Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Weird Facebook Adverts – Salad-bowl relationship fixes, penis underpants and outright lies.

November 22, 2017

I’m convinced the same people who rigged the election also work writing click-bait facebook adverts full of lies. I’m even beginning to miss the adverts for engagement ring matches and wedding planning that littered my timeline for a year after my ex and I diverted Hurricane Bad-Marriage by breaking up.



I posted this, on facebook (oh, the irony) and got some hilarious responses, this being my personal favorite conversation:

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Just living in LA alone fills my mind’s eye with things I desperately wish I could unsee, like that dirty little poodle-mix desperately trying to expell a string of poops attached to its asshole with a human hair it must have swallowed.

I don’t need the internet to do it too. But the internet won’t stop, and Facebook adverts in particular just won’t stop. As a way to expell the string of mental dog poop stuck to human hair from my consciousness, I’m going to be collecting the most ridiculous facebook adverts on this post and adding new ones to the top on a regular basis. Please feel free to link me stuff to share in the comments!


lies for writers

In this gem, writers are confused with “anyone who can type”, which is a common problem. It’s basically why almost everybody imagines they are a writer, or as my now-ex once put it, “I’m sure I could write a script, if I tried to”. Also, the only thing guaranteed about this is that that rate of $35-$45 is a lie.

Many writers do earn this. Just not by replying to this advert. And that’s guaranteed from home. It’s the Herbalife of bullshit-for-arts-grads.

Now, I’m all for humiliating cats but… BDSM FOR CATS IS GOING TOO FAR

pet torture.png

Just so you know, this advert wasn’t offered to me, but to someone else. I may have bad relationships and secretly wish for false hope of being paid $45 an hour to be “anyone who can type” but when you can’t see a cat’s outraged expression, making it wear a Christmas hat isn’t fun. Not fun at all.

Fun. Maybe we can watch Get Out on Hulu… BUT IT’S NOT ON HULU

fake hulu.png

I checked, and none of the movies advertised here are available on Hulu on this day 11/21/17. Nor are they likely to be. Not without an additional HBO subscription.

I have no words for this. Sorry… but… SEXY?

penis underpants

To be continued…



Is “meat poisoning” a thing? I decided to find out at Austin Film Festival 2017.

November 3, 2017

I think I might have gone too far when I embarked on a carnivorous spiral of eating BBQ day after day.  Sometimes for breakfast (and then the leftovers for dinner after carrying them around in my purse to see films).

You have to understand… it’s SOOOOO good. I’ve never found good BBQ in LA. It’s always too sweet, and often tough and dry, like they just roasted it in an oven or something. Texas BBQ is wet and tasty and full of flavor. It melts in your mouth. It’s oral sex.

Of course, anything that tastes that good can’t be good for you. How much salt, sugar and carcinogenic smoke does it take to achieve this satanic nirvana? I wondered, but didn’t ask. Why ruin it?

Broke my BBQ cherry at COOPER’S OLD TIME BBQ on Commission Street. A dude who wore his cell phone in a holster like was a gun stopped to laugh at me as I moaned in pleasure, swallowing bit mouthfuls of salty dead cow.

A Lyft Driver referred me to MICKLETHWAIT CRAFT MEATS where I broke my “grits cherry” with some cheese and jalapeno divinity. The brisket was good. The chicken was utterly average. Peruvian wood-fired from my LA local Peruvian joint POLLO LA BRASA kicks its ass, but I guess you have to have something on the menu that’s not a cow or a pig. Speaking of which, they have a vegan BBQ item that’s not a potato or coleslaw – a faux-meat of some kind.

Now I was on a roll. Many people told me about the ORIGINAL BLACKS BBQ and the ORIGINAL SALT LICK – about 45 minutes drive up North, but I was working and seeing films and didn’t have a car. Another place out there, called COUNTY LINE (it’s right on the river), was the lyft driver who took me to the airport’s favorite, though like most proud Texans, his favorite BBQ place is “my back yard / my BBQ”.

