What We Hold On For.

 

I just up and ordered the living daylights out of this business. My friend is in the UK for work at the moment and had tried to acquire me a set of the Queen's 90th Birthday stamp set and the one I wanted was completely sold out wherever she went so I did the responsible thing and created a Royal Mail account. This of course means I will probably be ordering a lot more stamps through Royal Mail in the future. Stamps are kind of one of my things, and getting a Royal Mail account is kind of huge.

Of course I am going to have to wait four to six to eternity weeks for delivery, but the reality is sufficient enough to make me excited. That and the prospect of the Century City project coming to a close has me slightly giddy. Unemployment worries some, but for me it seems to be where I truly find myself.

Post Imperial Malaise.

 

So this morning I was given a choice. There were two seats on the bus this morning. Two possible seats. One enjoyed a panoramic vista of homeless passed-out ass. And I don't mean ass crack, or partial ass, I mean full on homeless pants down passed-out ass view. The other seat was in the articulated section which makes you imagine your own untimely and violent death being crushed to death by the wheels of the bus when the articulated section disconnects or some shit.

I chose to envisage my own passing rather than stare at homeless ass for a half an hour. It was a poor decision and I realized it almost immediately because the bus got so broke-ass full that someone would have been shielding me from the Gauguin still life of an ass in crisis. I outsmarted myself yet again.

The truly dizzying thing is that my job actually pays for parking which is very rare for Los Angeles so not only am I having these experiences, which one day I hope to compile into some sort of Metro Reference/Survival Guide I am actually paying for the pleasure. If I can't write this off my taxes then me and someone with an accounting degree are going to have serious words.

And on that note I checked and I already received my tax refund so yay for me.

By Shades Of Fear We Decide.

 

This business is actually happening. A film about the early days of Stephen Patrick Morrissey. Jessica Brown Findlay aka Lady Sybil from Downton Abbey is slated to play photo-documentarian Linder Sterling. Although listed as 'pre-production' which is probably the equivalent as saying it isn't happening at all except in someone's mind it still gives one cause to hope.
_____________________________________________________

Yesterday the crazy waited until we got off the bus to rear it's freaky deaky little head. Walking into the corner market I have patronized for years which has passed through the hands of various middle-aged Asian couples I am immediately struck with shouting. There is shouting. In the corner shop. Of course there is. All you want it PBR, but what you get is this.

'You ain't my father you can't yell at me!'
-Incomprehensible-
'It isn't my fault you don't know how to count. I want my money back!'

It just went on and on like this until accusations of domestic violence and threats of calling the police were exchanged culminating in the shout 'You never come back!'

Oh mercy and sakes. Someone just got themselves 86d from the corner shop. And over what you may ask. Well it might surprise you to discover that the controversy causing such a scandal was five cents. She up and got herself 86d over a couple of tins of Arizona Iced Tea five cents. Unbelievable. And whereas there are a lot of corners in Los Angeles and by extension numerous corner shops if you go around shouting at the Asian proprietors of too many of them you may find yourself having to do all your shopping at Ralphs.

And there as bad as the library. They'll let any old trash in off the street.

Arguing In Sign.

 

I think the genus menswear blog has finally and truly had its day. I mean I always wondered whether smug self-impressed bruhs offering casual menswear advice in a general whimsical listicle format had legs, and I was genuinely surprised at how long it lasted.

Who Broke The Internet and Mister Crew petered out first, but then they never had much to offer past the 'Look what was in the mail for me when I returned back from X' so that was scarcely telling. Selectism has been absorbed into High Snobiety, Four Pins is done. Whether Hypebeast or Slamhype are still doing whatever it was they were doing is irrelevant. A Continuous Lean is still trying, but then they were always just trying, and even now it is hardly anything more than listings through Sotherby's. Unionmade made it all but 2 years in trend conscious LA. Wait. Did no one tell you heritage was a trend, and like all trends that wheel keeps on spinning?

I never had a single moment to waste on the The Sartorialist, and that is coming from someone who has many moments in the day to waste. Actual blocks of time to waste.

A casual class consciousness goes quite a ways, but self-conscious class consciousness just runs itself into the dirt every time. Oh, and the Trad. I never could tell if that was a parody or bad or both.

