Insomnia

A few minutes ago, I was ensconced in my bedroom, reading a nice thick book of historical diseases, their origins, symptoms and affects on society. Now I'm downstairs, gingerly picking my way across a keyboard, trying to express how I feel about the fact that instead of blissfully slumbering, I am, as always, awake. Lately, things have been getting interesting. It's as though my body subconsciously senses the upcoming trials and tribulations of waking up in the morning, and is doing practice runs. One day I wake at five a.m. The next, a more modest seven a.m. All this, and I still manage to only lapse into glorious unconsciousness at around three a.m. Charming.

I write my dearest Christian letters, I burn incense, I read, I embark on perilous journeys of the mind. I write movie scripts, on AIM, in detail. I create terrible Secret Societies devoted to bothering the conservative neighbors and viciously contested Scrabble matches. Sometimes I get in touch with my inner Pagan and attempt a spell or two. Then I wonder if it's fair to classify myself as Wiccan, when I make fun of it so often as being a collection of moonbats. Then I resist the urge to take night-time cold medicine.

Maybe heat exhaustion and physical exertion will grant me sleep. Northridge is the hottest place in the Valley, and I'll be dragging around large books and attempting to not die whilst learning Aikido, come the 25th of August. I'll also apparently be wrangling small children, as my mother has determined I am suitable to work as an aide in her pre-school. Hooray, money! Boo, children. Maybe I can sleep then, as an escape from juice-stained faces and filthy hands.

In the meantime, won't somebody please surprise me with a phonecall? I know that only a few people read this, but come on. If you've got my number and it's past one a.m. I'm probably awake and very, very bored. Give a ring to the cell. Break me out of my cell.

Laura

Let me tell you all about Laura, the bane of my childhood. Laura did everything that could possibly be on a 48 Hours Mystery/After-School Special ever. It started small, back in the early days of AIM, when chatrooms were unmoderated and easy to access. She went and told the entire world, apparently, where she lived, and decided to meet up with them. Needless to say, the parents found out, tripped out, and told my two rather overprotective parents. That was in 1998. I got internet access in 2006. Thanks, Laura.

She progressed to witchcraft. Not Wicca, whch is acceptable, so long as you aren't too freaking goofy about it, but full-on, "I'm a reincarnation of Tituba from Salem" witchcraft. Gee darn, Laura, the fact that Tituba decided to come back in the form of a chubby white teenager is a little far fetched. I have no idea how long that lasted, but in my parents' minds, I'm in danger every time I burn incense or have the audacity to make herbal tea. No lie, I'm like 1/1000th Wiccan in practice, because sometimes, darn it, the only thing you can do is attempt a spell and hope it works out. However, I've yet to state that I'd like to sacrifice a cat, as Laura told a very creeped out nine-year-old me, one fateful barbecue ago.

Then, she discovered WoW, or World of Warcraft, for those of you lucky enough not to know. How she ever got internet access back after the AIM stunt, I have no idea. But, as many do, she fell victim to the allure of being a level 70 Wood Elf, fell in with a dashing young Minotaur, (or whatever,) and ate herself into post-gum chewing Violet Beauregard size. Needless to say, she was an unemployed giant blob. Later, aforementioned Minotaur, who was really some skeevy creeper from back East, flew out, spent all of Laura's savings, terrorized the household, and vanished into the mists of his mom's basement when the cash ran dry.

This, of course, was right when I was happily playing around on Gaia, dabbling, of course, a little wee bit in the trashy romance novel side of it, but never freaking inviting people to live with me. The parents, of course, did not believe this, and took to bursting through the door unannounced every few minutes to demand I do chores and try to read over my shoulder. I bacame a master of unplugging the computer with my toes. Now, my little sister, poor thing, has joined Gaia, and has to use mom's laptop, as she does not yet have her own computer connected to the glories of "teh interwebs". This fact usually causes civil wars and cataclysmic events rivalled only by terrorism and Africa.

My parents, particularly my mother, have a deep-seated fear and conviction that my sister and I are doomed to become obese, unemployed Satan-worshippers. This does wonders for one's self-esteem. Every time one of us gets freaked out upon for asking to do something as simple as going somewhere alone, I know who to blame. Laura. That kid has seriously been the back story to every banned event, every invite I've turned down without even trying to ask. Dear eighth grade classmates of mine, class of 2003, I'm sorry I was so cold to you all. It was the fear of being "Laura-ized" by my parents that kept me from going to the Spice Girls/sleepover/party. It was the sheer drama of hearing about that stupid chick getting kidnapped that made me avoid people who had internet access.

