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.