humans are funny

Category: Venice Beach

  • 2009: I love your oddness and all that stuff I did during you.


    Remember that trip I went on? It was that really fun and soul-searching one that had me skipping through Southeast Asia, India, and strange places like Papua New Guinea? Lasted about 9 months?
    It’s over!
    I know it’s been over for a while. I know this.
    But I still can’t believe it. It consumed me for all of 2008 and 2009.
    Now that I’m unemployed again, I’ve had time to reflect on 2010. It’s gone so fast. And furious. Not really furious. But fast. And busy. And where did it all go? I don’t know, but I already miss it. And I miss 2009. And I know I’m not supposed to dwell on the past, but I must indulge, just this one time. This one tiny time. Ok, along with several other times because the past is what brought me to right now, and I’m pretty psyched about right now even though I pretend to complain about it. I wrote this poem on the road. And, now, here is my updated response:

    I miss being a foreigner.
    But it’s nice to talk about grilling and Legos and have people understand.

    I miss being detached from everything.
    But knowing the details makes me feel important.

    I miss having absolutely no responsibility.
    But it feels grown-up to be responsible.

    I miss getting lost on purpose.
    But I secretly love my iPhone GPS.

    I miss monks.
    Yes, actually I really miss monks.

    I miss being able to bargain for every single thing.
    But I don’t miss bargaining for every single thing.

    I miss making instant new friends every day.
    But there’s nothing like sharing wine with old friends.

    I miss trusting total strangers.
    Oh wait, I still do that.

    I miss not knowing what celebrities are doing.
    Why am I obsessed with Spencer and Heidi? Please help.

    I miss being completely unfindable.
    But I also like hiding in my own bed.

    I miss wearing the same thing every day.
    Oh wait, I still do that too.

    I miss the unbridled curiosity about me and my country.
    But it’s nice to walk to a store without anyone asking a question. Sometimes.

    I miss forgetting what day it is.
    I’m pretty sure it’s Thursday.

    I miss not worrying about my career or the future or finances.
    Maybe I should stop doing that now.

    I miss not knowing where I’m going until I step outside.
    But I vow to do that more often.

    I miss big fat meals of stuff I’ve never heard of for three bucks.

    And strong Asian women who want to take me under their wings.

    And reading entire books on long bus trips.

    And real, silent wilderness.

    And trains filled with curious people who share food and smiles.

    And hour-long conversations in the language of hand gestures.

    And I just miss Traveling. I miss the whole damn thing. But I’ll see it again soon.

    For now: Living by the beach & Souplantation it is. I know a few guys here in Venice who speak only in hand gestures anyway, so it’s almost like Traveling.

    Yeah, that’s me in 2009. Me and my friend, The Great Barrier Reef. Now I’m drinking coffee and listening to hipsters talk about their bicycles.

  • It’s hard out here for a hippie.

    I’m having the hardest time being a hippie lately. I had no problems last year– never brushed my hair or wore makeup, carried my life in a sack, lived wherever I felt like it. Life couldn’t have been better.

    But now I’m in Los Angeles.

    Chihuahuas wear designer clothes and you’re an oddity if you don’t have a German-engineered car. Plus, my adult acne requires I wear some fancy foundation for anyone to take me seriously, and I was forced to buy some decent jeans due to my exhibitionist butt crack. So, I’m now feeling like ‘one of them.’ I’m a paradox– surrounded by creative directors in Diesel jeans by day and meditating in lotus at night. It couldn’t feel more weird. I know a guy who just paid $50,000 for a couch (‘It is the focal point,’ he rationalized). Some of my friends are struggling to raise $400 to send a year’s supply of water to a village in Africa. Where the hell do I fit in the mix? If I could, I’d sell that couch, pay off my student loans, and go to Africa to deliver the water myself. Does that make me a hippie or just some chick who says she’s a hippie but is just lazy and wants to use travel as an excuse for never having to work?