Many lamented the loss of FRANKLIN’S BBQ. Funny story – there was a hurricane coming but they decided to light the fire anyhow, and BOOM. That night, they only sold burnt ends. (Too soon? Sorry). Everybody reassures me they’re rebuilding. Gotta admire a place that BBQs during a hurricane. The cows don’t stand a chance.

On the way to the airport, I really wanted to stop at one last place for an early lunch before my flight. I especially took a lyft to LA BARBEQUE, which people kept recommending to me. The driver warned me there’d be a long wait in line – and he was right. I couldn’t risk it.

la bbq signlanguage

La BBQ puts the Queue in BBQ. Sad.

But when I called the ride to traipse home with my liver and health intact, the new driver said don’t worry, there’s a SALT LICK at the airport.

At the airport? Yes. At the airport. The entire airport smells of meat smoke.  It was pretty good. The Brisket was leaner than I’d had elsewhere but just as tender. The potato salad and coleslaw was meh. I broke my Sausage Cherry! Just kidding. I’ve had most kinds of sausages, all wordplay accepted. But this one wasn’t bad at all.

Back to the question: Is Meat Poisoning Possible?

It might be. No plant matter other than potato and one banana has touched my lips since I left LA. On the plane, I fell asleep, and woke up with my nose running, sneezing uncontrollably. Maybe I just caught a cold – some strain of a virus you don’t get in LA.

I’m not normally a big red meat eater. About once a month, I’ll get a hamburger. I have chicken a couple of times a week. Fish a few days, and most meals are vegetarian. Salads and fruits are my staple foods. I went straight out and restocked with leaves and avocados and fruit. But it may be too late.

halloween ho sign

Hello, Death


Pooh-litically Correct shit

October 8, 2017

Sometimes thinking people who’re trying to get it right wind up getting it horribly wrong. I applaud them for caring, but I think they’re half the reason people got annoyed enough to vote for Trump.


poolitically correct sml

“Tampon Pads” and a floating apostrophe – someone’s drunk and has a pen…


Does the term “feminine” seem “blaming” to you? Well… to me deleting it does. It’s not negative to me. I actually think feminine might be a better way to do many things. This rejection of the term makes me think of the way some racial terms keep changing, as if it’s the term that matters, not the way the world operates. They are feminine hygene products. If you’re trans, post-menopausal or identify otherwise, they are still feminine hygene products.

The NAACP knows this. I think it’s hilarious that this petition had only 34 supporters.

I will call people whatever they want to be called. Male, female, he, she and they… which is something I do even though MS Word thinks its wrong. An ex-boyfriend wanted to be called African American. After an hour of pushback, because, you know, I’m actually African as in I have the passport he’d never want, I used the term when talking with him. I adjusted when talking to other friends who prefered “black”. I never use the term “coloured” (note the u) in America, but in Cape Town, sure. Every world has its language. It’s no biggie. Everyone can choose how they’re addressed, as long as it’s not “Your highness”.

But back to the bathroom sign, at the most politically correct venue EVER…

If you’re going to go there, why not include “Adult Diapers”, “condoms” and “cigarettes”, just in case? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen hipsters who protest FOR the Environmental Protection Agency flick cigarettes into the drains that run straight to sea in LA. If you are going to be a pain in the ass political correct person, don’t shirk your responsibility. Take daily action to change things. Like, “be the change”, bro.

Why was I at 18th Street Art’s Center? This amazing traveling show called UNSEAL UNSEAM, which reminded me not to romantisize my recent past. Its a reinterpretation of the opera BLUEBEARD with amazing, subtle and sincere performances. I was moved, and I have a low tolerance for pretension. Here is a link to my friend Alicia Byer’s review on a music blog called NEW CLASSIC LA.


unsealunseam sml

Hollywood. Tuesday. Crazy Uber Drivers.

September 27, 2017

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I have a theory about almost everything. I’m adding Uber to the list right now. I encountered two weird drivers tonight.

For the record: Most drivers have been amazing, and I respect what they do. Driving in LA is stressful and most of them handle it with calm and cool conversation.

But not tonight.

