Daily Tart

A cool August evening brings me to
Southern California’s favorite summer destination – the Hollywood Bowl.  If you’re on the inside, you’re treated to picnics, live music, fun crowds (who often sing along although they’re lectured to let the singers do the singing), and sometimes fireworks.  If you’re on the outside, you’re stuck in the unbelievable traffic.

I’m always at fun events.  I’m always working at fun events.  I see the other side.  You’re spending your money like candy; I’m working like sugar to make my money.  You’re on the inside having fun; I’m on the outside making sure you’re having fun.  I’m always stuck in unbelievable traffic.

But once in awhile, I get invited in to see how the other half lives.

Tonight I am your Champagne girl.  I’m at an outside booth with another lovely and we’re poppin’ and droppin’ corks till our hands are bruised from the cage and frozen from the ice bucket.  But we’re sweet like sugar and we keep our smiles.  I keep my comfort with my dirty little secret – flat shoes.  We’re behind a table so no one suspects that my elegant evening dress ends with a pair of potato mashers.

Boss is happy with our pouring and social skills, and whips out…extra tickets to tonight’s concert!  A triple dose: beginning with Paolo Nutini, stuffed with Soloman Burke and ending with the one, the only…Etta James (of “At Last” fame)!  A tragic lover of jazz (in a city of hip hop fanatics), I burst with joy and claim my ticket to the other side.

Paolo begins his set as we’re pouring the last dregs.  We find our middle seats as “New Shoes” strikes it’s last chords and Paolo’s stage is rotated to the back and Soloman Burke’s rotates in - revealing him sitting mightily on his huge red throne donning a black suit specked and sparkling of diamond bits, and surrounded by beauties enveloped in shiny gold dresses.  Larger than Ruben Studdard at his largest, he fits snugly in his throne, not daring to stand, and sings with a depth and sex and humor that causes the women behind us to swoon and scream…and sing along…to every note.

We settle in and Boss pours us a glass; in my right hand I’m sipping Rosé, in my left hand I’m devouring a juicy hot dog.  Hot dogs and champagne.  Damn, I’m living the life.  It only gets better as the King’s attendant mops up his bald head with a rag.  And he does it with such a smirk and a smile that I don’t know if the joke’s on the King, or on us.

The audience goes crazy as King lets some ladies from the box seats climb aboard the stage for a ride.  White women with their white dresses and their white moves groove to the oldies as Burke sings the Blues.  And I’m tickled pick; not just from the dog and the Rosé.  They gather at his feet and gaze up at him with wet in their eyes, and he hands them each a flower which they breathe in with a sigh, and as he leans in to deliver the verse, his attendant steps in and mops up his head.

Sadly, his set is done, and his stage is rotated out, which brings out the beast, I mean, best: Etta James.  She walks on with a swagger, all 70 something years of her, and plops herself down in a chair down center.  The crowd goes wild and the women behind us who swooned for the King, now scream for the Queen, and nod their collective heads with approval for how well she looks for her age.

She speaks with the swagger she walked in with and tells us she likes “to do them sexy songs.”  She tells the band to hit it and speaks her gravel into the mic; growling and purring this 70 something beast ignites the women behind us as she touches herself.  The song speaks of a lover and she bites and licks her manly shaped mic.  And the men don’t know what to do.  They don’t know if they should be turned on by Mrs. Robinson or slightly repelled by this 70 something suggesting quite vividly what she would do to them if she got them alone.  Hell, they didn’t know if she’d even wait to get them alone, or attack them in public.  And the women scream “Hell, yeah!” as she moves her hand from her knee up to her thigh and into her “no no,” and keeps it there for some time as she grabs and rocks and bites her mic.  “Um, hum!  You go girl!” nod the fanatics behind us.  And she does – the rubbing continues, this time, her breasts.  Then her wild hand makes another dip south, moving searchingly from said breasts to her favorite landing spot.

And I think: what would Britney do?  These are moves that even she would get in trouble for.  I’m deeply divided: I love that an older woman can claim her sexuality, I’m not sure if I love that she claims it so graphically, and repeatedly.  These same women behind me that applaud “empowerment” for the older women are the same type to brand Britney a “slut” for even lesser moves.  And it makes me wonder: do women only applaud sexuality in other women who would never be a threat?