    I don’t know. But the best part is that I don’t have to know. Because I live in Venice Beach! You could wake up in Venice Beach stuffed in a cannon. You could crawl out of that cannon and find an eyeless homeless man, a guy selling cotton balls and taser guns, and a yuppie jogger pushing twins in a five-thousand-dollar stroller. And none of this would seem weird. And you’d say to a man playing bongos, ‘Excuse me, do you know why I woke up in a cannon?’ And instead of looking at you as if you had five noses, he’d tap his friends on their leathery shoulders and they’d all help you find out why you awoke in this cannon. And all together you’d find a guy sleeping in the sand who remembered that you were at the local freak show (the one that features an assortment of 2-headed animals) and that you volunteered to shoot yourself from the cannon after downing a magnum bottle of Opus One (bought for you by this Hollywood big shot at a bar down the street for $749 plus tax). And then you’d hear that the freak show owner stuffed you in the cannon but ran from the cops right afterward because he’s also the owner of the medical marijuana joint across the street that was getting raided. You know the one, next to American Apparel. And so you fell asleep in the canon until now when you just awoke to the aforementioned plus a dude frying up worms on a pocket kerosene grill, not because he’s homeless but because he’s a shaman and these particular worms are from Tibet and will help him with his Tantric sexcapades, about which you don’t want know– trust me.

    It’s a strange place, this Venice area. On the beach, it looks like a scene out of Rishikesh, India– free yoga, dirty dreadlocks, street sleepers, seedy taverns, and marijuana. Lots of marijuana.

    Four blocks over is where the hippies become pseudo. Here the marijuana is legit, the bars have bouncers, and the coffee shop baristas draw hearts in the latte foam. The dreadlocks on this side of Venice were professionally installed by a guy with thick plastic glasses and expensive skinny jeans. The yoga classes run upwards of twenty bucks.

    It’s strange, this paradox of lifestyles. But I love it. Because I’m neither nor. I’m not one but both. I am a daily contradiction. I like chocolate and bread pudding. I want it all. I’m every woman. It’s all in me. And there’s no point in choosing now. So, I’m gonna ride my 400-dollar bike down to the free yoga and meditate the day away with the drum circle. And then maybe wash it all down with a plate of foie gras in truffle oil. (Ok, I would never eat foie gras, but the vegetarian shit I would like doesn’t sound fancy enough to make this dichotomy sound so astounding. So just imagine something really awesome & pricey on a plate served by a super cool hipster with funky pants and Converse.)

    Venice is it.

    Macho men that spend sunny weekends choreographing dances on their roller skates. Where else?

  • OJ Simpson was in my yoga class this morning.


    I swear. I thought he was in jail, but my eyes insist it was him sweating it out in his Speedo next to me in hot yoga this morning.

    My, oh my! So much has happened since I’ve arrived on American soil. I left again and went to Canada. I got a paycheck, the first of 2009. I cooked risottos and eggplants and stews. I hung out with my family. I sneaked into a double-feature. I got manicures and pedicures and realized that the only thing that makes you feel like a girl again after a long year of feeling like a boy is a nice pair of 5-inch heels. I rode around town on my moped. I joined the fight against Iran’s Islamic Republic. I decided I’ll never get a dog. I went on a date. I ate dinner next to Mary-Kate or Ashley. I saw a piano recital. I noticed blogs to be quite narcissistic (what’s with all the “I”s?). I made a plan for the year and then yelled at myself for making plans. I dressed like a slutty clown. I met new friends. I met old friends again. I stayed in my pajamas for a whole week straight. I learned to appreciate my little hometown and its many fragrant trees. I found a cute little apartment in Venice Beach.

    New digs!

    It turns out starting life again is a bit more difficult than I thought. So I’ll be parking this page until I set up my new little desk in its new little spot on January 9th. And then you’ll be able to read about funny humans in Venice Beach or along Route 66. Yep, I just drove my car from LA to Chicago and now I’ll be driving it back. Hoping to spot some hummus plants or maybe even the Juice. Nah, I don’t really want to spot OJ again. If I see a celebrity on my drive, it better be someone good. Like Richard Simmons.

    Have a wonderful holiday season, or whatever they say. Thank you so much for making this past year really really special for me. Smell ya in 2010.