Luncheon Seemed To Be A Rushed Affair.

 

I may have to start documenting my forays into public transportation because no one would believe me if I just recounted it off hand.

And it always seems to be the eastbound busses that get it the worst. Like crazy just prefers to travel from west to east.

On Friday I was too too excited to get the weekend started. Sitting in my seat, cradling my reading material, perilously close to the front of the bus (where the freaks get mad) some lady seemed to forget how the rapid line works. Folks like myself like the rapid line because it bypasses all the podunk avenues no one has ever heard of in favor of the major arterials. Well this poor thing noticed that the bus passed the podunk avenue she was looking for and here is where things got real.

She started to cuss and fuss and fume at the driver to turn the bus around and I just knew I would have to turn down the Soundcloud for this. She demanded that the driver stop. She was sick. She wasn't well. She needed to get off immediately.

Which is to say she was tweaking. She had just gotten on the bus and now realizing the air conditioning was on she started to teetotal freak the living daylights out. The bus driver was oblivious to her k-hole and went about his glacial navigation of Santa Monica Boulevard.

One of the fellow passengers took exception with the tweaker and they exchanged words. Oh dear. Then he got up to wait for his stop. The tweaker asked him to get out of the way, and he was like:

'Bitch, I'm getting off here too.'
'Who you calling bitch? I will fuck you up.'
-Incomprehsible-
'You don't know what I got in this backpack I will seriously fuck, you, I will fuck you up!'

The gentleman who was a four foot six Pilipino whose lifetime struggle to establish facial hair couldn't be more real now demanded that they bus driver 'get this bitch out of his face before he lays her out.'

The driver, not wanting to intercede on his behalf calmly navigates the bus to the stop and the two kindly take their dispute outside. Necks crane to see what might happen, but tweaker just goes about tweaking and tripper goes about trippin'. The bus drives on.

Landmarks For The Forgotten Aspirations.

 

The officious office know-it-all tries to disrupt the day with displays of his erudition. I've taken to coming in earlier and earlier merely to spend less active time around him. He and the office vaper speak song lyrics to one another and try to stump themselves. Something they manage to do with alarming regularity. Actually, the mere fact that they are doing it is alarming. The fact that it happens with increasing regularity is simply baffling.

I try to retain a cool detachment. I curse the person who invented open concept seating daily. I stay immersed in podcasts, but often the sounds of people trying to outsmart one another bleeds through. The insincere chuckles at other's comments, contrasted with the mannered giggling reserved for one's own bon mots. I have to surrender to Soundcloud who now think that whatever it is they offer it warrants paying extra for the absence of commercials.

An additional hazard comes with avoiding the eye contact from those hungry for approval. The best way to avoid having to pretend you found something someone said clever is to pretend you didn't hear it, or preferably, not actually hear it at all. In this sense, and in this sense only, does Soundcloud offer a service warranting a fee.

The arguments and disagreements are gratuitous in the extreme. Almost as though they are afraid of silence. And the eyes continue to linger towards me. Hungrily fishing for validation. 'Come on man! What I just said right there was so fucking brilliant it must have made your iPhone temporarily stop muffling everything I normally say out of sheer respect for how fucking amazingly brilliant what I just said was.'

Freshness Of Desires Reused.

 

 

The commute into Century City was a real treat. I even took an earlier bus because I thought it would be easier, but it appears that crazy gets up early and gets its business moving early in Los Angeles.

A trip on LA Metro could even on its best day hardly be described as tranquil, but today was truly specialist. I always hang back and let everyone board before me. No need in looking excited about getting on Metro. Once on I take the seat next to someone who appears to someone who appears to be a normal or preferably no one whatsoever.

For whatever reason the mass of peasants was unusually immense this morning. The woman sitting next to me screamed in my ear at the driver and then apologized. She then spent the entire ride holding her shirt up to her nose as though hiding from the stench. I mean public transportation never smells good, but it seemed a bit theatrical even for me.

An honest to goodness pedophile gave up his seat for a girl no older than sixteen and then proceeded to chat her up for the remainder of the ride. Ordinarily I just bury my head in my book, but there wasn't enough space to do that so I just sat there, listened to my audiobook and took in the show.

