Mr Gordon, kept asking me, "What perfume are you wearing?"
I'm not wearing perfume.
"Nothing?" He asks again in case I lied to him the first time.
No. Nothing. Just deodorant. That's it.
"Well it's SOMETHING you're wearing." He insists. "It's like instant Viagra."
Wow. Really? If any other man said that cheesy line to me I would think he's a giant fucking creep, but I'm oddly bewitched by Mr Gordon, and so I find his Viagra comment rather charming.
In the course of weeks that followed after driving me home from work that night, I learned Mr Gordon, is a film set and stage crewman, a union electrical engineer, which bodes well for me since my dad was a union man. Dad was a union delegate, and then local president for many, many years.
Point, Simone Gordon!
At least once a week, or once every two weeks, Mr Gordon, would walk into my work station and ask, "Where's that pretty girl I come here to look at?" Meaning me, which I find absolutely lovable. I'm interested in Mr Gordon, so presently he can do no wrong.
I know he's 64 years old but EVERYONE who sees him thinks he's in his late 40's or early 50's tops. Even my young male coworkers are impressed. Both Mr Gordon and I look very, very young for our ages. Seems like a perfect match. Two freaks who don't age.
And after Mr Gordon made the "Something on you is definitely Viagra"comment for the second, or perhaps it was the third time, I suggested we hang out for coffee one Saturday.
"Ok" he says.
Here's my number (again). Call me.
A week goes by, no Mr Gordon. Then one day soon after, he walks into my work station and asks, "Is that coffee invite still any good?"
No. It's been over a week. Now you have to take me to the Grammy Museum.
"Great. I love the Grammy Museum. I'm a member. I'm also a long standing member of the Getty, LACMA, and MOCA." He says.
Points, many of them, Mr Gordon!
"What exhibit am I taking you to see?" Mr Gordon, asks.
The Ramones, exhibit.
"Good. I actually knew those guys." He says. "I've been meaning to go but I've been distracted with work, and now I have this pretty girl on my mind."
It's like hearing Tom Brokaw, call me a pretty girl. Kinda dope.
Mr Gordon, doesn't own a cell phone. Amazing. He earns in the middle to upper six figures a year and he has a Club Steering Wheel Lock, no cell phone, and he looks and sounds like a handsome young Tom Brokaw. --I am completely fascinated by him.
Oh, and one other thing...
Sadly
Mr Gordon, is also a widower. How recent I do not know.
The next day on the phone Mr Gordon, says, "10am, kid. I'm going to pick you up at 10am Saturday."
Kind of early, eh?
"10am."
But...
"10 am."
Seriously, why so early?
"10am. I'll be at your door to pick you up at 10am, sharp." He says.
Ok. 10am. And that's how it's done when you don't have a cell phone. No texting. You actually talk on the phone. No being late. No canceling. No nothing. 10am. Sharp.
At precisely 10am that Saturday morning, Mr Gordon, was waiting for me outside my apartment standing next to his truck.
Why didn't you come in? I told you I was going to keep my door open for you.
"It's 9:58." He says, "I still had two minutes.
Yeah but...
"I still had two minutes."
Yeah but...
I didn't want to be rude." He says
Yeah but...
"I said 10am sharp."
Ok then
Mr Gordon, opens the passenger side door for me and I climb in his truck. On the dashboard are directions and maps he printed off his computer.
Ha. You do believe in electronics. Just not cell phones.
"I mapped out the best route to the Grammy Museum, from here."
Um. My phone has GPS.
"Well don't just sit there looking pretty, kid. Turn it on." He says.
So we get to the Grammy Museum, $30 for parking. Glad to see LA LIVE is now (almost) as popular as a day at the beach. I think parking at the beach is like $50 a day. Mr Gordon, goes to the ticket window and buys my $13. ticket. I wish he hadn't done that. I can buy my own ticket. He just paid $30 for parking and wouldn't let me contribute.
"C'mon kid. Don't bruise my ego. I can afford it." He says.
Throughout the exhibit Mr Gordon, was a wealth of information. We would see a piece on display from a foot away and he would say, "That was Dee Dee Ramone's. I'd recognize that anywhere. That's when they were at..."
And sure enough, written on the plaque next to the exhibit described exactly what Mr Gordon said it was.
The time estimated for the Ramones exhibit was an hour and a half. And that's precisely how long it took us.
Want to grab some lunch?
"Yes. What are you hungry for? I'll follow a pretty girl anywhere."
We tried finding this Chinese restaurant Google maps said was nearby but after a few minutes with no success locating the restaurant, I suggested Mr Gordon, pick a place. Anywhere.
"Let's go to Woflgang Puck." He said.
I didn't say anything.
"What? You don't like Wolfgang Puck?" He asked.