But another sip of Rosé wipes all my troubles all away, and as I’m kissed by the cool yet temperate summer air, I can’t help but remember (with all it’s humor) - I’m on the inside looking out.  (And I left early enough so I wasn’t stuck in unbelievable traffic!).

My left eye refuses to open.  I hastily wake from my hazy sleep and stumble to the bathroom mirror.  A gasp escapes my chest as the mirror reveals an eye swollen shut and tinted poison pink.

I blame the neighborhood’s evil cat.

Pussy and I have had a problem since I moved in seven years ago.  My house-let has a tiny plot of land in front and back, enough to encourage my budding gardening passion.  Hours spent in the hot California sun; covered in sweat and dirt and occasionally blood have yielded a yearly row of gladiolas in the back and fragrant roses in the front.

Imagine my dismay then, to find daily “presents” left in my rose bed that kitty has mistaken for a litter box.  This presents not only a problem of health for my flowers (chewed leaves, dug up roots, floating balls of fur), but of fragrance.  Remember the scent of a rose - a rose you cultivated over the years; planted, watered, nurtured, weeded, trimmed and kept away from rocks and bugs, all for the glory of a bloom?  Now, picture a cat’s litter box.  Go ahead, whiff in the scent; take a good, long snort.  That’s what my glorious roses stink of.  Hot cat shit.  100 degrees in the valley and I come home to hot cat shit.  Clearly not the perfume I cultivated with my sweat.

So pussy and I play war.

I see him basking in the sun on the ledge near my backdoor, and I stealthily grab a spray bottle filled with water (my sister talked me out of poison), and sneak to my door, creak open the hinge, take aim…and miss!  He saw me coming, the evil one has sensors.  Pussy: 1, Me: 0.

We lock eyes.  Both our slits narrow as we size each other up.  The evil one has just left me a large package, and I catch him burying the evidence.  I have nothing to throw or spray, so I merely lunge forward with an “I’m gonna smash you” stance.  Pussy runs, but I still catch a glimpse of his triumphant, smug cat smile.  Pussy: 2, Me: 0.

He won’t laugh at me anymore, I think as I laboriously shovel up his leavings.  I’m readying the soil for Cat Repellant.  An effective powder, although harmless (sister once again talked me out of poison), which seems to work, halleluiah!  Pussy: 2, Me:1!  Then the labor of it all wears me down – the repellant must be sprinkled daily, at the same time, front and back, on untainted soil.  I miss a day, and the cat is back.  Not feeling like digging, I’m quickly overwhelmed by how quickly he overwhelms.  Pussy: 3, Me: ½.

My gladiolas are chewed to the ground and poisonous thoughts once again swirl in my head, when a Sonar Cat Repellant arrives in the mail (sister is an avid animal lover – she loves animals more than people, and knows I’m about to lose it with the cat).  I buy a battery and I see cat no more!  Ha ha!  Pussy: 3, Me 1 ½.  Until…the battery wears out.

The evil one uses his evil sensors and somehow knows it’s safe to come back.  He makes quick, stinky work full of fur balls and hate before I have a chance to get to the store.  Little do I know he’s left his newest present full of spite…a flea for me.

It’s 1:00 am and in bed I go, but sleep eludes as my foot starts to itch.  Thinking it’ll pass, I lay patient in bed, but an hour goes and the itch can’t be scratched.  A flea!  It’s biting me!  I feel my foot, now severally swollen with juicy bites and look for the bugger, nowhere to be found.  Tossing and turning, I grab a book to pass the sleepless night.  3:00 am, lights off, and on with the itching – this time, my arms.  I pray for Mr. Flea to fall asleep so I can follow, but 4:00 am comes with no relief.  I take my Buddha book to the other room, hoping to outsmart the bug.  5:00 am, back in bed, and the biting’s back on.

6:00 am, the light reveals a large speck – too large for a tiny flea.  I curiously pick it up, and my fingers spot with blood as the speck is squished.  The flea was fat with my blood from munching my tasty flesh all night long.  Damage check for bites: four on my right arm, one on my back, three on my neck, too many to count on my feet, and the triumphant bite on my left eye.  Pussy must die.

But first, I must bathe in hydrocortisone cream.  For once, I’m sad I don’t hit the hard stuff, and hydrocortisone must do.  And do, and do.  Every two hours I must re-cream, as I daydream about being scrubbed down by a hot man with a loofha.

