Q: What is Bush’s position on Roe v Wade?

A: He doesn’t care how people get out of New Orleans.

So here are three pictures I feel you should see.

Today, I saw this woman at the bus stop:

The significance of this photo is the woman’s Von Dutch T-shirt. You know what it means when you see a woman like this wearing one? It means the Von Dutch thing IS OVER. OH-VER! As in OVER at the BUS STOP on the nasty-ass corner of Santa Monica and Vine, resting on the uni-boob of a grandmother in sweats. You wear it, you’re that uncool. So STOP it. (Actually, the only way to know a fad is even MORE over is when you see “Kathy” in the cartoon strips doing it.)

Last of the pix: this was the display in a West Hollywood furniture store tonight.

Eye-catching yet pretentious, and just so L.A. — where do you GET a life-sized blue plastic LION to complete a display? And where do you get the idea that you NEED one? Answers, people, I need answers…wait, actually, the blue matching bookends make me think they must sell the blue plastic lion. Oh, try explaining that to the S.O.: “But Honey, if we get a second one the bedroom will look like the New York Public Library! Won’t that make our lives complete?”

And now, the story of My Hero For Today:

I approached the Starbucks counter this afternooon, just in time to hear the last of a conversation between two barristas, who for story purposes I’ll name A and B - Amy and Barbara, let’s say. Amy was a young woman whose most notable feature was that her right arm ended at the elbow - half an arm. She even had some tattoos adorning the stump. I couldn’t hear the end of Amy’s sentence, but Barbara answered with something like, “If it makes you feel any better, I know someone who just spent $1000 on a monitor and it didn’t work after just two days.”

Amy good-naturedly replied: “You know, I gain no relief from other people’s misery. Comparing, just doesn’t do it for me.” Jokes were made back and forth along this general line. Barbara acknowledged and moved on, just as good-naturedly, collecting a stack of heavy ceramic serving dishes.

Amy took my order, till both of us jumped at the sound of a violently loud crash nearby - Barbara had dropped one of the heavy ceramic dishes, shattering it. “Thank you, I’ll be here all week!” she announced, leaning to clean up the pieces. More jokes were made. A short lull occurred. And then…

“If it makes you feel any better,” grinned Amy evilly to Barbara, “my arm got ripped off.”

MY.
HERO!

So I’m coming home tomorrow. I’m here in my second one-day stay in London, so I can get up early tomorrow and get to Heathrow on time. I like this hotel room much better than the other one, but I’m too tired to take pictures of it. I’m just holing up.

I’m really incredibly tired. Part of it is the sheer physical work of moving the “smaller version of my stuff” (- George Carlin, circa 1975) from place to place every few days. In order to stay cheap, the rooms in the last two hotels I stayed in were on the fourth floor with no elevator OR air conditioning. I’m already too old for that shit, but next time I’ll really be too old for it. I’m spending the money for amenities next time. But this place has in-room broadband and, best of all, a really big fan. I’m pretty happy to be here.

I’m also really emotional about coming back tomorrow. Part of me is really ready - three weeks is historically when I hit the wall, travel-wise. I want my stuff, and the ease of doing things that comes from being at home. I’m tired of what feels like the same two outfits. I’m tired of constantly being thirsty, due to an entire continent of tiny little glasses with one anemic ice cube in them - I’m going to drink the biggest iced tea there ever was when I get home, and when I’m done I’m going to drink another one. But part of me is also kind of depressed about the end of the adventure, coming back home and retackling my problems. For example, I hate the thought of taking my rescue dog Lucky away from the nice big house and backyard he’s been staying in and taking him back to my apartment where he’s gotta do the crate thing, which he hates. He basically has separation anxiety - I’ve got some suggestions for dealing, but still… I just wish he could start getting used to the place where he’s going to live - I hate the idea of unsettling the poor thing one more time.

I also felt divided about leaving Paris. Part of me was completely ready to go back to my own language - I was starting to feel a little befuddled and tired, like I was trying less to understand and speak well, a mood of “you can’t possibly mean I’m supposed to keep tackling this second-language thing every day?” Yet another part of me is having trouble stopping my brain from working out everything I want to say in French, and protested the idea of stopping my own progress. It was gettiing much easier to understand what other people were saying, and I felt like “if I leave now I’ll just lose what I’ve learned!” And yes I will. But I have to go home.

Anyway, the other night when I was without internet access I wrote the following post, about me and the French language, and how we bounce off each other. And you can read it now, if you want, by clicking the “read the rest” link below. I’m going quite gratefully to bed.
(more…)

Hey all. Still in Paris, lots to tell, but very little internet service to be found since I changed hotels and moved to a cute, funky hotel in a slightly seedy neighborhood near Montmartre and the Pigalle. Tee and Cricket have joined me, and we’re all having fun and tiring ourselves out, usually simultaneously. I’ve got bunches of pictures, and even a big long essay I wrote, but wireless access has been completely unfindable. They have these places called “Taxi Phone,” where you can rent a phone for a bit to make long distance calls, and these spots usually have internet too, but not wireless so I can’t use my own computer and hence, upload photos. The ones in our neighborhood are particularly blecchy - dirty and run by scuzzy guys and one was even full of mosquitoes — and also, they all have European keyboards with just a few keys different, just enough to keep me from speed-typing. I’m reduced to hunt and peck (and I bet my dad would like a picture of that - he’s always mentioning how my typing leaves his in the dust.)

Anyway, ironically we found a much nicer internet place here nearer to the Place Pigalle - aka the red light district - that has an ENGLISH KEYBOARD!! ::pets the keyboard:: Very much big yay. So I’m at least saying hi. Will upload and talk more when I can, hopefully in a day or two. Maybe we’ll get sneaky and leech off some other hotel’s wireless. You never know.