I ate there once. Not this one. The one in Hollywood. Years ago. Got really sick afterwards. Not saying I got sick from the food, could have been coincidental, but you know, once bitten twice shy. Haven't eaten there since.
"Gotcha." Mr Gordon said nodding his head. "I totally understand. C'mon kid, that's where we're eating lunch."
But... But...
"That's where we're eating lunch. You said I could pick any place."
But... But...
"Do you really think they would be in business this long with all their success if they were giving people food poisoning?"
Well... No
So Wolfgang Puck it was AND I had the most amazing salmon burger. It was fantastic. Our server was super cool. Left him a fat tip. I was really enjoying the company and having a great afternoon.
I accidentally dropped my fork. Smooth. The nice waiter rushed over to see if I was ok.
"I'd rush over too if a pretty girl dropped her fork." Mr Gordon, said.
I asked Mr Gordon if he'd like to go or stay and have a glass of wine.
"I don't drink." He said rather sternly.
Oh
Ok
Well
We can go?
"I don't drink because I tend to drink too much and I say stupid things to pretty girls. I quit drinking back in 1992." He explains.
You don't drink because you tend to say stupid things? You mean like, "You smell like I just took a dose of Viagra." That kind of stupid thing? --I didn't actually say that of course.
And this is where it gets weird for me with sober people. I drink. I like drinking. It's a big part of my social world. I don't like hanging out with sober people. I don't like hanging out with stupid ass drunks either, but I'm very uncomfortable around sober people. I feel weird drinking in front of them if we're alone, and I hate that feeling of being quietly judged because I like a nice glass of wine or two --and Mr Gordon, here, is sober.
"But I'm happy to buy a pretty girl a glass of wine if that's what she desires." He says after a moment of thought. "Maybe then it'll loosen your tongue and you'll tell me all your secrets."
Well then...
So I order a glass of wine, a Malbec, and we continue talking. FYI, it takes more than ONE glass of wine to loosen my tongue, Mr Gordon.
Mr Gordon, starts talking about his wife that passed away and rather suddenly he gets emotional, visibly shaken and upset. I touch his arm and gently say, "Maybe we should talk about other things." He quickly composes himself but doesn't touch my hand in return.
"It's still... kind of new." He says quietly.
I understand. You're getting out of the house. Being social. Not being alone. Not letting the grief consume you. It's admirable. But sometimes it requires baby steps. Do you want to call it a day?
"No." He says, "I want to grab coffee with a pretty girl. Finish your wine, kid."
I have a personal "first date" rule. If we actually make it this far (museum, lunch, coffee) without trying to murder each other, I like to financially contribute, and with parking, my ticket, and lunch at Wolfgang Puck, plus now coffee, I wasn't going to let Mr Gordon, pay for everything so I paid my lunch. He paid his. I paid my own coffee. He paid his. I insisted.
When I finished my glass of wine Mr Gordon, and I strolled up the street to Starbucks.
While having coffee I learned Mr Gordon likes classical music, jazz, and punk rock. His parents were farmers, he's a history buff, an astronomy junkie, hangs at the Griffith Observatory, AND Mr Gordon likes to go hiking and camping.
I love hiking and camping!
"Anytime, kid. I've got a closet full of camping gear."
Do I understand this potential budding friendship with Mr Gordon? No. Not at all. But in trying to narrow things down a little I tell him I have a request.
"Anything." He says.
May I please have one of the ticket stubs from the Ramones exhibit, as a memento of our first... date.
"Yes. Of course." Mr Gordon, says, and hands me the ticket stub.
By the time we finished our coffee it was 3:30pm. Mr Gordon, picked me up at 10am. 5 1/2 hours went by and we didn't try killing each other, not even once. I consider this date a success.
"Ever been to the LA Convention Center?" Mr Gordon, asks me.
Yes. A number of times. Have you?
"Yes. My wife liked to go to this sex erotic convention." He tells me.
I asked Mr Gordon if he enjoyed the adult convention too.
"Yes. We went every year." He confirms.
Adultcon. Cool. I'll file that piece of information away for potential further use.
Parked in front of my apartment I didn't except Mr Gordon to kiss me or anything. He didn't touch me all day. Not a hug. Not a kiss on the cheek. Not a tug on my sleeve. Not an arm tap. Nothing. Still, I didn't know how to officially end the date.
"Listen kid," Mr Gordon says, "I'll take you anywhere you want to go. The Getty. The Huntington Library. Camping. I'll take a pretty girl anywhere she wants. Whatever you want to do, we'll do it. You just say when. Okay?"
Ok.
"Ok." Mr Gordon, said affectionately. "Now get out of my truck."
Did Tom Brokaw, just kick me out of his truck? Sweet!