I'm better now. The parents aren't. I have no idea where Laura is, and I don't particularly care or wish her well. Laura, you dumb twit! You may as well have told me santa wasn't real when I was two, for all the childhood hopes you squashed. I know your parents, and they're good, intelligent people. What the hell happened to you? Wherever you are, I regret your life decisions for you, because they sure screwed up mine. I got punished for your stupidity, I got lectured for your foolishness. Thanks.

Ugh.

Weather or not.

I understand the concept of June Gloom. It's a dominant weather pattern in Southern California. However, it's getting ridiculous. Legitimate storms might be on the way, which is actually great news, since we're in another drought. You'd think that the government would learn to put water restrictions into effect at all times, and not do a last-minute freak-out every few years. Oh well, such is life and bureaucracy.

Meanwhile, decade-old seeds have managed to actually sprout, take root, and grow in the garden, which itself was formerly abandoned and desolate. The weather seems highly conducive to dreamy, impractical ideas, and the fulfillment of improbable goals. It's comforting, really. The chickens, of course, disapprove of the rain and hail, and seem to blame me for the noise and the damp, clucking at me like angry old bag-women. I'm sorry chickens, I cannot control anything but your food and whether you get eaten or not. (Don't push it, Caligula, you rotten little bowling ball in feathers.)

Surprising windfalls have been occurring, a mysterious paycheck from Crespi graced me with it's presence, and after Louisville's graduation, I had a surprisingly lovely evening with friends I rarely get to see, and who sometimes worry me. Christian went out to apply for jobs, after only moderate threats from me, and the bank teller who cashed the check flirted with me. Charming, of course, but as of now, I'm quite happy with Christian.

Summer is going smoothly, and all plans seem to be going along without too much drama or cataclysm. God willing, this will remain so. My friends and I so far haven't tried to kill each other yet, and there have been no major splits. Nobody is threatening to secede, and a state of emergency has not been declared.

I wish I could say the same for the government. Alaska, of course, is a smoking gun barrel full of wanton animal slayings, Palin's husband is a member of the Alaska Secessionist Party, (go for it, so we can invade, please,) and Dads Against Discrimination is absolutely on some sort of drug. Obama hasn't done anything astoundingly useful yet, and North Korea and Iran are still playing the part of school bullies, being crude and cruel for the sake of attention. California is bankrupt, and we're thinking about auctioning off some landmarks. Dibs on Hearst Castle, thanks.

In other news, at least one Mormon is a biggoted sociopath, having first told me Matthew Shepard deserved to be dragged and beaten to death for choosing to be gay, and that God Himself wanted it to happen, then spitting on me with a loogie that reeked of garlic and was horribly large and raw oyster-like. Also, at least one Mormon is a cool guy, because he's a loyal friend of my family, and as yet, has not expressed any xenophobic, irrational behaviors. I wish people would realize that killing, injuring, or being cruel in the name of God is the biggest sin of all. That's majorly taking His name in vain.

Oh well. I can't change their minds, but I hope I can educate others, or at least come up with better, more entertaining commercials paid for by substantially less shady out-of-state, irrelevant funding. Meanwhile, I shall continue to write, to love, and to enjoy my Constitutional rights as I see fit, and encourage others to do the same. Maybe this weather will help me achieve that improbable goal. Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness, because All are Equal.

Rainy Day Dreams

It's the beginning of June, and it's raining. This is glorious. The chickens do not approve, but too bad for them, it's lovely. The garden's planted, but since the seeds are more than a decade old, we'll have to see if anything comes up. Green beans, radishes, lettuce, broccoli (on a whim,) and then a barrel of various vines, from cantaloupes to cucumbers to spaghetti squash. Dad's planted tomatoes and eggplant in one of those ridiculous Topsy Turvy contraptions, and the wildflowers are still going strong.

Christian's due to help us fix up the yard soon, and our DWP is offering a dollar per square foot we xeriscape, so perhaps we'll go with that. Maybe this landscaping will pay for itself. I've been job hunting, so this may be weekend work. Meanwhile, I'm hoping and praying that the traditional Beach House visit will occur. There's such drama entailed in that trip, from evil greedy landlords denying us access, to friendly tiffs that turn into fullblown rages, but somehow, it's worth it. More on that later.