It infects my brain – the poison of the flea mingling with the drug of the cream, and as I make my way to the store, I have a choice: buy a battery or a baseball bat.  Keep the cat at bay or permanently away – by killing it with the bat.  Battery or bat, battery or bat?  My itchy resolve for death to Pussy sadly melts away when I discover the store of choice doesn’t carry a murder bat, and asking for poison always raises too many eyebrows (which is difficult in a city of Botox victims), so I buy my battery, and drive home, defeated.

Pussy: 4, Me: 2.  You’ve won this round, evil Pussy.

A smug little roach; she sat there proper in her pearls and pink pastels, knees crossed smartly at the lightly ruffled hemline and her sharply heeled right foot ticking up and down in the rhythm of one who thinks she’s better than everyone (but secretly has her doubts).  I hated her before we were introduced.  The empty wooden chair to her right was the only vacancy, which I – for loss of knowing anyone else – fool heartedly occupied.  “How do you know…”, “How do you know…” the games began and the fight was on.

Her story belied her humble beginnings, but she wore them as a badge of honor: “We met doing extra work…back in the day.”  A statement allowing vulnerability?  No, she wanted to convey she worked the ranks, struggled and strove, fought the good fight, emerged triumphant on the other end: back at the studio she was first hired at, at a hefty sum of $54 a day, she now was corporate, a legal aid with a salary, benefits and a 401k.  She was the extra with that extra kick of attitude: I know I’m better than this, I know I deserve better than this and I will get better than this.

Like two schoolchildren in the playground, we battled it out – but we fought the way women fight, with a slap of the tongue and a flash of a smile.  Were we getting to know each other, or seeing who had the bigger breasts?  Nothing to gain from playing the “I’m better than you” game, but we threw our dice nonetheless.

“Blah, blah, blah, testosterone,” said I, “No, chromosome,” quothed she, “Yes, same thing,” threw I, “No, it’s the chromosome,” insisted she.  She hadn’t a clue for her defense other than she read it somewhere, so how does one argue with the ill educated?  I moved on, tight lipped and ready to bait.  A recent accomplishment had graced my life, and I was dying to make her jealous, but without seeming obvious, so I dangled a tidbit without details, knowing anyone would immediately ask, “Tell me more!”  She did not.  She merely countered with her own past accomplishment, as convoluted a tidbit as mine.  I did not ask for details.

We’re 0-0, tied at the race, neck and neck, black and blue.  However, anyone passing near would think we’re the best of friends: I grabbed a drink for her, she swiped a cake for me, and we smiled together at a friendly photographer.  And the ploy continued.  And attempts by others to join our fun were quickly severed with a comment or lack of a comment, a turn of the head or a blatant ignoring.

Unfortunately the fun was cut short when I had to run.  My frienemy and I kiss kissed good-buy, see you next time, SO great to meet you, and so forth and so on.  We both thought we’d won some war, and she sat there and I walked out – both falsely triumphant.

Walking to my car, I realized I didn’t even say “Happy Birthday” to the birthday boy; my friend’s son - it was his first birthday.