Mr Gordon, waited for me to open the doors to my apartment before driving away. Prior to stepping inside my apartment I turned to wave goodbye to him but Mr Gordon had already drove off.
Ok, yes, agreed, there is a considerable age difference between Mr Gordon and I, but unlike my poor old mentally ill landlord who's twice my age and looks like hell, I'm interested in Mr Gordon who I find incredibly handsome, refreshing and... magnetic.
Indeed, IF my potential budding friendship with Mr Gordon ever blossoms into something lasting, at least I won't have to change my fake last name. They say if you do a thing over and over, like sign your name 'Simone Gordon', it may just one day become who you are. Mr Gordon has the ability to make an honest "Gordon" out of me. I'd be lying if I said that didn't conspicuously hook me a little.
"I don't know where I am! I'm in Venice! I'm lost! And I lost Briana, at the bar!"
How do you lose a friend at the bar? I've never "lost" friends at the bar. I didn't "lose" Anna, I know exactly where she went, she's with some guy she met at the tequila station and is now "making out" with him in the parking lot.
I explain (around here somewhere) how I came up with the name I use for this blog, Simone Gordon.
Briefly...
Simone, was a young woman I met shortly after arriving to Los Angeles. She was (among other things) a calligrapher, a pencil artist, a writer, and a makeup artist. We worked together. She and I swapped written short stories, letters, artworks, animation, etc. I still have them. She was the only woman I ever had this beautiful creative relationship with until that terrible day she hung herself. Simone, that was her middle name. Though she was older than I, we were both young and stupid, doing what young and stupid people do in Los Angeles. When I think of it, the chain of events leading to her suicide, I get angry at myself for not having seen it...
Gordon, is the last name of a boy I knew when I was a young teenager. We had something, he and I, though even now I know not what. Not a day goes by, or at least not many days go by when I don't think about him... and Simone.
I miss her. I miss them both. We were all so young. I miss them in a unique and awful heart wrenching way. It just seems our relationships were meant to mature, go much further than they did, but sadly did not. I miss all the things that never were. And who's to say they would have ever been. But maybe.
And so... Simone Gordon.
I miss my dad, who died of throat and lung cancer. I miss my childhood friend Rick, who died of brain cancer. Rick was barely in his 40's. And as much as I miss them... we knew.
We prepared. We had time to say goodbye.
Artists who sell millions of copies, are different from artists who sell the (one and only) original piece to just one buyer. It's a different kind of relationship. A million people might have your CD, but only one (one) person still has the paper you wrote the lyrics on, and that's what it's like selling the original piece. And if you think things like hand written lyrics on a napkin don't matter, then you've clearly never been to the Grammy Museum, and you've clearly never been in love, or loved.
He comes to my work at least once a week, once every two weeks. I learned his last name is also Gordon. The second (male) Gordon, I've now met which, obviously, got my attention. Mr Gordon and I struck up a conversation about golf. I had just acquired some golf clubs. I don't know how to play golf but I've casually been on the green a number of times with friends just messing around.
"I have a friend who loves golf." Mr Gordon says. "You should meet him. Funniest most charming guy ever."
Huh. Disappointing. I was kind of hoping you might want to spend an afternoon on the green pretending to play golf with me. Anyway, here's my phone number if your friend wants to make a legit golfer out of me.
A week goes by. Never heard from the friend.
In walks Mr Gordon.
"Did my friend ever contact you?"
No.
"That's strange. I told him I know this really cute girl who wants to learn how to play golf, and gave him your phone number."
We talk a little about "the weather" type stuff, Mr Gordon and I, and he says, "What time are you out of here tonight. Can I give you a lift home?"
Sure. Great. Thanks.
The teenage boy E. Gordon, I once knew had every shade of blonde hair tangled into shoulder length loose curls, brilliant clear water blue eyes, and the best laugh I had ever heard. He was quiet, unassuming, a total mystery to me, but he would look at me in such way, direct eye contact, unwavering, still, calm, certain...
Enter Mr R. Gordon, 2014-to present date. He has crystal clear blue eyes as well, only his are behind thin rim glasses. His full head of hair is almost entirely platinum white. He looks like a 47 year old Tom Brokaw, and hand to god, sounds exactly like him too. But Mr Gordon, much to my surprise, I recently learned, is actually 64 years old. Amazing. Some of us just age incredibly well.
Mr Gordon, drives an old beat up pickup truck, and he still uses the Club Steering Wheel Lock, which I find completely endearing.
During the entire 15 minute drive home, Mr Gordon, kept asking me, "What perfume are you wearing?"
I'm not wearing perfume.
"Nothing?" He asks again in case I lied to him the first time.
No. Nothing. Just deodorant. That's it.
"Well it's SOMETHING you're wearing." He insists. "It's like instant Viagra."