The rain has stopped, which is disappointing. I wanted an all day storm. Hopefully it starts back up soon. For now, it's back to reading and reliving my childhood wit the help of YouTube and scooby Doo.

Touring

Having decided that I would brave the Red Line Subway system, I enlisted Christian, my dearest, to come with me. (Yes, he's only been out a few days. Too bad, he needs some time outside.) We boarded the Orange Line to NoHo at about one pm, then proceeded to the Red Line Station, where I tapped my TAP, and he flashed a Day Pass. We first journeyed to Universal City Station, and boarded he tram to CityWalk.

CityWalk itself was quite lovely, we toasted each other with wax bottles from It's Sugar, then ate delicious, non-greasy fish and chips at Bubba Gump's. The tram operator, however, upon our attempt to exit the park, dropped off a load of passengers heading into the park and sped off, without taking us down the hill. Finding this rude, and loathing the order-barking female directing us to NOT sit on the ropes, though it was warm and we were tired, and the rope was cheap nylon, we trekked down the hill on foot, no easy task in sandals, fighting against gravity.

We then sojourned on to the theatre district stop, right in front of the Pantages. We walked over to admire a lovely gothic-ish Presbyterian church, helped some earnest young people carry heavy kitchen carts back down to the basement and departed. The church was lovely, I'm very glad we were able to help. Presbyterians, a word: Though your cornerstone will forever stay strong, I pray the rest of the architecture remains stable too.

This was followed by a quick jaunt to Koreatown to admire the gothic architecture of another Presbyterian church, a Christian unspecified church, a glorious Jewish temple, and St. Basil's Catholic slightly modernist church. We also gawked at the old Sears tower, which was lovely in it's green patina hue. Photos were taken, a tube of Neo-Sporin burst under the weight of a dropped purse, and pigeons were chatted with.

We returned home for some much-needed snuggle and smoochie time, and watched Chicago, one of the most epic of recent musical movies. It was a thoroughly charming day, just the right amount of travel, bustle, and fun. The only question now is, what to do next weekend?

Dictators, Twins, Kitchen Mishaps, and Mystics

Seven rotten, fat little monsters tear though my backyard, burying garden paths with scratched-up dirt, destroying flowerbeds, and making ungodly noises in the wee hours of the morning. They often attempt coups on each other, and are the most greedy, vicious creatures ever created by evolution or a decidedly unfriendly God.

Their names are, chip, Twin, Nero, Napoleon, Caligula, Almost Soup, and Chris the Wonder Chicken. Yes, they're all chickens. Hens, rather. Nero, Napoleon and Caligula are Barred Rocks, and are bowling balls in feathers. They are enormous, fat, and mean. Chip and Twin are Americunas, lay blue eggs, and are the most feisty little snots in the flock. Almost Soup is the chicken I received first, a delayed birthday present, from my dear friend Laurel. Poor Soupy is likely to forever hate me because we had to give her brother, Da-Har away. (He was so named because when he first was learning to crow, thats the noise he made. Sort of like a hiccup.) She's probably a Sex-Link, a breed created so females would be all-black and males would look like Barred Rocks, black and white.

Then, there's Chris. Chris is all white, but lays blue eggs. We don't know WHAT she is and neither does she. She was the runt, and the other chicks blocked her from eating, so thus has moderate brain damage, because she was so malnourished as a chick. While the other chickens run, peck, and scratch, she prefers to quietly contemplate, and ponder her surroundings. She stares at grass, or a wild bird, as if to ask, "What is this wonderous item?" She likes riding on my shoulder, and will even wear a harness and leash and go out for walks. Walks usually end up being "carries", however, because she has no idea what asphalt is and refuses to walk on it.

Six monsters and a sweetheart. My original description wasn't completely accurate. Six of the strange little beasts we keep as pets and for eggs think they're velociraptors, leaping at leach other and fighting over grubs, scraps, and feed. One is apparently a reincarnated mystic, content to examine the world through the wondering eyes of a bird. Chris "talks", and knows what a phone is, as she'll happily cluck and purr into the microphone to say hello to a friend. She also enjoys regular baths, whereas the other chickens are content with dust-baths and the occasional spray from a hose. She only recently learned how to peck at food, and plays with her parrot toys. Sometimes, I think she has intelligence, and no instinct. She's a nerd chicken. Deep thoughts, no social ability. Perhaps I'm just reflecting my personality on her.

I think I need a dog.