The Time For Our Attack Has Come.

 

 

I burnt rice last night. I burnt the living shit out of it. I would wonder how, but I think I know. The heightened potency of California medicinal strains puts Washington to shame, one. I read somewhere that eating right before you go to bed does one good, two. I did the living daylights out of my taxes at the very last minute, three. Worn down by the vicious heat, four. Taken as a whole it was a perfect storm of kick my ass and somewhere between the time the rice started to simmer and mapo tofu started to braise I passed the fuck out.

I woke up a few hours later and there was a distinct aroma in the air and I knew immediately what I had done. The pan was mercifully unharmed although the rice was inedible the tofu was succulent and perfectly done so as seeing as supper was ready I disposed of the rice and whipped up some easy ramen, got down to business and then passed out again.

This morning I awoke well rested, but famished. I arrived for the bus just in time to see the worst aspects of humanity is action. An old man with a cane shoving a big lady in special shoes for a better seat on the bus. I arrived at the office just in time to see smarty pants know-it-all-iness kick and flail like a dying animal in a cubical and here I am waiting for my lunch. More succulent braised tofu from last night.

Anywhere Else But Now.

 

 

 

Yesterday was complete pants. I am still barely recovered from the indecency of it all. 

 

I thought it was the sound of gunfire. But being LA it is like an earthquake and I just pay it no mind. This coupled with the fact the last time I thought it was gunfire it was merely firecrackers being set off in a parking garage across the street. I simply took note of the rapid fire, prayed ISIS had not come to East Hollywood and tried my best to enjoy the remaining 55 minutes of slumber.

 

The morning routine was as normal as could be. I got out of my apartment and noticed the street had been sectioned off by police. OK, it was most definitely gunsfire I think as I approach the closest police line.

 

'Sir. If you pass it's going to be a while before you can come back.'

'That's OK I'm just going to work.'

 

I trounce down the street, congratulating myself on my ability to not get hung up on life's little hiccups, like gunfire across the street, and then I realize I had no wallet. No wallet, no cash, no Metro pass anything, and then the sinking sensation comes, and no way to go back and retrieve same.

 

How the hell could this have happened? I entreated the police. They were even more stoic than on that show SouthLAnd. Many were as hot. They told me it was for my own protection. Well I assumed they wereN'T doing it to be expressly dickheaded, but it was a mild relief all the same.

 

So I waited. Watching the best parts of the morning fade away. I got into work and they can kiss it. I am not working a moment past 4:00. The commute to the eastside is insufferable if you start a single moment passed so I've resigned myself to making up the time on the weekend. And now that I'll be down to one job I actually may have something of a weekend to ruin.

For Feelings To Dissapear.

 

Fear based paranoia was gripping the workplace as I stepped inside my pod-office. The Asian was Pintersting, but there was nothing new in that. An email had been sent. The implications of which were still unclear, some hadn't even read it, but were enraged all the same. Tempers were frayed, confusion abounded. There was frisson in the air and explanations to be had.

I managed to get my shit unloaded and situated in my workspace as to give me a good position to absorb the dilemma. The frozen enchiladas were already placed safely in the freezer. Success, My Lord. It won't be enough, however, I immediately realize and I'm already looking forward to Bi Bim Bap or even better Chipotle.

I don't bother to check my inbox. I want the dirty, defensive. self-absolving summaries. After I had heard the tale from all sides someone asked me what I was going to do about it. I said I hadn't obviously fucked up that badly for it to even matter. Sorry if they had, and all that. The sensation of self-gratifying relish spilling across my face must have bordered on the obscene. I quickly excused myself to the break room wherein I was able to forage a crossword from the LA Times.

The LA Times crossword... No one seems to really understand the extent to which I suffer.

Where Is That Positoning Paper?

 

Some woman in the office intends to empower herself through maintenance requests. So sure is she in the status of our blinds and her ability to address not only their failings but her own homeostasis she has announced he intentions to bother someone not even remotely concerned as thus on this pre-pre-Sabbath day.