The first one stopped across the road from me on Hollywood Blvd – clearly nowhere near my pin. Fine – shit happens. But he hung up the call I made to ask if I should cross the road, then rage-drove around the block to get me. As I got in, he told me I sent him to the wrong place. He was an old guy – the kinda old guy who probably contacts me on dating apps to say he’s “one of the good ones”, which is almost always a sign that he’s been divorced five times and his kids hate him.

He was so obnoxious when I tried to make fun of the app and diffuse it all that I asked him to pull over and canceled the ride.

I walked a while to chill myself out. Passed this:

signs_trump reasons to drink.jpg

So some tourist didn’t like the joke. The shitty thing about Hollywood Blvd is it has some of the best bars, but some of the stupidest people… which is a dangerous combination.

I called a new Uber from a half mile South.

The ride started fairly well, though the guy was hard to get off message. When I said I shouldn’t have gone out to a friend’s birthday party because I should have worked, he informed me I’d regret it because friends all betrayed you eventually, like his bros before ‘ho’s buddy whose wife had ruined their friendship.

Via him asking me about my accent (standard Uber chat) he wandered on to talking about Hawaii, and we agreed they were clever when it came to many policies. But, somehow, that led to him saying we didn’t need another president from Hawaii. Too laid back, he said. Achieved nothing. I was surprised to hear this, having been here through most of Obama’s presidency. He asked me to list one thing Obama achieved.

Gay marriage? Not starting a new war? Fixing the financial crisis?

These were all rejected, because apparently the gays get the credit for marriage because they’re rich. And the war thing… he didn’t want to talk about that. And the Financial Crisis? Not that either. Instead, he aggressively repeated the question. I asked why my opinion wasn’t welcome. He repeated the question. I felt like I was 10 with some bully guy holding me against the back-of-the-school wall.

When I tried to shut up for a while, he said that the reason blacks in the USA get nowhere is that they “…don’t come with money – they come with their hands out, saying they were slaves. Yeah I get you were slaves, but I’m Native American and I got nothing.” I made a noise that indicated I wasn’t sure that was logical. I began to say I thought “Black Lives Matter, which I support, was partly a result of the–” and he again demanded to know what Obama achieved.

Given that the man driving weighs about 300 pounds and I… well that’s not for public consumption but MUCH less… I got a bit scared. But I thought I’d steer the conversation away from his now-obvious racism and said: “What about Healthcare”.

He scorned this – claimed only 20 million Americans have healthcare through Obamacare. I tried to explain that he had his figures mixed up with his facts. That’s the number that would lose it with Trumpcare. People have already lost faith and defaulted, but the number is still much higher. (I checked – 38 million).

He shouted me down. Then he told me that as a South African I couldn’t possibly know anything. He was Native American, and by being born here, knew things I didn’t. I said that I tried very had to be informed – and that he clearly wasn’t, not on this issue.

“We don’t care about facts”, he said. This seemed racist against Native Americans to me but I managed not to point that out.

Then, he accused me of supporting apartheid. That’s when I lost my cool a little and said that he was unprofessional.

He said he didn’t care. He kept ranting. I shut up… mostly… I may have pointed out that having a political discussion should involve some facts, and that if he didn’t have any or didn’t know how to politely disagree, he shouldn’t start a conversation about politics with a customer.

As I left the left the car in a hurry not quite home, he shouted “Bitch” out the window of his car.

So sometimes, diffusing conflicts isn’t my thing? But I tried. And failed.

My promised theory about Uber? Demand for drivers is so high that literally anyone who has the right car and applies gets the gig. Even people you’d avoid in a dark alleyway do. I do want people with criminal records to have an option because I know people who have changed after doing pretty hectic stuff, but I’m not sure they should get it without an interview, and some vetting.

CORRECTION: A friend who drives for Uber says there is screening. According to this article that doesn’t mean they’re fingerprinted. Not sure how this compares to Lyft – they do both require abackground chck though.

I still wish I’d paid the double-fee for Lyft. I’ve never had this kind of experience in a Lyft – if that’s a fluke, I’ll keep hoping its a permanent one.

LA Rental Agencies – watch out, folks!

