It’s noon on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. Not a conventional shopping day for everyone . . .

Matt’s brother and sister-in-law are coming over any minute and I’m taking some stuff that’s been cluttering up the bungalow outside to hide in my car. I hear a woman outside the gate yell, “Bitch, I will kick your ass!”

“Yeah, bring it,” screams another.

Their voices are close, I can see movement on the other side of the gate. My car is parked at the curb, helping to create a natural alcove made up of trash bins, large palm trees, the sidewalk and the entryway of the neighboring apartment building. Because this semi-enclosed area is a relatively isolated pocket right off the street, it can be a magnet for derelicts. However, most vice activities like your average crack deal or bringing in a trick usually take place in the darkness of night. The two large young women have moved their tiff into the alcove near my parked car. I toss the stuff in the car and I’m watching, but trying not to be obvious.

Seconds later, on the corner of the block, a run-down 1970′s Buick pulls up and screeches to a halt right in the middle of the intersection. A dude in black baggy clothes and a tilted hat jumps out of the passenger side of the car and walks down the sidewalk, dragging one foot in a ghetto gait. One of the girls runs toward him, screaming, “Boss!”

I went in for another load of stuff. Matt has read the book Pimp by Iceberg Slim and as a joke, keeps it on his bedside table. I figured if anyone could appreciate a pimp presence, it’d be my man, Iceberg Tyler. Plus, I’ve been trying to show him a good time here in SoCal. This was a golden opportunity for him to get the authentic Venice experience.

As the two of us walk toward the gate the second time, we hear more yelling, “I told you, I’ll kill you, bitch!” one of the girls yells. She’s walking back down the sidewalk past our gate. I know if I open the gate right as I get to it at my normal speed, she’ll be walking by right at that same moment and I’ll see her face-to-face.

I open the gate, sure enough, right as she’s walking by. She’s a pasty, pudgy girl with long, stringy red hair and a bad dye job. Her arm waves in the air, pointing,  I assume, at the other ho. She sees I’ve opened the gate and turns to completely face Matt and I as she continues to walk by. She curls her mouth in a wide smile, puts her arm behind her back and exclaims, “Happy Thanksgiving!”  and then moves on down the sidewalk without so much as a pause.

Matt and I toss more stuff in the car, but our eyes are locked on the scene just on the other side of the car. The pimp is sitting on the neighboring apartment entryway steps, head down, talking to the other girl, the black girl with the innocent face. He’s so quiet we can’t hear what he says. The black girl approaches Matt and says, “Sir, I am so sorry about all of this . . . ”

As we finish at the car and close the doors, the ho’s continue their disagreement in more subdued tones and we only hear a final loud whisper of ” . . . Well, we’re in front of their house . . .”

When we got back inside, Iceberg Tyler gave his professional opinion of the scene. “Man, just judging from his clothes, that guy definitely was a low-level pimp. And Iceberg Slim never would have tolerated that kind of display between his bitches. It just ain’t good fo’ bizness! I know these things. I’m Iceberg Tyler!”

Election Day – Morning. It’s a gorgeous sun-shiney day.

So, I just got out of the acupuncturist’s office and I’m all zen and shit, ’cause I just got poked with needles in my feet, neck and third eye chakra in an attempt to de-stress-ify myself and I’m walking to the polls to vote for CHANGE. I did my research. Not only was I ecstatic about voting for the new president, but I also knew how I wanted to vote on every single California Proposition on the ballot. I had a cheat sheet with me just so I would get it right.

As I said before, this year I chose not to work the polls. When I do not work the polls, I am a bit of a polling-place watchdog because I know that most people are not familiar with polls, having never worked them and have no idea what to expect. And since I do know a bit about polling place law, I keep an eye out in an effort to keep the process as pure as possible – because when dealing with the public, you get all kinds of folks with all kinds of passions – especially during this election.

As I walked up to my polling place, a lady with an anti-Prop 8 t-shirt tried to give me a flyer endorsing a “no” vote on Proposition 8. For those living outside of California (or under a rock), Proposition 8 was a church sponsored measure to overturn the same-sex marriage law and to legally define a marriage as a union between one man and one woman. Of course, I’m not a bigoted asshole, so I already had plans on voting “no” on Prop 8. But I was afraid that the activist was within 100′ of a polling place, so I stopped to tell her that she needed to be outside of the 100′ range of the front door. She informed me that the yellow signs on the hill above where she stood marked the required 100′. I smiled, gave her a thumbs up and went on my merry-zen way.

Then some crotchety, bitter, older woman on the verge of being elderly stomped up in line behind me. She was withered, her mouth set in a perpetual sneer,  with bleach-blond hair and a nose so crooked that she could have drowned had it been raining too hard. The only reason I noticed her was because after she got in line behind me, she began yelling toward the anti-Prop 8 woman on the street. I felt, and still feel, like I may have jumped the gun a lil’ bit and maybe have been too over-zealous about my self-appointed polling watchdog duties. But did I hear the tone in the older woman’s voice coupled with the angry sneer and then the words came out of her mouth.