If I were a Lesbian, I would…

- go braless

- get a nipple ring

- shave more often

- fundraise and run 5ks

- speak with a raspy voice

- make out with Ani Defranco

- go shoeless, but have a killer pedicure

- camp frequently and make out under the stars

- take an art class and create abstract vagina paintings

- own a multitude of dildos in an array of colors, shapes and textures

- wear safety pins, trashy bras, hunting pants, metal jewelry

- be pregnant all the time with flowers in my hair

- volunteer to retile all my friends’ houses

- tour the South and play the guitar

- snap at construction workers

- have a cactus garden

- get a tattoo

- get a dog

- drive a jeep

- never wear velour

- own a killer set of knives

- only shop at stores with bins

- blog my life with a picture diary

- visit a nudist colony…just for giggles

- make homemade granola and pass it out on Halloween

- pass out women’s lib lit at strip clubs, but fiercely support their choice

- dye my hair frequently and colorfully; sport a buzz cut or dreads

- encourage straight women to explore their sexuality

- constantly email friends to support my causes

- plan an all girls trip to Lake Havasu

- build sets for community theater

- wear fur at a gay men’s club

- wear lesbian pride tee-shirts

- occasionally explore men

- move to Sacramento

- still be girlie

The term, “addict” is thrown around too casually.  A group is currently conducting studies to see if children (and grown men) are “addicted” to video games.  Will there be a support group for this new cache of “victims?”  It’s called E3, people.  Every May they gather in droves, descending upon the LA Convention Center, to ogle women dressed as their video game fantasy, fulfilled.  Children (and grown men) fill the hall to capacity to test their new addiction, grab swag (free stuff), and giddily make rare human contact with their virtual sparring buddies.  These are fans.  These thousands of children (and grown men) are fans.  They don’t need a pill to pop them out of the dungeons with their dragons; they merely want Tony Hawk’s signature and a peak at a live, breathing woman.

These groupies are no different than the Vulcan-speaking, Spock-ear-wearing, peace-sign-making FANS of Star Trek.  Where’s the study on their “addiction?”  These pale creatures have built a community, can recite every episode verbatim, and have a wardrobe that would make jealous the show’s costume designer, yet they have managed to survive in this world without the label of “addict.”  They are zealous, perhaps, but they are zealous – functioning – fans.

Let him who is without an addiction prescribe the first pill.  Smoking is a “proven” addiction.  Certain drugs are addictive.  Alcoholics Anonymous is synonymous with addiction.  Food is addictive.  Television is addictive.  Sex – in the wrong (or right) hands - can be an addiction.  Blackberry is called “Crackberry” because it’s the newest, trendiest addiction.  Myspace stalkers are born of an addiction.  There are those who are addicted to lying, to shopping, to shoes, to Oprah, to Entertainment News, to car chases, to Sports, to Gambling (Horse Racing, Vegas, Poker – anyone?), to gossip (hello checkout line magazines and Paris ’ BFFs), to money, to pain.

Why is it though, that some people encounter the same stimuli (food, TV, sex) and can use it resourcefully, while for others it becomes a crutch and thus, for them, an addiction?  Is it easier to excuse poor behavior by using a label?  I think we excuse it (Clinton is a sex addict, he can’t help himself) and thus prevent progress towards addressing and solving it.

I will admit here, that I have been labeling my poor behaviors as addictions.  It does make me feel better – like I’m not the one responsible.  And therefore, every time I engage in my “addictions” I can blame it on someone/something else and thus keep comfortable in my non-resourceful behaviors.  I am NOT a television addict.  Not anymore.  I am a huge fan of flipping on the tube, and have not fought the urge to plop, until now.  I have unplugged my security blanket.  I choose to not be a victim; I choose to not be an addict.  And everyone – every fan of whatever – has this same choice.

The moment we give someone a label, we take away someone’s power.  We tell them they are a victim - they don’t have the right to choose.  And when you take someone’s power away, you take their ability to change away.  I don’t want to live in a country of addicts, but I will embrace all the fans.

Even before fully formed, the jumbled words tumbled off of my lips.  Futility I kept trying to suck them back in or dam up the uncontained flow, but word after word pushed it’s stubborn way out of my mouth, and a raging river of unedited thoughts was surrounding me, drowning me.

I didn’t want to be here – in a two hour instructional class on “welcome to the program,” aka. a painful two-hour rehash of a pamphlet that any reasonable person could’ve / would’ve read on his/her own – but someone down the line spoiled it for the bunch because he or she was ill prepared.  So now everyone has to suffer.  A 10 minute read turns into a two hour lecture, and I bristle at the lazy masses.  But I am here so I can take the class that I (think I) need.

He walks in late; a jolly bubble of a man, with an ill-fitting brown tweed jacket and George Costanza hairline.  He proceeds to ramble an apology to the three of us about how his usually spirited class will be less than spirited.  You see, his beloved cat has had an attack.  Last night he was confronted with hairballs and vomit, so this morning kitty took a trip to animal E.R.  An I.V. and a few pills later, and his beloved pet will be just fine.

So I think, fine, ok, now let’s onto the lecture – but oh no, not before sharing a 4 x 6 glossy of said kitty-cat.  Its head overtook the frame in an extreme close-up, and the moment caught was of pussy in a screaming yawn.  And the picture is not just shown, but passed around like a precious trophy before it is finally put away.