Wow. Really? If any other man said that cheesy line to me I would think he's a giant fucking creep, but I'm oddly bewitched by Mr Gordon, and so I find his Viagra comment rather charming.
In the course of weeks that followed after driving me home from work that night, I learned Mr Gordon, is a film set and stage crewman, a union electrical engineer, which bodes well for me since my dad was a union man. Dad was a union delegate, and then local president for many, many years.
Point, Simone Gordon!
At least once a week, or once every two weeks, Mr Gordon, would walk into my work station and ask, "Where's that pretty girl I come here to look at?" Meaning me, which I find absolutely lovable. I'm interested in Mr Gordon, so presently he can do no wrong.
I know he's 64 years old but EVERYONE who sees him thinks he's in his late 40's or early 50's tops. Even my young male coworkers are impressed. Both Mr Gordon and I look very, very young for our ages. Seems like a perfect match. Two freaks who don't age.
And after Mr Gordon made the "Something on you is definitely Viagra"comment for the second, or perhaps it was the third time, I suggested we hang out for coffee one Saturday.
"Ok" he says.
Here's my number (again). Call me.
A week goes by, no Mr Gordon. Then one day soon after, he walks into my work station and asks, "Is that coffee invite still any good?"
No. It's been over a week. Now you have to take me to the Grammy Museum.
"Great. I love the Grammy Museum. I'm a member. I'm also a long standing member of the Getty, LACMA, and MOCA." He says.
Points, many of them, Mr Gordon!
"What exhibit am I taking you to see?" Mr Gordon, asks.
The Ramones, exhibit.
"Good. I actually knew those guys." He says. "I've been meaning to go but I've been distracted with work, and now I have this pretty girl on my mind."
It's like hearing Tom Brokaw, call me a pretty girl. Kinda dope.
Mr Gordon, doesn't own a cell phone. Amazing. He earns in the middle to upper six figures a year and he has a Club Steering Wheel Lock, no cell phone, and he looks and sounds like a handsome young Tom Brokaw. --I am completely fascinated by him.
Oh, and one other thing...
Sadly
Mr Gordon, is also a widower. How recent I do not know.
The next day on the phone Mr Gordon, says, "10am, kid. I'm going to pick you up at 10am Saturday."
Kind of early, eh?
"10am."
But...
"10 am."
Seriously, why so early?
"10am. I'll be at your door to pick you up at 10am, sharp." He says.
Ok. 10am. And that's how it's done when you don't have a cell phone. No texting. You actually talk on the phone. No being late. No canceling. No nothing. 10am. Sharp.
At precisely 10am that Saturday morning, Mr Gordon, was waiting for me outside my apartment standing next to his truck.
Why didn't you come in? I told you I was going to keep my door open for you.
"It's 9:58." He says, "I still had two minutes.
Yeah but...
"I still had two minutes."
Yeah but...
I didn't want to be rude." He says
Yeah but...
"I said 10am sharp."
Ok then
Mr Gordon, opens the passenger side door for me and I climb in his truck. On the dashboard are directions and maps he printed off his computer.
Ha. You do believe in electronics. Just not cell phones.
"I mapped out the best route to the Grammy Museum, from here."
Um. My phone has GPS.
"Well don't just sit there looking pretty, kid. Turn it on." He says.
So we get to the Grammy Museum, $30 for parking. Glad to see LA LIVE is now (almost) as popular as a day at the beach. I think parking at the beach is like $50 a day. Mr Gordon, goes to the ticket window and buys my $13. ticket. I wish he hadn't done that. I can buy my own ticket. He just paid $30 for parking and wouldn't let me contribute.
"C'mon kid. Don't bruise my ego. I can afford it." He says.
Throughout the exhibit Mr Gordon, was a wealth of information. We would see a piece on display from a foot away and he would say, "That was Dee Dee Ramone's. I'd recognize that anywhere. That's when they were at..."
And sure enough, written on the plaque next to the exhibit described exactly what Mr Gordon said it was.
The time estimated for the Ramones exhibit was an hour and a half. And that's precisely how long it took us.
Want to grab some lunch?
"Yes. What are you hungry for? I'll follow a pretty girl anywhere."
We tried finding this Chinese restaurant Google maps said was nearby but after a few minutes with no success locating the restaurant, I suggested Mr Gordon, pick a place. Anywhere.
"Let's go to Woflgang Puck." He said.
I didn't say anything.
"What? You don't like Wolfgang Puck?" He asked.
I ate there once. Not this one. The one in Hollywood. Years ago. Got really sick afterwards. Not saying I got sick from the food, could have been coincidental, but you know, once bitten twice shy. Haven't eaten there since.
"Gotcha." Mr Gordon said nodding his head. "I totally understand. C'mon kid, that's where we're eating lunch."
But... But...