I'm suffering from exhaustion so profound it borders on dementia. I'm left hoping that one of my projects will end and then cursing myself later knowing I would be happy for any one of these projects later on when I'm driving myself insane with golf, fishing and penury.

The drive into work was as delirious as it was clankety. The woman, who is gifted beyond words, drives that bus with a furious abandon that at times rises to the level of uncomfortable before settling back down on just mildly unsettling and then jerks from side to side.

I try not to make eye contact with anyone at work. Somehow I think that would just make it all the more real.

I'm now safely planted in my desk. Safely at work. Appraising myself of all the headlines and buzz-trends so not to be taken off guard by the resident know-it-all. I may be exhausted beyond reason, but that's no reason to let standards fall. Because once they do...

Moments Prior To Disaster.

 

I have to say I am a little hazy on the difference between riding Metro and cruising Metro because clearly a lot of both is going on. I have tried to discern patterns amidst the chaos by noting certain behaviors and correlating them with other things and nothing seems to emerge. Save that the time you would think would be least likely susceptible to the 'lonesome sort' is the time you have to be most on your guard. Or not depending on what your priorities are.

Rush hour, early mornings, times when things need to get done. These are the times it seems that people most want to hook up, with someone, on public transportation, who is obviously in the middle of trying to get stuff done.

I came into the office on Saturday and was mildly looking forward to picking up some Nachos with maybe a little salsa on the side and the whole ride back was dead. Worse than dead. Desolate. And rather infrequent. It was rainy. No one was happy, and I was left as confused over my experiences with public transportation as ever.

I'm now somewhat tempted to always carry some shopping with me so everyone would be on notice as to the reasons for which one came.

Standing Closer Than You Ought To.

Made the dumbest rookie mistake this morning. Like worse than accidentally getting on Wilshire/Western when you meant to get on North Hollywood. I mean this is thinking you are passing up an express for another that is coming right behind it but that winds up being a local.

Add to that there was kind of a cute if waifey Trader Joe's dude who similarly pulled back from the throng of express bus boarders. But it should have been obvious (to a non-rookie) that working at Trader Joe's he couldn't possibly be going past Pine. La Brea in the extreme. He could give two shits if he gets on a local or an express. Shit. I'd walk to Vine, but then I have actual thighs.

So I had to stand there like a complete and total spaz while the number four waited for an uncomfortable amount of time looking like I backed out at the last minute and God knows that the guy from Trader Joe's (who I do think was cruising) was thinking. Not realizing I'd have to wait six whole minutes for the next express I put myself into a temporary state.

I managed to hold myself together. By the time the next number four arrived a bunch of people who were obviously staying on this side of West Hollywood piled on making the express that came up moments later a quiet empty box. 

I've been having good luck in the Metro lottery lately. Sitting almost uncomfortably snuggled next to a hot guy who is totally not self-conscious three times this week, or having a spot all to myself for the entire or quite nearly the entire way if only going East. 

This morning was all good until some Greedy Gus plopped her turgid mess of polyblend, cheap scent and oversized purse next to me. For some reason the large always seem entitled to take up as much space as they do. I think there should be signs or announcements like they do with oversized luggage. 'Please, Only Sit In Spaces You Can Actually Fit Into.'

After all that fuss and to do I waited 6 minutes for a later bus and still showed up to work with thime to spare.

A Certitude Of Perspective.

 

The merest key strokes set off a set of impertinent questions and follow up blatherings. A quick retreat back to the summarized and filtered details of her Facebook feed. Then some pouting. Some nibbling on a bit of pastry. The persistent absence of laudatory emails in the inbox weighing down on her like a dead weight. A flurry of follow-up blather and some more pastry.

This is followed by a stream of consciousness reflection on traffic issues living on the Westside which blurred into shared recollections of skit called The Californians. I sincerely lack the energy to contribute to the conversation in any meaningful way. A trip to the break room descended into a surreal conversation one feels one has had far too many times in a two week period.

People start to trickle into the office and the presence of other people proves a distraction. The presence of the Farmers Martket means the entire place will be sparsely populated from 11:00 until around 2:00 which is a tender mercy. Of course I will brave the market myself as well. Walk through the cloud of Hawaiian barbeque smoke on my way to vegan finger food, however, before that, I shall cocoon myself in a podcast discussing the works and life of Evelyn Waugh.