To hurry the moment along, now that we’ve lost 20 minutes of 120, I state with empathy and closure, “Well, I’m glad that the Doctors have said he’ll be fine, cats do throw-up, that is what they do.”  Foolish me!  I opened a door I thought I was shutting!  “Oh no,” quoth our non-lecturing lecturer, “This was more than that; they had to use an I.V.!”  Then piped right in, one of my fellow classmates; “I know!  I have six cats and one of them was so sick once, I thought she would die!”  And on and on we go, feline babble between him and her, with a polite girl and impolite me caught in the line of fire.

As we finally wrap up cat chat, two late newcomers arrive, and he feels (for some ungodly reason) that he must whip out the 4 x 6 glossy and again explain his harried morning, which no one wants to hear, but they are still sucking up (even though he has no power to get them what they want), and allowing him his hairball speech.

With less tact this time and more “let’s wrap it up,” I say, “Well, that’s great that cats have nine-lives.  So, what’s in the folder?’  The door to hell was opened.  Anything I said, he was led to believe that I had a bit of interest in his uninteresting pet.  “No, he’s lost more than a few lives; he’s a mischievous one, ha ha!”  And painful story after story about the mischievous one is told, and minute after minute is ticked away on the clock.

30 minutes are lost, never to be gotten back, and the basic level of restraint I was holding onto was quickly losing its strength.  A few bits of words tumbled here and tumbled there, and Costanza got the picture and we finally opened our folders.  Now I knew there would be nothing I would learn whether it was told quickly or slowly, I just had to make it through so I could take the class on the other side.  However, the impatient in me was pressing to get out (and tear up that damn 4 x 6 glossy).

Every tangent he took (and he took so many), several more thoughts tumbled out of my mouth before they went through the editing process.  His face would register my growing disdain, and back on track we’d go for a moment.  And every time, I would tell my mouth, “Don’t open!  Swallow it down!” but my mouth had a mind of its own.  So passive-aggressive me and cat-distracted him battled it out in the classroom.

From the beginning it was to be for me a losing battle: the four other students in the room were morally on my side, but politically on his, and politics always beat out morals.  The minutes finally catch up with the hours and we are with pleasure, released.  Two hours of cat-killing thoughts and impatient words have wrecked havoc on my brain, and regret seeps in through the cracks.

I tried to control an uncontrollable situation; I was a passenger on the Special Bus, and rather than enjoying the bumpy ride, I kept telling the left-of-center driver how to drive.  Will I learn my lesson?  Will I be able to hold up the dam?  Can I allow the driver to drive?  Count on it…unless I have to hear about someone’s damn cat.

“We have nothing!”  I kept screaming over the deafening din of club music, but they just kept crashing on us in waves (literally - we were shilling booze at a pool-side bar, level with the water), smashing and splashing against the bar; a drunken, wet crowd.

Imagine, if you will, thousands of topless men and bikinied women in their 20’s and 30’s, L.A. types with their Armani sunglasses and Fendi bags, with their “Gimmie, gimmie more” attitude, with their money and their leisure and their blow-outs and their bottle service all herded into the L.A. equivalent of Neverland Ranch.  They had descended upon Old Lion Manor - owned by the owner of Saddle Ranch - which was gussied up into a jungle themed playland to host the “Come P.L.A.Y. in the Jungle” Charity Event.

Walking up the driveway I meet an elephant, a camel, a lion, oh my!  A table topped with coconut cups ready to hold delightful, tropical libations tempts as I pass by.  At the top of the first set of many rock-laid stairs appears a wonderland: multiple cascading waterfalls flow into the vast lagoon, hiding a spacious grotto (a la Playboy Mansion , but larger in scope, of course).  An upper bar connects to a lower bar which nestles against the lapping water.  V.I.P nooks abound in every corner.

To the left stands the custom-built Manor with a luxurious Country bar feel featuring tanning beds, a game room with personalized poker table and chips, old-school video arcade games, and the obligatory wet bar, and a view of the posh neighborhood that only the Hidden Hills elite could offer.  But the house is off limits to the public.