June 15, 2017

This afternoon, I heard an argument outside my apartment.

My apartment manager was trying to get a woman from Westside Rentals to take down the sign she was busy zip-tying to the gate of our apartment building.

She was on her way out before I managed to find my cell phone, which was buried in my bed somewhere, and take a picture.

I went out to listen. He’s a calm kinda guy, a part-time DJ who’s used to dealing with nutcases, so he just stood there nodding. The agent from Westside Rentals said something along the lines of this (and imagine she just kept talking, no gaps, for five minutes):

“Well we get requests all the time and we thought that if we brought you clients then it would be fine but I’ll take it down if you want. But we put up our signs when we get requests at a property because we can facilitate the rentals for you and the clients have requested that we do and we… [bla bla bla].”

He just stood there nodding politely until she said again: “But I can take it down if you want”. He nodded again. He waited as she cut it off. He went back inside.

There’s a fine line between scams and reality and realtors in California, and particularly in LA. For example, you’ll drive around and see WESTSIDE RENTALS signs with that inviting red key all over properties in LA, and you’ll go to their websites and find listings for properties all over LA – but not for the property that drew you in. Friends have complained that they signed up, risked their credit rating (which declines with every request) and then had no luck with big companies like Westside Rentals, which is now apparently linked with as advertised by Jeff Goldblum. Most of them really find their places through friends, or facebook groups, or sometimes Craigslist.

Rental Agencies in LA act like used car dealerships – who often advertise impossibly great deals or cars they don’t actually have on their lot to lure you in.

This is a blog about signs. Just because it’s written on a sign, doesn’t mean it’s true. So before calling Westside Rentals (even if they have their sign up legally), google the block and see if you can go directly to the rental management company.

You may be saving yourself a few hundred dollars, and a lot of disappointment, as well as damage to your credit rating.



AirBNB’s Imaginary Maids of Goleto, CA

June 11, 2017

You know how when you’re paying over $100 a night to stay in a room, plus cleaning fees, you expect clean sheets, clean towels, a clean working bathroom, a key to your room… at least?

My parents both run AirBNBs in South Africa, cause life’s expensive, and $$ go far. There, hosts are required to provide clean white cotton sheets, clean towels, shampoo, conditioner, clean bathrooms etc or get blacklisted. Here in the USA, it seems to be the wild west and it’s impossible to get hold of AirBNB when there’s an emergency. I had a few emergencies this weekend and came up short all day and night.

Their mobile site – their MOBILE site being possibly the single most important site that SHOULD work for clients who are MOBILE – doesn’t allow password recovery and they don’t respond to complaints or even to tweets. I had to literally drive back to my laptop in LA to request a refund on tonight’s room…

I instant-booked for almost twice the price after the previous (months in advance) booking canceled on me 24 hours before I left Los Angeles with a complete bullshit excuse. I shelled out almost double my original cost for a less convenient location!

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This was the room advertised. Bunk beds. Looks clean. A getaway in “Old Town”? Sounds quaint. The reality, I didn’t even photograph. It was a nice enough looking room, but it WASN’T THIS ROOM – AT ALL. Suddenly my friend and I were now expected to share a bed. A bed with dirty leopard print sheets. Also, there’s no “old town” I could see. It was just “tatty town” at best.

Night One of Two in another host’s house had been a little rough for the money, already. We’d arrived to find there were no pillow cases on the uncomfortable foam pillows and no sheets – just flannel mattrass covers. The bathroom was cramped. The towels were stained and frayed. There was nowhere to hang them, but when we came home after dinner the towels had been removed from the room and hung in the bathroom – with no way to tell whose was whose (so I guess I dried myself with someone else’s taint-towel). With about eight guests sharing a tiny bathroom and no bath mat, it was a slippery health hazard… but hey. The Hostess said the cleaning lady/maid had messed up and forgotten the pillow cases.

I decided to forgive her because we came in a bit late on Friday, and not as quietly as we should have. Also, the host was sweet enough to allow us to add a last-minute guest who’d been hit with an AirBNB scam.

