Stop!

Do not steal the stop sign right outside the Department of Public Safety office. They will catch you. Especially if you decide to stop in the middle of the street next to the stop sign and put on your hazard lights so that your friend (Julianne) can run out with a knife to pry off the last remaining nail. While it may be true that the stop sign is now remarkably easy to steal—because someone pryed off that last remaining nail—that white SUV you see might actually be an unmarked DPS vehicle that will pursue you. And if you don't pull over right away when they flash their white lights and a low-speed chase ensues down McClintock towards Parkside, they will call for reinforcements. And reinforcements will come. And the bitchy officer who will take down all your friend's information won't even crack a smile when she says, "You could be going to jail for this." And when she makes your friend return the sign, you might be tempted to giggle, which will only prompt the officer to remind you that you are an "accomplice." And it will occur to you, isn't stealing a stop sign attempted manslaughter, and thus a felony? And while the anxiety of the moment might make you inclined to giggle again, giggling at felonies is inappropriate. So even though the stop sign may look like it's begging for a new home—just lying there, propped against the orange construction sign—avoid the inevitable faux pas and talk your friend out of it. The officer will only tell you that what you should have done anyway.

Rise of the Machines

The makers of the voting machines say no one can look inside of them, because they would reveal trade secrets. What secrets? Isn’t their job to count votes? Or do they get secret messages from Mars?

And all three owners of the companies who make these machines are donors to the Bush administration.

So Bush will probably win if the country is covered with these balloting machines. He can’t lose.

—Gore Vidal, LA Weekly Interview 11/20/03

Booty Calls Dos y Tres

Lacked the same endearing novelty when they came in at eight-thirty Friday morning and nine o'clock Saturday morning, respectively.

My Brother

gave his girlfriend a $110 white gold necklace to celebrate their one-month anniversary. And I just want someone to give flowers to. Seriously, if you dated me, I'd give you flowers every day. I wouldn't mean anything by them, but I have wandered through the downtown flower market twice in the past month, and those flowers are so beautiful, I'm just craving an excuse to buy them.

I don't like having a blog...

I realize there's something patently absurd about someone who writes to the anonymous void that is the internet. It reeks of a need for self-validation, and I assure you, I am not that person. These anecdotes are not latent cries for help. They keep me distracted on occasion, and that is all.

Case In Point

Today I photographed strip malls in Inglewood, and this, dear friends, is why I have become obsessed with them. I found one that featured not only a check cashing place but 99¢ Stuff and Thangs, Neville's House of Glamour, Hot Gossip Nails, Ms. Bea's Hats, and a barbershop.

Brilliant, no?

Strip Malls

I chose the topic, because I didn't want to do portraits. I didn't want to do what everyone else would do. In fact, I didn't want to do something pretty, since even that can be passé. So I chose strip malls. But now that I have spent hours driving around in seach of them to take their pictures, I've become obsessed. They are fascinating. First of all, do you know how much they have in common with each other? Donut shops, check cashing centers, and 99¢ stores are remarkably consistent strip mall staples. That and the one on Santa Monica and Vine had hookers hanging out outside of it when I went to photograph it this morning.

And I realize how crazy this makes me sound, but each one really does have its own aura. Just look at how much they differ geographically: how much ones in our neighborhood differ from those in Hollywood or Japantown.

Yes, they're ugly, but they're also amazing.

Play Crushes

There's the boy in this organization I'm in whose solitude is adorable and whose sexuality is still indeterminate.
There's the boy in another organization I'm in who's taken, but his laughter is addictive and contagious.
There's the boy I joined an organization in order to meet but was so dumbstruck by his presence that my pursuit was in vain.
There's the boy I've never met but have seen—in movies.
There's the boy whose LiveJournal I became addicted to, but could never contact due to his stance on certain ethical issues that shall remain unnamed.
There's the boy I contacted on the internet ages ago but who never wrote back. He actually said, "Hi," to me on campus recently, and I like to think of that as progress.
There's the boy I went on a date with once but didn't really like. Then I found out he was deeper and more sincere than I am, and I was humbled by my blasé.
There's the boy who was in a play I wrote—who is straight. Actually, there are a few of those, since my only criteria in casting is physical attractiveness.
There's the boy I loved freshman year only to realize how pretentious he was as the year progressed.
There's the boy who's intelligent, sexy and experienced, but he's a friend of friends, and I'm not sure how to break that barrier. "Hey, do you want to hang out?"
There's the boy whose intellectual catfights with me are pitiful at best, whose intellectual counterpart is most closely—quite literally—a cat. But he's stocky and built like a corn-fed midwestern boy, and I hate what he stirs inside me.

And, finally, of course, there's the boy I'm in love with and will probably always be in love with—stupidly, stupidly in love with—precisely because he is unattainable. Imagine: if I really did take dating seriously and found someone I could relate to, the pedestal I've carved for myself would crumble before me; no longer could I take self-satisfaction in conceiving of myself as so intelligent as not to have a match. So I pine after the boy who could play match for me and wonder why all of my play crushes have yet to work out.