"If the real thing don't do the trick/You better make up something quick/You gonna burn burn burn burn it to the wick/Oooooh, Barracuda." -Heart

...I'll explain later.

"You will find relief from vain fancies if you do every act in life as if it were your last." -Marcus Aurelius

This morning, a Little Tokyo parking lot attendant (whom I've admittedly often thought of as "The Parking Nazi") threatened me with towing. He yelled at me for walking my dog off the property, even though I'd purchased the requisite Starbucks beverage and was planning to sit with it on the premises after I'd taken Lulu down the street to do her morning business. The diminutive Latino man with the ugly scowl turned his back on me, wouldn't look me in the eye while he made his accusation, shouting that he'd seen me walk around the block with Miss Pooch yesterday morning, triumphant that he'd caught me in a dreadful theft of parking space.

"Yes, I did," I responded. "And, if you also recall, she and I came back to Starbucks, sat at an outdoor table, and read the paper." Well within parking lot requirements, I thought. But he adamantly pointed to the last line on the signage: If you leave the property, you will be subject to towing.

Then he loudly anticipated that I'd allow Lulu to defecate on site and leave it there for him to pick up. I produced a plastic Trader Joe's bag, pulled it from my jeans pocket while assuring him I'd never do such a thing; I am a responsible dog owner. "Do others leave their dog's mess for you?" I asked. He yelled that they not only leave it, they sometimes throw it at him when he tells them to clean it up (bagged or unbagged, I wondered to myself -- either way, it was not a pretty picture). I suddenly felt so sad for this man, perched in his little wooden treehouse overlooking the lot for which he is responsible, weekdays from 6am to 3pm. "And they throw hot coffee at me." No wonder this man is so miserable.

"Let's talk like human beings," I suggested quietly, trying to meet his angry gaze. "My name is Alexandra. What's yours?" I offered my hand. It took a couple of long seconds, but he reached down from his aerie with a perfunctory shake and a surly "Salvador."

"I come here many times a week, Salvador, to get coffee and walk my dog and write. You and I see each other quite often, and we've never spoken (it seemed inflammatory to remind him of the time a few months ago when he yelled at me for letting little Lulu pee on the honeysuckle). I'm sorry about that. And I'm so sorry people treat you with such disrespect."

"I am only doing my job," his voice softened slightly. "I have two children, I am divorced, I have to pay child support. This is what the owners ask me to do, and I do it. People don't understand. They take advantage."

I smiled at him and let him know I understand. His face began to change, the bully dropped away, revealing a kind, simple man. He even laughed slightly when he told me that everytime I leave Lulu in the car while I'm getting my coffee and he chalks my tire, she barks at him. "She protects your car," he winked. Only a few minutes after he'd threatened to call the tow truck for my Camry, Salvador winked at me.

Then, this: "I apologize to you, Alexandra." He explained in more detail why he screamed at me, wanting me to truly comprehend his experience. I listened carefully, allowed him to complete his vent, accepted his apology, offered my own on behalf of those who apparently don't know any better.

Then he said, "Anytime you want to come here, you walk your dog, you write, you stay as long as you like. Just tell me, and I'll show you where to park so you'll be safe from towing. I will take care of you." We shook hands again, smiled at each other. Said goodbye 'til the next time.

I'm looking forward to the next time.

"Once you label me you negate me." -Soren Kierkegaard

I had a blind date Saturday night. Well, I was SUPPOSED to have a blind date Saturday night. He called an hour and a half before he was to pick me up with a handful of lame excuses. Blind AND lame. Not an impressive combination for a first date. Oh yeah, and he's a talent agent. Stop right there, you're saying, this sounds like it ended exactly as it should have.