Yes, really. AirBNB Scams… That’s a thing now. He showed up at the address. No airBNB. They kept him on hold for 4 hours. No resolution.

We hoped Night Two would be better. After all, we were going to one of my best friend’s wedding to an amazing lady-girl. The kind of couple you love. The kind of couple that makes you cry before they’re both even standing in front of each other getting married.

We planned to hang out late, lyft around, share their joy , and crash in our bunks before waking up early to wash off the night before in the sea and driving home. We’d have better luck this time. Right? Between the wedding ceremony and the reception, we motored to quickly check in and drop our bags…



I swear, this is a lot cuter in the picture. Imagine you’re on a dating site and this is a bathroom selfie, then subtract three hotness points instantly. Add the smell of urine and some trash.

Forget quickly, quickly. The host wasn’t contactable and would only text back. His mother, who it emerged was the actual host, didn’t answer her phone as we called and called. The address was for a road that appeared not to exist. An hour after we parked nearby, we finally found the most likely location… a flat on the main road, above a store… and not in the quaint sense of “above a store”. The downstairs gate was open. The entrance smelled and was full of trash. The front door was unmarked – but unlocked.

And the “host’s” mother seemed horrified to see us.

Understandably. The apartment smelled like despair. She seemed to be in detox from something… based on her hair, skin and teeth I’d guess meth, but it’s not my place. She needed to shower. There was a cigarette butt lying on the hallway floor. My friend had to clean the toilet herself before using it, and it barely flushed. There were no towels at all. “The Maid” was still bringing them we were told. The bed was dirty – it had food and hairs in it from whever had been there before. “The Maid” apparently messed up. I immediately became paranoid that the furniture was collected from the roadside and might have bed bugs. The Mother didn’t have keys to downstairs and freaked out and prevaricated when I asked for a room key. She eventually found one, but really didn’t want to give it up. Then, she went Full Addict on me and blamed a) me for making her nervous b) her phone for not ringing and c) Guess What… The Maid for the fact that the place was revolting on every level.

There was no chance in hell that this woman ever employed a maid. Ever. No chance that this woman knows what they do. I know this because I worked as a cleaner (PS, that’s the term that’s actually appropriate) for six months. I know how to do the job.

So, the whole “blame the maid” thing was getting old now.

We were late for the wedding. Panicked, exhausted and blindsided, we dropped our stuff, grabbed our valuables, and ran out again without the shower or nap or peace of mind we’d planned. After calming down we decided to just drive home to Los Angeles when the big dances were done and lose out on the rest of the night.

We snuck in, dropped off the key, took our bags and noticed that the cigarette butt was still there. Probably still is unless our gracious host found it and smoked it.

My friend and I have been through worse together. Much worse, perhaps luckily.

When she got home to her cat, and I got home to my studio apartment, we texted each other: “My little place feels like a PALACE”, she said. I felt the same.

I doubt she’ll ever let me book a room for us again – or that she’ll ever use AirBNB. I’m pretty sure I never will again either*.

*A note on that: My first experiences with AirBNB were good. I stayed in Boston, San Diego and Utah using it and was happy with these three experiences in 2014-15. My recent three have been repulsive. In Santa Barbara and San Diego in particular – they’re apparently getting sloppy. I think there’s room for a competitor who vets their hosts, investigates last-minute cancelations or provides financial compensation that covers increased rebooking costs, provides fast support and checks that IF they’re charging 2/3 of the price of  Motel 6, Hosts provide the basics without having to be parented or begged from by their guests. Think, Lyft… but for AirBNB.

** Note two: 6-12-17 at 3pm: After two days of attempting to contact AirBNB online through the site, twitter and elsewhere, I got through to them on the phone and my issue was dealt with within hours of the call. They refunded me and gave me a voucher for another stay.






How to Mansplain! A guide for dummies, beginners, and women who need it explained to them again.

February 18, 2017

That’s sexist! Shouldn’t it just be called ‘splainin’? Yes, it probably should just be called ‘splainin’. Yes, whites and mean girls use the same techniques. I’ll come back to that…

But “Mansplaining” is the most common form, as the six instances of mansplaining in the Mansplaining definition (at time of writing) on Urban Dictionary – which come before the first instance of a woman correctly explaining the term – prove better than I ever could.