It was Chris that I held and cried on when my boyfriend "went to the wacky shack", as my best friend Arri so kindly puts it. Poor Chris just curled up in my arms and clucked, occasionally pecking my ear, gently, either to say, "For the love of Christ, put me down, you deranged woman!" or to see if I was okay. I think I'll assume it was the second option. She's sweet, absolutely clueless, and willing to tolerate my treating her like a pet dog. She'll also be humanely dyed brown for this Fourth of July, except her head and tail, because I'm dressing her up like a bald eagle. Come see us.

Staying Stable 'Cause the Rest of You Aren't

See, I tend to attract the broken things. I can usually fix them. Animals that need care, plants that need sun and water, objects that need a bit of tinkering. But I also attract broken people. Not "broken" in the physically disabled, or even totally non-coherent sense, but people who have been rather shaken by life, genetics, and the mixture of the two.

My father always taught me that I was responsible for shoving the child/blind person/dog out of the way of the bus, as "no one else would do it". He taught me to stand up for justice, for what is right. He told me to be kind to those who needed kindness. I have tried to follow that. But it's very hard. I have to be the strong one, many times. It's frustrating, hearing everyone's damage, their war-stories, and trying to think of ways to help, or even just listening. When I listen, they feel better, but I feel infuriated at my lack of power to keep them safe.

My current mate is one of the damaged ones. The chemistry in his brain is slightly off. It's fixable, but it's awful having to wait for him to come home from "The Psych Ward in China Town". Charming, no? The place is actually lovely, but still, how hideous a thought, how hideous a name I've given it.

My friends all have their war-stories. I've vowed to at least maim one of their fathers, and cried a few times. I hate crying. It's so ineffective. I want to jump in and fix things, but that's impossible. Brains are much harder to fix than toys or even animals. Lives are hardest. I don't try to fix it all. I offer what I can, and recommend more experienced, useful people and ideas. I hate complaining, because I don't have to care, nor carry the burdens my friends do. Sometimes, it's very tiring, though, to wonder who's okay and who's not, to not speak to or see the man you have, for a good few months, been daily at the side of.

I will never give you up. I love you all. I will be loyal to you until the end. It is hard, but I will do it. You wouldn't abandon me either. I trust you. You can trust in me. I'm here. I'm always here.

I can't sleep. I fight my own hysterics sometimes. Laughing and crying while shaking uncontrollably is not fun. Fainting for reasons other than vasovagal syncope is really not fun. Please, can we all just have good lives? We have character enough, let us graduate from out "life-lessons". I'd prefer not to forget what stairs are again.

El Autobus

Having been declared medically unfit to drive, (thank you Vasovagal Syncope), I've taken to wandering the city on public transport. Let me tell you, each trip is, indeed, a trip.

Today, for instance, two hideous backwoods escapees boarded. Clearly closely related, ie, more than kissing cousins, as it were, they settled in for a delightful romp checking for each others' lice and sharing what I assume was fine brandy out of a decadent brown paper bag. A few stops later, a man with an acoustic guitar gets on, sits down, and, oh so casually, strums out the first chord of Dueling Banjos, otherwise known as the theme from Deliverance. He gets glared at by the hicks, and immediately launches into the song in it's entirety. I think that's the closest I've ever come to having a stroke, holding my laughter in.

Then, of course, there is the "Woo Girl". She is not Asian, nor is she a cheerleader. Sheis a very angry black chick, whose conversations go like this, "I'm so mad bitch, I'ma cut you, I'ma kill you, you little bitch-skank-ho!" She gradually works herself up into such a state that all she can do is make the noise "Woo!" It is a sort of awkward growl, as though a grizzly and an owl had mated, with fearful results.

There was the bus driver who decided it was fine and dandy to have PTSD flashbacks at nine in the morning. First, he kicked a war protester off of the Orange Line, where there wasn't a stop. Then, he pulled the bus over and screamed at everyone that he hadn't served his country for twenty-od years to deal with this shit, then kept driving. Two minutes later, he pulled over again. Needless to say I called the cops and ran.

A fat chick once got on with a gallon water bottle full of soda and a Tupperware full of Hershey's Kisses. I felt rather awful, but still managed to get a cell-phone picture of her and send it to everyone, because, damn. That's terrible.

There's more, alas. Much more. Hostile perfume-hawking mountebanks, a crazed woman who acts out conversations between her two personalities by taking on and off her sunglasses, depending on who's speaking, drunken men who pee on themselves, after calling you a "bitch-stupid bitch-faggot", and even the occasional adorable little kid who manages to not be a snotty little nuisance.