Outside, stairs to the right of the pool lead to an outdoor basketball court and Casino.  Past the male wet fantasy of “going all in” (on a poker game, you dirty mind), a ramp guides past a brass alligator and up to a floor of sand.  This is the Carnival.  Eight booths house childhood delights: Ring Toss, Bumper Bowling, Milk Jug Pyramid, and more.  The Carnival wouldn’t be complete without an Ice Cream Truck.  So there is an Ice Cream Truck – bearing Big Sticks and, oh who cares what else, it has Big Sticks!  But the piece de resistance, the crowning glory, the end of the line is…wait for it…a Hot Air Balloon Ride!!  Don’t fret – the balloon is tethered to the ground so we can’t escape to San Diego or drift aimlessly over the Pacific Ocean .  We float in the hot noon July air, hotter by the burst of fire above our heads to keep us afloat 2 stories above this Wonderland Ranch.

My first station is a two-person bar, seemingly out of the way, next to the henna tattoo artists and baby kangaroo.  My bartender in partner whispers conspiratorially, “Just between us, I have NO bartender experience – I lied my way in!”  Great, I told them I didn’t want to bartend because I don’t bartend, and now I’m working with a wingman with no wing.  Two bartenders who’ve never before tended bar with a semi-full bar (all the liquors, 10 mixers, and beer), a shortage of ice, and a surprising onslaught of people.

A crash course in slinging drinks, my partner (who keeps swiping tips we’re to pool with the other 14 bar babes) and I throw ourselves into the game.  And the question of handling it flies out the window as I don’t have time for the thought.  “What’s your poison?”  A Vodka Red Bull – Sugar-Free - is the choice de jour.  My hands fly: six drinks at a time, refilling empty coconuts, running out of plastic cups, draining ice from it’s melting pool of water, popping tops of beers, uncorking endless bottles of wine, knocking the skinny tequila bottle but grabbing it just in time - twice, getting spritzed with the soda water – twice, improvising a pina coloda with no more rum, and keeping straight who is next in the crush of the endless thirsty throng.

Somehow I snap into the role and no one knows my novice status.  “You,” I point at the next unwitting victim of my inexperienced hand.  “2 screwdrivers with a splash of cran, vodka tonic, heavy on the vodka, 2 margaritas – 1 regular, 1 strawberry, and 5 waters.  Oh, and 2 beers.”  I scoop the ice, whip out the order, flash a smile, and earn a $10.  “Delish, thanx!” is the best compliment.  My customers are repeat and frequent (though not for lack of a heavy hand; these people are drinking like the fishes).

We’re moving the endless line and I’m in the groove.  Even out of mixers, then beer, then ice, we make it work till some more comes.  The tip jar is looking pretty and I’m feeling good when my boss unexpectedly pulls me to the bar by the water.  Thrown into the fray all alone, with nothing to serve except ½ a bottle of vodka, 2 cans of Red Bull, 1 bottle of tequila and an impatient line, irate from the heat, the wait, and their sober status, baby grows up.  I transform into the commanding, slightly impatient, and totally in charge bartender seen at Hollywood hot spots.  “You!”  “I want blah, blah, blah.”  “We don’t have that.  Tequila or vodka.  You!”

My feet are soaking in a pool of water and liquor 2 inches deep, with shattered bottles to my left, and trash piling to my right.  Sweat traces down my face as I work, alone, until my partner is finally brought in.  Our barbacks bring us what they can when they can as I see the clock pass my 5:30p departure time.  6:30p comes with no relief.  Then 7:00p and we’re officially out of everything.  We have nothing.  Nothing.  Seriously, people, nothing, go to another bar.

7:30p the tips are counted and divided, each of us relieved that our hot, sweaty work will pay off to the tune of $300-500, right?  Wrong.  Somehow those full-bodied tip jars have squeezed out only $75 for each.  For 7 hours of work: $75.  Then I remember the last girl we served; we had nothing, but she flashed $2, so my partner asked me to grab a beer from the lower bar down the stairs and back up, I handed her the beer, she slyly pocketed her $2, handed the beer to the guy who gave her money for us, and he’s none the wiser that she’s a money grubbing liar.  What goes around comes around is little comfort for our short-changed day.

Limping out with my wrinkly, wet feet, my deliberately torn-up-so-it-will-be-sexy-top, and my now stringy from sweat ‘do, we say good night and see you later.  Then I realize – holy shit, I just bartended and I survived, no, thrived.  Who knew?  Not me.  Shit, I’m a bartender.