"That's where we're eating lunch. You said I could pick any place."
But... But...
"Do you really think they would be in business this long with all their success if they were giving people food poisoning?"
Well... No
So Wolfgang Puck it was AND I had the most amazing salmon burger. It was fantastic. Our server was super cool. Left him a fat tip. I was really enjoying the company and having a great afternoon.
I accidentally dropped my fork. Smooth. The nice waiter rushed over to see if I was ok.
"I'd rush over too if a pretty girl dropped her fork." Mr Gordon, said.
I asked Mr Gordon if he'd like to go or stay and have a glass of wine.
"I don't drink." He said rather sternly.
Oh
Ok
Well
We can go?
"I don't drink because I tend to drink too much and I say stupid things to pretty girls. I quit drinking back in 1992." He explains.
You don't drink because you tend to say stupid things? You mean like, "You smell like I just took a dose of Viagra." That kind of stupid thing? --I didn't actually say that of course.
And this is where it gets weird for me with sober people. I drink. I like drinking. It's a big part of my social world. I don't like hanging out with sober people. I don't like hanging out with stupid ass drunks either, but I'm very uncomfortable around sober people. I feel weird drinking in front of them if we're alone, and I hate that feeling of being quietly judged because I like a nice glass of wine or two --and Mr Gordon, here, is sober.
"But I'm happy to buy a pretty girl a glass of wine if that's what she desires." He says after a moment of thought. "Maybe then it'll loosen your tongue and you'll tell me all your secrets."
Well then...
So I order a glass of wine, a Malbec, and we continue talking. FYI, it takes more than ONE glass of wine to loosen my tongue, Mr Gordon.
Mr Gordon, starts talking about his wife that passed away and rather suddenly he gets emotional, visibly shaken and upset. I touch his arm and gently say, "Maybe we should talk about other things." He quickly composes himself but doesn't touch my hand in return.
"It's still... kind of new." He says quietly.
I understand. You're getting out of the house. Being social. Not being alone. Not letting the grief consume you. It's admirable. But sometimes it requires baby steps. Do you want to call it a day?
"No." He says, "I want to grab coffee with a pretty girl. Finish your wine, kid."
I have a personal "first date" rule. If we actually make it this far (museum, lunch, coffee) without trying to murder each other, I like to financially contribute, and with parking, my ticket, and lunch at Wolfgang Puck, plus now coffee, I wasn't going to let Mr Gordon, pay for everything so I paid my lunch. He paid his. I paid my own coffee. He paid his. I insisted.
When I finished my glass of wine Mr Gordon, and I strolled up the street to Starbucks.
While having coffee I learned Mr Gordon likes classical music, jazz, and punk rock. His parents were farmers, he's a history buff, an astronomy junkie, hangs at the Griffith Observatory, AND Mr Gordon likes to go hiking and camping.
I love hiking and camping!
"Anytime, kid. I've got a closet full of camping gear."
Do I understand this potential budding friendship with Mr Gordon? No. Not at all. But in trying to narrow things down a little I tell him I have a request.
"Anything." He says.
May I please have one of the ticket stubs from the Ramones exhibit, as a memento of our first... date.
"Yes. Of course." Mr Gordon, says, and hands me the ticket stub.
By the time we finished our coffee it was 3:30pm. Mr Gordon, picked me up at 10am. 5 1/2 hours went by and we didn't try killing each other, not even once. I consider this date a success.
"Ever been to the LA Convention Center?" Mr Gordon, asks me.
Yes. A number of times. Have you?
"Yes. My wife liked to go to this sex erotic convention." He tells me.
I asked Mr Gordon if he enjoyed the adult convention too.
"Yes. We went every year." He confirms.
Adultcon. Cool. I'll file that piece of information away for potential further use.
Parked in front of my apartment I didn't except Mr Gordon to kiss me or anything. He didn't touch me all day. Not a hug. Not a kiss on the cheek. Not a tug on my sleeve. Not an arm tap. Nothing. Still, I didn't know how to officially end the date.
"Listen kid," Mr Gordon says, "I'll take you anywhere you want to go. The Getty. The Huntington Library. Camping. I'll take a pretty girl anywhere she wants. Whatever you want to do, we'll do it. You just say when. Okay?"
Ok.
"Ok." Mr Gordon, said affectionately. "Now get out of my truck."
Did Tom Brokaw, just kick me out of his truck? Sweet!
Mr Gordon, waited for me to open the doors to my apartment before driving away. Prior to stepping inside my apartment I turned to wave goodbye to him but Mr Gordon had already drove off.
Ok, yes, agreed, there is a considerable age difference between Mr Gordon and I, but unlike my poor old mentally ill landlord who's twice my age and looks like hell, I'm interested in Mr Gordon who I find incredibly handsome, refreshing and... magnetic.