Mansplain is …
gerund or present participle: mansplaining
1. (of a man) explain (something) to someone, typically a woman, in a manner regarded as condescending or patronizing.
“I’m listening to a guy mansplain economics to his wife”
(Via Google)


How to Mansplain: A Guide for Everybody

Remember when you were at school and you asked the teacher a question and some asshole turned around and gave you the answer? Mansplaining is that, without the question, multiplied by 1000… on crack.


It’s designed to drive you to violence.

Step 1. Know Your Goals

Your goal when Mansplaining is to humiliate someone who questions the status quo that benefits you, while still appearing to have good intentions. Your overall goal is always to show her – and your audience – that she’s ignorant or mistaken and often also that she is over reacting in a blaming way to you. It’s essential that you come off as reasonable, while she comes off as angry, shrill, aggressive and ultimately insane.

Ideally, by the end of your mansplain session, she should have lapsed into an apocalyptic rage and incriminated herself in the eyes of others. Winner!


Step 2. Remind her who she is, in case she’s forgotten her name or her place

When mansplaining, using the person’s name frequently – while gently reminding them that their time, money and opinions are not as important as yours – is extremely effective in pushing them past the point of no return.

For instance, if you were another blogger correcting me for this post, saying: “Jean, what you don’t seem to understand is that you’re oversensitive and overthinking it all. Consider, Jean, if you should just listen more to people who’re only trying to help you do better work. We took time out of our schedules to advise you!” is much more infuriating than “Shut up and listen, Bitch!” It’s very personalized, and also gives the impression to outsiders that the speaker is reasonable and cares about who I am.

Step 3. Pretend she’s senile and easily upset

We all know that the best way to make someone lose their shit is to tell them to “calm down” or “relax” when they’re not actually that angry… yet… but do have a legitimate reason to be. Remember this when speaking. Adopt a calming tone, like you’re the father of a small girl, or the nurse of a senile old lady condemned to a nursing home.

If you’re having trouble taking this approach, just remind yourself that the ten minutes you’re taking out of your busy schedule to explain this to her is probably worth a day of her pointless life.

Step 4. Remember: Her rank, age, experience skill set, etc don’t matter

The approach outlined in steps 1 through 3 will be even more effective in causing her to lose her temper if she is much more knowledgeable to you, senior to you in work or age, or all three. Remember, a combination of anger and frustration is much more likely to make a woman cry than physical pain is. They push out babies. They won fight club already.

The more she feels unjustly treated, the more likely it is that she’ll explode and start screaming at you. When this happens, you’ve won.

Step 5. Deploy your secret weapon – your hurt feelings

There’s a danger she’ll call you out on your mansplaining. Use this to your advantage, by acting hurt. Let everybody know you’re not all men, and that she’s made you her scapegoat just because you were nice to her. Other people who’ve been called on things (racism, sexism, whatever…) will then side with you. If you can cry a small man-tear, do. It will be welcomed like the only single dad in a play date.

On the off-chance she breaks down and cries instead of shouting at you, step in and comfort her with helpless and innocent glances at anybody watching. Her reputation will never recover from your generosity, especially considering how mean she was.


You’re just the pill for this, bro.

Is mansplaining just for men?

No, of course not! It’s 2017! These days, white people also use the same techniques when explaining, or (whitesplaining) to black people and other people of color that they have equal rights now and there’s no reason to keep complaining about racism.

Women can also use the same techniques against other women… and frequently do. There isn’t a word for it but it should probably be called “being a patronizing and insufferable bitch”.

CAUTION: Women should never – I repeat NEVER – attempt to “womansplain” to men because there’s a serious risk that if they DO drive a man to lose control and lapse into an apocalyptic rage, his response will elicit such sympathy that he will be elected President of the USA.



WomensMarchLA – The Signs and the things I missed, being South African.

