Bread and Bread

It’s late(ish) and even though I don’t have anything in particular to say right now, I want to blog just because I’m so happy that my DSL is up and running again. It conked out Saturday morning, and the old unplug-and-reboot strategies didn’t seem to work. I’m not very tech savvy, and I can also be a bit of a defeatist. I thought about how B used to spend hours—days—on the phone with Yahoo’s tech support staff. I thought about how SBC/AT&T has yet to get my bill right in the seven months that I’ve been a customer. All of this added up to me thinking, DSL sure was great while it lasted. I will miss it. I am this close to being the urban equivalent of someone with three rusted-out cars parked on her lawn. Except sometimes, magically, the car starts when you cross your fingers and turn the key in the ignition one more time. DSL, I will never take you for granted again. Some things that have been on my mind the past couple of days: 1) I am considering officially declaring picnicking

Yesterday I emailed AK, “Here’s the info about Jen’s reading in the LBC.” Then it occurred to me that maybe I wasn’t using “LBC” correctly, and even though it was just an email, and I was using it ironically, I wanted my irony to be well founded. So I visited www.urbandictionary.com (because nothing says “gangsta” like a visit to the dictionary) and got several definitions. The term seems to be the source of some controversy: 1. LBC Contrary to popular belief and usage, this term was originally coined to mean Long Beach Compton. The term was popularized in order to describe the groups who had members living in both Compton and Northeast Long Beach , which nearly border one another. “To a place that be, call it LBC” --Snoop 2. LBC It means Long Beach City !!!!! It’s not Long Beach Crip...they’re just “Crips.” “I’m pimpin’ in the LBC cuh!” 3. LBC Long Beach , Califo rn ia . From the context in which “LBC” is popularly used (and from

-- So hot that my cats have actually gotten into the new game I invented for them, Chase The Ice Cube Around The Bathtub—which, if you think about it (and if your entire species is naturally averse to water), is not really all that fun. -- So hot that I woke up at two in the morning Saturday night—awakened by my own body temperature, I think, but kept awake by my neighbors, who were in the hall singing along loudly to R&B songs. I’m not really the tell-the-neighbors-to-keep-it-down type, but even if I was, I would have been too hot to do so. They seemed like they were having as much fun as two people can have at two in the morning when it’s at least 15 degrees too hot to have sex. -- So hot that AK and I spent even more time in Borders than we normally would have, reading the entire, brilliant Pigeon series by Mo Willems . As with many series, the original Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus is a tough act to follow, but The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog doesn’t disappoint. It offers a s

1. the 98 percent Travel is healthy, right? Expands your horizons and all that? Helps you discover who you are? Apparently who I am is a neurotic mess, although honestly I didn’t need to go to Seattle to figure that out. Maybe I did, though, because in LA I’d been coasting as of late, enjoying my life, my lady, and the thought of having an extra $75 a week when I quit therapy, which I’m planning to do…any…minute…now. Seattle was 98 percent lovely, as was Tacoma , where I spent the weekend with the perennially awesome Daisye. We indulged in such Western Washington activities as rummaging through antique stores, eating farmer’s market raspberries and shopping for custom-blended hand lotion. I got to meet Laura, Daisye’s new love, who is ideal for Daisye because (besides being really nice, funny, engaged and engaging) she A) is into rummaging through antique stores, B) likes wearing jewelry (Daisye likes making jewelry) and C) sees ghosts, which is just fucking cool. 2. the two percent Ye

I’m back, and figuratively jetlagged if not literally, since I never left the Pacific time zone. I’ll tell you more about Seattle and San Francisco in a bit, but for now I’ll just steer you towards a fascinating exhibit at SF’s Asian Art Museum , where Jamie and I killed some time before our flight yesterday. “A Curious Affair” consists of paintings, sculptures, tableware and fu rn iture—dating from the 1600s to the 1900s—that trace Asia’s influence on Europe and vice versa. There are wildly inaccurate maps, landscape paintings that deposit Chinese pagodas in the midst of Thai villages, Japanese triptychs that merge a couple of French cities and call it “ Paris ,” and absurd ethnic caricatures from both parties. Easte rn and Weste rn cultures were fascinated by each other (though the West tended to drool over the East a bit more than the other way around, apparently), but not enough to be sticklers for detail. They just sort of rounded off to the nearest lotus-leaf hat.

Well, maybe the petty thief who broke in thought it was funny. I didn’t. The good news is he (she? It totally could have been a minor league Angelina Jolie in Gone in 60 Seconds ) didn’t take all that much, although I now owe Sara one power drill and I owe my trunk a 24-pack of Crystal Geyser. Actually, I got the sense that this was a quick, polite, utilitarian break-in overall. Not an I-want-to-fuck-with-your-life kind of break-in. I’ll take the former, given the choice. I’m about to head out of town for a bit, so the blog will be quiet for a few days. But if any shady types ask, I’m totally in town hanging out with my angry rottweiler and polishing my gun.

Two funny things, actually, on two occasions within the past week: 1. It appeared that my car was eating a pizza. No one was around, but there was a paper plate with a slice of cheese pizza on the hood, just sitting there peacefully. There was maybe one bite out of it. I looked around. I didn’t want to deprive my car—or, more likely, a nearby human—of a tasty snack, but I also needed to go. Finally a man walked up. “This your car? Sorry about that.” “I’m sorry it’s not cleaner,” I said. You know the phrase, “so clean you could eat off it.” That doesn’t apply to my car. My hood was covered in dust and bird shit. Really, any other car on the block would have been a cleaner choice, but maybe Honda Civics are just the right height for eating. 2. My car was parked next to the mural that adorns the side of Aceptamos Estampillas . A chunk of the mural—which is already pretty graffiti-wracked—had fallen to the ground. Now, I love murals probably more than the average person. I wrote a 25-pag

Usually, the last Friday of the month is Poetry Exchange Day at work. (Hi, we’re geeks, nice to meet you.) No one remembered last Friday, and I wasn’t about to send out a reminder, as the only poem I wrote in June is still in the sucking stage. But in honor of our aborted exchange, I present my weekend in haiku. Friday She and her sister have the same earlobes. (Oh, right, watch the game .) Sunday B’s laundry weighs more than just a bunch of shirts and sheets I once slept on. Monday Ramones and red wine fill Hollywood Forever. The dead rock out too. Tuesday I think of Petco too late—thoughtful-adjacent. But she calls it sweet. Her mom’s conclusion: If you won’t date boys, at least choose a girl who’s tall. Fireworks near and far sprinkle light on the 5 North, the best view in town.

AK and I were in search of air conditioning. “I sort of want to see The Devil Wears Prada ,” she admitted, “but you said you thought it looked bad.” “Oh, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see it,” I said. Although most people have guilty pleasures, or ironic pleasures, sometimes I want to see movies because they A) are shiny, and B) will make me mad. I like the sensory pleasure of fashion montages followed by the righteous indignation that follows inevitable clichéd storylines or stereotypical characters. But on this front, Devil was thoroughly disappointing. I genuinely liked it (unlike my friend Heather , with whom I will now have to engage in fisticuffs…just kiddin’; I liked it, but not quite enough to fight for its honor). Whether or not you read the book (I didn’t), you probably know the plot: Girl applies for journalism jobs, girl get stuck as assistant to subtly whip-cracking fashion mag editor, girl must decide if she wants to sell out everyone she knows so that she