Indeed, IF my potential budding friendship with Mr Gordon ever blossoms into something lasting, at least I won't have to change my fake last name. They say if you do a thing over and over, like sign your name 'Simone Gordon', it may just one day become who you are. Mr Gordon has the ability to make an honest "Gordon" out of me. I'd be lying if I said that didn't conspicuously hook me a little.
I want to be sedated
Mr Gordon, took me to see the Ramones exhibit at the Grammy Museum. Very cool.
https://instagram.com/p/BPXyx0RhtCy/
Someone in the band loved milk. I would post a picture of what I'm talking about but it clearly says "no pictures" on the ticket stub which you won't see until you're leaving the exhibit but it's ok because you definitely did NOT take any pictures of the exhibit to show your friends and coworkers.
I've been on a home made soup bender for the past month and a half.
Homemade Japanese ramen https://instagram.com/p/BOqerlgB8K6/
Mexican green beans and bok choi in broth https://instagram.com/p/BPXzL_iBRh_/
Lost around 7 pounds. Lose 10 more and I'll be the same weight as I was in junior high school. And then every time I say, "I'm the same weight as I was in junior high school." You can just punch me in the face. I deserved it. Because if there's one thing every adult grown woman should strive for, it's to have the same weight as a twelve year old and then brag about it. I'm still the same height as I was when I was twelve, so...
I have a few days off now. Oregon, has a nice ring to it. Maybe Washington.
Here. This is where I want to go today https://instagram.com/p/BPX6i1nhBrf/
https://instagram.com/p/BPXyx0RhtCy/
Someone in the band loved milk. I would post a picture of what I'm talking about but it clearly says "no pictures" on the ticket stub which you won't see until you're leaving the exhibit but it's ok because you definitely did NOT take any pictures of the exhibit to show your friends and coworkers.
I've been on a home made soup bender for the past month and a half.
Homemade Japanese ramen https://instagram.com/p/BOqerlgB8K6/
Mexican green beans and bok choi in broth https://instagram.com/p/BPXzL_iBRh_/
Lost around 7 pounds. Lose 10 more and I'll be the same weight as I was in junior high school. And then every time I say, "I'm the same weight as I was in junior high school." You can just punch me in the face. I deserved it. Because if there's one thing every adult grown woman should strive for, it's to have the same weight as a twelve year old and then brag about it. I'm still the same height as I was when I was twelve, so...
I have a few days off now. Oregon, has a nice ring to it. Maybe Washington.
Here. This is where I want to go today https://instagram.com/p/BPX6i1nhBrf/
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Black eye shadow
Is one thing. Screaming manic panic red hair dye on a 56 year old woman in a Metallica t-shirt at the grocery store on a Monday morning, is something else. It's Hollywood. And I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
If a 56 year old woman wants a wild night out, black eye shadow, red lips, 6 inch heels, and squeeze into the same sexy outfit some 20 year old porn starlet was wearing in a movie, doin' the 6am walk of shame, I get it. Been there. But if she's permenently dying her hair nothing close to her natural hair color, just to rival that 20 year old porn star on daily basis, it's just clownish.
The problem is when women don't want to be their best with what THEY have, and instead want to rival their daughters and her friends with what is long gone.
Then there are those women who look like Iggy Pop, and they're, well they're just fucked.;)
If a 56 year old woman wants a wild night out, black eye shadow, red lips, 6 inch heels, and squeeze into the same sexy outfit some 20 year old porn starlet was wearing in a movie, doin' the 6am walk of shame, I get it. Been there. But if she's permenently dying her hair nothing close to her natural hair color, just to rival that 20 year old porn star on daily basis, it's just clownish.
The problem is when women don't want to be their best with what THEY have, and instead want to rival their daughters and her friends with what is long gone.
Then there are those women who look like Iggy Pop, and they're, well they're just fucked.;)
Good point
"Makeup just runs down their faces by the end of the day."
Might as well set my artwork on fire during an exhibit.
Same thing.
Might as well set my artwork on fire during an exhibit.
Same thing.
I know. Life's not fair.
Here I am trying to look older, or at least within 10 years of my actual age, and some women who need to look young for work... Seriously, how OLD is she??
Don't bother looking. You'll never find my painting.
A good makeup artist can remove (at least) ten years of hard living off your face. Even just a "decent" makeup artist. Caked on whore-makeup ages you by 10-15 years. Never understood why women do that. And only young looking women can get away with wearing cheap makeup.
K-K-K-Karma
Wasn't going to say anything BUT, it's hard feeling bad for someone who spewed a bunch of racist anti-Asian hate tweets. Hag won't get any pity out of me. Besides, cute little puppies and soft sweet adorable little kitties, that's who you feel sorry for. Not 40... Or 50 year OLD... Seriously how OLD is she anyway? Makeup!! Geez grandma, lay off the Maybelline, you might look (a little) younger.