Yes, it did. I was all showered and blow-dried and dressed when I got his voicemail. (That's right; he cancelled via recorded message.) As I hung up, the woman who manages my building came to my door in search of a Pitfire Pizza menu and told me how beautiful I was. "I don't look like a woman who should be stood up, do I?" Absolutely not, we agreed. I slipped her a menu and clicked down the hall in my Carlos Santana heels to the car, which took me to a very cool neighborhood art gallery opening at which I enjoyed photos of clown pornography (this one is the least graphic of the collection) and the illustrated essays of a Renaissance man. If you're in Downtown LA, go and see: http://www.transportgallery.com/transport/. At the party, the live, bare-breasted porno clowns showered us with sparkly confetti. I came away with a balloon animal -- a pink poodle. I love party favors.

After complimenting his work, I was invited by photographer Justin to join him and his artsy crew at photographer Glenn's place in Echo Park. I declined, opting to go to Night Vision at MOCA for another gander at Rauschenberg's Combines, which are inspiring me to complete a project I conceived years ago. I love being a MOCA member. After wandering the exhibit and the party and the store, I affixed my ID sticker to the pink balloon poodle -- right about where the poodle's member would be (I'm quite sure the porno clowns would have approved) -- and headed home, where my next-door neighbor and her friends were preparing for a late-night rooftop barbeque. I met them in the hall, carrying a platter of raw lamb chops and burgers. Upon receiving their impromptu invitation, I assured them that I was not a woman to turn down an offer of free meat.

To his dubious credit, the talent agent left me an apologetic message. I also got a call from photographer Justin, thanking me for the creative conversation that he said, "made my night."

All in all, a much better evening than I'd have had with Agent Boy.

Zan Koan #1

If he goes to fuck himself, will he be back later?

Insomnibabble, Part Two

Maria Conchita Alonso just got eviscerated by an alien; I can't believe they're saying she's still alive, when the very dead Bill Paxton got the same treatment moments before, along with 5 gang members and a bunch of commuters. Every one of them, boned like fish.

I wouldn't be watching this godawful movie at this godforsaken hour if my friend hadn't emailed me at 1:24am, just before I was about to sign off for the night, informing me about the shootout on my downtown LA building's roof in Predator 2. I just had to tune in.

Look! There's the Eastern building, with One Wilshire in the background, being struck by some of the phoniest lightning in film history. And Gary Busey just quoted The Wizard of Oz. This really is one of those films that's so bad it's...so bad.

The half a Unisom with the warm vanilla milk chaser better start working fast and hard. I'm afraid I'm going to have dreams just like the one you had last night, Venice Boy.

"Most truths are so naked that people feel sorry for them and cover them up, at least a little bit." -Edward R. Murrow

These are the shadows that paint her walls in the late hours...the darkness in which she dwells, where no one would believe she can breathe.

This is the poetry that explains her moods...they breach the fog, moaning like a lost ship, blushing with the shame of getting caught, giggling with the exhilaration of forgiveness.

The little girl on speed, the puppy in training, the snake in the reeds, the father in the grandstand. The escaped convict in the gas station restroom. The cockroach on the sidewalk at midnight. The homemaker with a bun in the oven and floured fingers. The teenaged boy, zit on his chin, his hand in his pants. The bass player with coke up his nose. The lilac climbing the trellis into her window, across her carpet, around her throat. The paycheck that buys nothing but Charmin, pretzels and ammunition. The droplet of water on the whisker on the kitty on the tuffet on the porch. The red flag in the distance. The sentence that can’t find a period. The email that was only kidding. The phone call that says goodbye.

And then, there is popcorn. Crisp, oozing with butter, dipped in the Hershey bar melted in the other palm. In a dimmed room with images flickering on a giant screen. Thank God you're home.

Relief. Smile when you find it. It won't last long, but it will be back, after this word from our sponsor.

Reach for the one who truly, deeply, completely understands that Heaven is in the cone of vanilla Carvel. Let go when he says yes.

Expect nothing. Except maybe cracker crumbs in bed. That may be your only connection to that which you seek.

Thank you for your patronage.