January 22, 2017

Going to the women’s march in Los Angeles felt like full circle for me. I marched in South Africa in the early 90s. And here I was again, sticking my finger in the dyke hoping that some action would prevent complete disaster. If you check out my instagram (jeanbarkerza), I have video of (not that but) a Trump Pinata and also the crowd chanting “hey hey, ho ho, please don’t fall /out the window” to a fifth-floor hipster.

Meeting up with friends? Not possible. The cell companies didn’t get their shit together, so it was impossible to connect, but that was fine. I wasn’t there to socialize, I was there to protest and march.

The only thing I really missed was the toyi-toying and the singing. I didn’t miss the teargas. I hope that by the next march, I will be able to teach LA folks the basics of joyous protesting, SA style. Here are some quick tips, with humor. My favorite line: “I am black.”

You see, toyi-toying allows you to to occupy yourself while you’re occupying, because marching, as the newbies surrounding me learned, mostly involves (legally, anyhow) standing around waiting for the cops to get their shit together. Also, you get to sing.




While we waited, LA women of all races discussed their careers, kids, and yoga classes. I never found out what the Bug was about. Trump Bugs Me?


There’s always a hipster at anything in LA. MEN OF QUALITY DEMAND EQUALITY. And facial hair. And stencils.






WE THE PEOPLE. also TOO MANY THINGS TO FIT ON ONE SIGN. But then again, that’s why there were more than 100, 000 of us.


Nobody was arrested, even if they were breaking the law. See: Lady on Fire Escape. I actually literally didn’t see any cops, just a couple of fire engines.


PUSSY GRABS BACK. A popular topic. I enjoy the idea of all the parents that brought their kids explaining to kids what Kegels are, and why it’s mommy’s choice to do them. I didn’t see a poster that said “Talk to your child about orgasms”.


PUSSY HATS, everywhere. Downtown was swarmed. None of the cell towers worked anymore.














This nutjob kinda didn’t get it and kept shouting TRUMP IS A BITCH! TRUMP IS A BITCH!



Trump supporters, presumably some big company / superpac that wants unions destroyed, flew a plane over the march, with a banner reading CONGRATULATIONS PRESIDENT TRUMP. I guess when you can’t get boots on the ground, boots that are made for walking, you just pay to play.


And, in summary… Let’s just forget about the past and MOVE ON, TRUMPIES!

Lost and Found on Washington Blvd.

January 2, 2017

Lost art led me to find new art, when a Christmas gift from my father by my mother via Birmingham in the UK got lost in the post and forced me out to track it down. In the course of looking, I discovered another of my neighborhood’s hidden gems.


My Ma’s handwriting is legendary – few people can decipher it. I now understand why this letter wound up addressed to Jean Bowen, and had to be forcibly retrieved by hand.

The letter led me south-west on Washington Blvd into West Adams, where I’ve wandered a few times before, but not as far. It seemed to be just a series of shops for used kitchen fittings. But there is more, there. In fact, the post office where my parcel was being held is the only US post office I know of rated more than 2 Stars on Yelp. It’s got a real community feel, and everybody was amazingly friendly.


Every day, I’m reminded of or discover new art. Thanks Dad.

So I got the calendar, but I also, accidentally, got a whole lot more.


I found this amazing persimmon, which I think you’ll agree as my friend Alicia says: “Manages to look like about four giggly things at once”. Another shopper nearby me saw me laughing and requested a photo of her own to show her husband.


Then was wandering home, and this Liquor Store caught my eye. It would make a great period film location. Notice the sign in the window on the right, advertising “OUT OF TOWN NEWSPAPERS”, which dates it pre-internet, or at least pre-smartphone.


This sign is what led me inside. It made me wonder: Who does own graffiti – and could the owner or tenant of the wall claim they do?

I wandered inside, and found the otherwise unlabeled “UNDERGROUND MUSEUM” on Washington Blvd.


Pretty, chintzy even, wallpaper, Laura Ashley style… until you look closer, and see that it’s repeated images of a lynching.


“In the Hood” by David Hammons (2016), also part of the Non-Fiction exhibit curated by Noah Davis.