Saturday, January 7, 2017
California sofisticashun
I told myself I wasn't going to watch the news today because in past recent years NOTHING good happens on my birthday. But then again if you're a (global) news junkie like me, something horrible is happening somewhere today, right this very minute.
Fucking depressing.
I started drawing again few days ago. I can go about an hour before my hand, elbow, and shoulder cramp up for the day. I seriously cannot wait until I have to walk with a cane. Let me tell you why...
Yes, I have grey hair. I've only been blogging about it for A YEAR starting back when I cut off all my hair December, 2015, to let the natural color grow out. My natural color (now) being grey, silver, with big fat chunks of platinum. Thing is, because I'm Asian, with fantastic smooth soft silky Asian skin, I have zero wrinkles on my face, or anywhere. Plus I'm short. Furthermore, I'm not married. I have no children. So basically I'm still 12 years old. And now that my hair has grown back to my shoulders, 20-something's to 50-something's all think I purposely colored my hair this way. No. This is what I look like.
What never ceases to entertain, is how many men will email me describing how sexy they think my look is, and then publicly act disgusted with my look when I don't reply to their emails. Yeah. I still have your emails, fellas.😉
I started growing my natural color out (to explain it again for the 100th time) because I got carded seeing a movie. A movie! And women will always say, "You should consider yourself lucky and be flattered!" --I can only explain my irritation this way, let's say you bought your dream car, and everywhere you drove your dream car to, for (lets just say) one year, regardless if it was to the grocery store, the bank, or a nightclub, wherever you went, guaranteed someone would ask you repeatedly in shock disbelief, "Is that YOUR car?" That's what it felt like getting carded all the time. In the beginning you're like, "Hell yeah, that's my car" but after the 100,000,000th time of someone asking you if that's your car, you're (this close) to punching that someone in the mouth... with your car.
Now some people say, "I love your hair" because they think I dyed it, and I take that as a compliment because they're complimenting MY actual hair. My real hair. My real look.
There's no shame aging gracefully. And there's no shame fighting it. You are, who you are. I see 40 year old women still publicly wearing naughty school girl outfits, and I say nothing. In my head I think, "Who are you trying to fool?" But I say nothing. It makes them feel sexy. Whatever. Fuck it. I walk away.
Also, any man who thinks she's coloring her hair just for him, is delusional. 100 men can compliment her hair, but it will NEVER compare to just 3 women she's never met, telling her how great she looks.
Californians. I love you crazy batch of nutjobs. You constantly remind me how lucky I am to have the friends I'm blessed to have here.
Ok...
The reason WHY I can't wait to start walking with a cane is, to "tap out" people with it when they say idiotic things like, "How can you have arthritis and grey hair? You look so young." These are the same people who say moronic things like, "How can I have no money in the bank? I still have checks!"
I'm going to look young ALWAYS. But I'm still aging on the inside. Understand? Do we kind of understand each other now?
2016, year of the Monkey, was disastrous. Spiritual believers theorize because of how terribly humans treat monkeys, it was only befitting year of the Monkey, treated humans with the same inhumane behavior.
If true, justly so.
Enter 2017, year of the Rooster. An animal symbolically represented in superstition, theology, and astronomy. The crow of each new dawn reminding the world --before us is a new day to correct the errors of yesterday.
Dear 2017,
Let's hope so. We're only 7 days in, and there's already been domestic torture hate crime, an airport shootings, a car bombing...
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
That's (mister) Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, to you
"What are you doing?"
I just finished binge watching 2 seasons of RAIDERS OF THE LOST ART, on Netflix.
I love hearing that awkward silence afterwards. Any time I'm doing anything "artsy" my friends go into a sudden coma the instant I tell them about it.😂
"So... How... Was it?" Is all they're able to contribute to the conversation they started.
Well, you know how I love to use heavy graphite in my drawings, like how Renaissance painters used heavy paint and certain brush strokes to manipulate the illusion of certain fabrics...
(Silence)
I'm going to try illustrating the same effects into my new series of drawings, but also using light and shadow like sunlight bouncing off slabs of marble, giving my drawings a more 3D effect...
(Silence)
Also, after the episode of Monet, I think I've discovered a new appreciation for impressionists, and post modern impressionists. You can't do that style with drawings really because graphite is more about attention to detail...
(Silence)
But if Raphael, and Michelangelo, can paint in realism, why can't I draw an impressionistic landscape with graphite?
(Silence)
And now I'm going to finish the bottle of red wine I opened last night, and possibly masturbate a few times.
"We picked up the most amazing Old Vine Zinfandel, last night at the wine tasting..."
See...