I'm Scuceeding At Ordinary.

 

 

 

The know-it-all blather at the Century City labor center reached fevered pitch yesterday. There was deep and at times uncomfortable disagreement as to the existence of and by extension the meaning of the supposed missing lyrics of Elton John's Daniel. I quickly discovered the nearest source of Nutter Butters which is of course quite the tonic.

 

Heaven forbid when the conversation veers toward something of consequence and I don't mean politics. They started that nonsense and I shut it down with a simple 'Respectable people do not run for public office'. This of course garnered peals of laughter and I think they may think I was joking which of course means the joke is on them.

 

All in all it is a fairly engaged crew. They seem to be relatively aware of things going on in the world even if they seem frustratingly ignorant about what aired on PBS the night before or what's trending hot on Twitter.

 

And speaking of trending hot. A few words. Bibimbap is the new Ramen. Which was the new Pho. Which was the new street taco. Next year the street taco is going to be huge again. One could seriously die of centrifugal force trying to keep up with it.

Along Came The Normal.

 

For the most part I lead a relatively prosaic existence. I avoid excitements and disturbances and do not go in for thrill seeking of any kind. Unless you can excuse the occasional thrift store score or coupon warrior victory I am pretty much an Everyday Is Like Sunday kind of guy.

So I am still reeling from Sunday where I had nothing more exciting planned than a trip to the Hollywood Farmers Market and a visit to the Homo Depot on Sunset. The parents and I arrived early, found parking easily, walked up the north/south axis of the market, circled around Hollywood and then down Vine and took in the east/west axis culminating in some super vegan cosmetics before doubling back and meeting up with Pony and one of her high school friends. They were in town for a wedding and on their way to LAX and we decided to meet up for a quick bite before they left.

The parents had Greek, I had Korean and the conversation was lively but short lived regrettably. Pony returned the handkerchief I had lent her the last time I was in Seattle which was sweet and entirely unnecessary. After saying our Au Reservoirs my parents and I walked back to our car and along the way I saw an unmistakable sight. Olympic curler John Morris was standing there in front of God and everyone talking to some people in a voice loud enough for me to discern he was searching of ingredients to make a cole slaw.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I was beside myself. Of course I didn't say anything or make a scene, but all the way to Homo Depot I could not shut up about my good fortune to actually see one of my long time crushes in the flesh and managing not to make a fool of myself. This gives me hope that if I even do run into Derek Jeter like my friend did a few years back in Beverly Hills I will be able to successfully command my bladder.

There is always hope.

Problematic Fragmentation.

 

 

 

Nothing quite makes the heart glow like another's unfettered misapprehension. Especially when it relates to oneself and one's needs, abilities or one's willingness to put up with complete and total bullshit.

 

I had every intention of staying at home this morning. I thought I hit snooze which I normally do, but I actually just turned my clock off. I woke up a couple hours later than I usually do and I figured I should just stay at home, avoid the Century City spectacle entirely, and just remote into one of my other projects. This, I eventually decided mid-bath would be the absolute height of discourtesy so I came in anyway.

 

My mother, doing what she does, miscommunicated her arrival and departure time which is entirely within her rights. She will arrive if and when she feels like and she will depart if and when she feels like. Nothing wrong with that other than it impinges my ability to commit my presence in Century City. I communicate this to the necessary email recipients upon arrival in said Century God Damned Mother Fucking Century City and am almost immediately pinged back with a 'fine, but...' email.

 

I'm sorry, but there is no 'fine, but....' in this situation. There is reality and then there are mistakes. There is the reality of me making more money staying at home doing my business and there is the reality of me making less money coming to Century City. That someone would 'request', I suppose we can use the word 'request' additional commitments from me with respect to my anticipated availability smacks of breathtaking arrogance.

 

I'm tempted never to come back to this place ever again. There's a nice BiBimBap place some 20 minutes away and a Farmers Market on Thursday which I could just as easily go to on Sunday. Oh, and they can validate my parking if I actually drove myself around to places like a fucking peasant.

 

Good Day Sir.