The surprise back garden, where there’s space to work, and in summer, a film screening series.

The area where I live (Arlington Heights / West Adams) is often dismissed as “The Ghetto” or “The Hood” in yelp reviews of places Jonathan Gold went to first, making them safe for the middle classes to explore and briefly over-run.  Most people I meet in White LA seem worried about me when I say I live here, or say in that quintessentially LA-Snob way “Oh really… I think I’ve heard of it. How IS that?” An ex-boyfriend once referred to it as a “bad area”, (because why? Because poor / immigrant / black people are dangerous?) and refused to walk two blocks to a restaurant at night with me. Poor baby…

But I’ve fallen in love with it, and more and more I find there’s much more to it than I ever imagined. And it’s not like it’s just arrived, either. The Underground has been there since 2012.

Be kinder to strangers for Christmas, or whatever you celebrate, or just because!

December 13, 2016

You don’t know what they’re going through.

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The Holidays are hard for me. No Family in Town – or the Country. It’s Christmas. It’s Hanukah (and my very recent Ex-Fiance is Jewish, so I’m attached to that too). It’s New Year’s. It’s winter, and it’s summer at home.

Most of my US friends are headed to Thailand for a wedding over Christmas, which I can’t attend because I can’t travel on my visa and come back. Also, I just got an email from my biggest income source to say they’re closing in three days for the holidays. What holidays? Freelancers like me don’t have holidays…

Or income, until Jan 2nd, Apparently.

So I nearly didn’t drive the 45 minutes to my friend’s birthday party, but then I did, because I figured I at least had gas. On the way, I listened to a compilation CD my friend Carrie made me. It was called “relaxation”, but it was really sad. This was comforting. In my sudden downswing, anyhow.

And then I saw that orange light: GAS. Running out. Shit. Traffic. Shit. After struggling for a couple of miles, I hoped I had enough in my debit account to feed my tank. I began to change lanes near the first gas station I saw.

That’s when SHE rolled down her window.

She was an ordinary, middle-class white woman in a new Beatle. I could see exactly what she wanted to do (make a left turn into her street). But I was trapped between cars at this point, and not, I have to add, in a “keep clear” area. Just you know… changing lanes…

I rolled down my window too and shouted: “Sorry, I can’t move”

“You selfish bitch!” she replied

I replied: “Okay, have a nice day”, in the snarky way we do when someone road rages for no reason, and began to roll up my window, but she was still screaming, so I succumbed to curiosity. Oh, curiosity. It’s a killer.

“Some of us are trying to turn, and you’re just SITTING there”, she said. I considered calling a helicopter to airlift me out, but hey, I can barely afford gas. I noticed the disabled sticker on her orange Beatle (the new kind).

“I don’t think it’s such a big deal, and I can’t move right now. I have to get gas, I just ran out” I said, still trying to reason with her, but not nicely. “Please, don’t be awful. I’ve had a long day and so have you.”

She looked me dead in the eye, paused and said:

“CUNT”. I rolled my window down and waited for traffic to move so I could get out of her way. But as I moved off, I began to cry, about a whole bunch of stuff.

I made it the 800ft to the Gas Station. $20 left. Thank goodness.

I wasn’t nice, in that situation.

I know that. I was annoyed that she was objecting to me doing something that wasn’t aimed at her, so I snarked her, knowing that saying “Have a nice day” would be like telling an upset person to “calm down” – the worst thing to say. Superior. Judgmental. Cruel, even.

I thought, as I drove off sadly, about how she had no idea what happened in my day, and about how I had no idea what happened in her day – or her year. Maybe this is the year her legs stopped working. Maybe today her husband (or wife) left her. Maybe that disabled sticker is for her kid. Maybe it’s fake. Maybe she doesn’t think about it anymore, and she’s just having some kind of hormonal issues. It doesn’t matter – she needed kindness, not my judgment.

I’m going to be nicer, next time. I promise. At this time of year, we all should try a lot harder – not cause we’re religious (I’m not) – but because the festive season is a marker in life, a time of year when all kinds of crises, past and present, come into focus for all of us.

End of sermon.