You may not always have much in common with some friends, but these are the same friends who picked up books on archeological 'Egyptian Book Of The Dead' and 'Study of Mumification' for my birthday because they know it interests me, even if they couldn't care less about those subjects.
And I love them for it.💋
I just finished binge watching 2 seasons of RAIDERS OF THE LOST ART, on Netflix.
I love hearing that awkward silence afterwards. Any time I'm doing anything "artsy" my friends go into a sudden coma the instant I tell them about it.😂
"So... How... Was it?" Is all they're able to contribute to the conversation they started.
Well, you know how I love to use heavy graphite in my drawings, like how Renaissance painters used heavy paint and certain brush strokes to manipulate the illusion of certain fabrics...
(Silence)
I'm going to try illustrating the same effects into my new series of drawings, but also using light and shadow like sunlight bouncing off slabs of marble, giving my drawings a more 3D effect...
(Silence)
Also, after the episode of Monet, I think I've discovered a new appreciation for impressionists, and post modern impressionists. You can't do that style with drawings really because graphite is more about attention to detail...
(Silence)
But if Raphael, and Michelangelo, can paint in realism, why can't I draw an impressionistic landscape with graphite?
(Silence)
And now I'm going to finish the bottle of red wine I opened last night, and possibly masturbate a few times.
"We picked up the most amazing Old Vine Zinfandel, last night at the wine tasting..."
See...
You may not always have much in common with some friends, but these are the same friends who picked up books on archeological 'Egyptian Book Of The Dead' and 'Study of Mumification' for my birthday because they know it interests me, even if they couldn't care less about those subjects.
And I love them for it.💋
Can you make it even harder?
Yes?
Thought so.
They wrote me back in 2012 or maybe 2013. They were visiting L.A., staying just up the street from me actually, and wanted to meet for a drink or two. I was totally into it. BUT they only had like an hour window one day, which happened to be while I was at work, and they had an hour window the next day, also while I was at work. Therefor we were unable to connect.
Then they moved to Southern California, in 2015 but during that time my dad was fighting cancer again, eventually losing that fight and died.
August or September last year (4 months ago) I wrote them inquiring if they wanted to (at last) meet for that drink, but they never replied. I understand. A lot of time has past. Things change.
Only NOW, randomly, they want to link up in VEGAS during AVN, to finally meet for that drink even though both they, and I, still live in Southern California.
I'm not in the porn industry, or trying to break in to the porn industry, at my age I'm more likely to break a hip, so I'm actually not attending AVN. I do however have January 18, 19, 20, and 21 off, a coincidental mini vaca, and available to meet up with (whoever). I'm just not attending AVN.
I have friends in Southern California, who are professional musicians who invite me to NAMM, music convention in Anaheim, every year, same weekend as AVN, but I'm not a musician or trying to break into the music industry, so I politely decline their offer. I just don't have any interest going. Real friends understand there are 361 other days during the year we can, and do, hang out.
Point I'm trying to make is, in the span of 365 days a year, if three Southern California, residents, two of which live together, can only find time to meet me within a four day window OUT OF STATE I'm thinking it's really not meant to be.😏
Thought so.
They wrote me back in 2012 or maybe 2013. They were visiting L.A., staying just up the street from me actually, and wanted to meet for a drink or two. I was totally into it. BUT they only had like an hour window one day, which happened to be while I was at work, and they had an hour window the next day, also while I was at work. Therefor we were unable to connect.
Then they moved to Southern California, in 2015 but during that time my dad was fighting cancer again, eventually losing that fight and died.
August or September last year (4 months ago) I wrote them inquiring if they wanted to (at last) meet for that drink, but they never replied. I understand. A lot of time has past. Things change.
Only NOW, randomly, they want to link up in VEGAS during AVN, to finally meet for that drink even though both they, and I, still live in Southern California.
I'm not in the porn industry, or trying to break in to the porn industry, at my age I'm more likely to break a hip, so I'm actually not attending AVN. I do however have January 18, 19, 20, and 21 off, a coincidental mini vaca, and available to meet up with (whoever). I'm just not attending AVN.
I have friends in Southern California, who are professional musicians who invite me to NAMM, music convention in Anaheim, every year, same weekend as AVN, but I'm not a musician or trying to break into the music industry, so I politely decline their offer. I just don't have any interest going. Real friends understand there are 361 other days during the year we can, and do, hang out.
Point I'm trying to make is, in the span of 365 days a year, if three Southern California, residents, two of which live together, can only find time to meet me within a four day window OUT OF STATE I'm thinking it's really not meant to be.😏
Monday, January 2, 2017
sits on my bed and cries
Who knows why HE does it. I know why I do it.😂
But who knows why he does it.
You cannot rationalize with dementia.
But who knows why he does it.
You cannot rationalize with dementia.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)