“No, you have to listen to me,” she shouted at the anti-Prop 8 activist who was standing where she legally had to be, on the sidewalk, over 100′ away. I was NOT going to listen to this angry woman have any sort of screaming match over this issue, not while I was in line and not within that god-damned 100′ of pure voter safe haven. No, not on my watch,  I didn’t care if this insidious woman was my neighbor or not. Besides, hey, isn’t this Venice, California, the sanctuary of freak-dom?

“You know what?” I said to the sneering, screaming, finger-pointing woman. “If you want to have a conversation with her,” I pointed toward the anti-Prop 8 lady on the street, “then by law you have to do it on the other side of these yellow signs.”

The screaming lady turned to me and said, “You have a real attitude, you know that?” My zen began to melt. I guess I pointed my finger in her face when I repeated the mandate, “You have to go speak to her from over there,” I said. “Because right now you are within 100′ of a polling place and I don’t want to hear it.”

“You need to get your finger out of my face.” The old biddy shouted at me. She got within inches of my face, definitely violating my personal space and repeated her plan of attack on me. “You have to listen to me . . .”

I cut her off, because yeah, I have an Annatude all right and I don’t have to do anything, least of all listen to her nonsense. “Actually, I refuse to listen to you.” I said.

She countered with a furied stutter. “C-c-an I just . . . ask you one-one question. God, you have real attitude, you know that?” She looked like she wanted to spit, she was so angry.

“I do not wish to have a conversation with you.” I said, and turned my back. And thankfully, those zen-melted words were enough to keep her quiet or else it could have gotten real ugly, real quick because I was for-real angry. And people in line all around the two of us were dead silent. No one dared speak to or look at either one of us the entire time. The line wasn’t very long, but the 15 minute wait seemed like hours to me. The crazy lady left the line more than once, mumbling to herself, each time asking the lady behind her if she’d hold her place in line.

Each time she returned, much to my dismay, she claimed her rightful place in line, right behind me. I couldn’t believe how different this line was than the other precinct down the street. I went to the incorrect polling place earlier in the morning and was met by hordes of cheerful people with wide grins who were as ecstatic about voting as I. We all merrily chirped about the fact that together, we were all about to make history.

This polling place experience was turning out so much differently. Much to my chagrin, she would be right there in line behind me, potentially listening as I gave my name and address to the roster clerk. And because we live in the same precinct, she was more than likely a neighbor of mine. As soon as I gave the clerk my name and address, I kept an open ear in order to hear hers. (And you know what? I found out where that bitch lives. And I caught her last name too. She’s a couple of streets over.)

So, I voted. Right as I started my monthly cramps. Right as some guy who was next in line for an open booth answered his cell phone and said in a booming authoritative kind of voice, “Oh, I can’t talk. I’m in line next to vote,”  and proceeded to negotiate some sort of business deal over the phone for what seemed like a fucking eternity. I glared at him as I stabbed the ballot with my inky stylus, re-read the questions so I would make no mistakes, and felt another cramp in my lower belly. Ahhh, it made so much more sense now as to my state of mind!

When I exited my precinct polling place, the bitchy ole blonde was nowhere to be found, thankfully. But I did approach the anti-Prop 8 lady for a little bit of gossip. “Hey,” I said, “I’m sorry I started any shit with that crazy old woman. I just didn’t want to hear her heckle you.” I should mention that at this point I still wasn’t sure if I was just an off-the-wall, crazed PMS-ing troublemaker or if I had any reason to be justified in my poll line actions.

“It’s OK,” the anti-Prop 8 lady smiled. She knew exactly who I was talking about. “Someone told me that while she voted, she mumbled, ‘Jesus is watching me vote right now.”

It pains me to say that all of those Christian people are at home smiling right now, patting themselves on the back, because although as a country we all have a victory in the White House, Prop 8 did in fact pass in California with a razor-thin margin.

I still can’t believe that crazy old woman is my neighbor and I still can’t believe that she thinks that Jesus was watching her vote, sitting on his cloud, halo on his head and smiling down at her. And most of all, I honestly can’t believe I got so bent out of shape by the entire incident.

I’ve been home exactly two weeks and one day now.

Every time I return from a long journey, I find that while I’m happy to be home, it takes a couple of weeks to get settled back into the life I temporarily left behind. And often the result is, unfortunately, that I get overwhelmed and completely freaked out about getting back to my old routine quickly. So much so,  that of course, I put writing off while I run around like a chicken with my head cut off, trying to get things done, dammit.

Get the old Schwinn beach cruiser fixed – there’s always something wrong with it when I come home and if I don’t get it fixed, then I resort to walking everywhere instead, which is fine, but it takes a lot longer to get from place to place.  And don’t forget, I’m trying to get things done. Get doctor and dentist and acupuncture and vet appointments in – make that insurance work for me, ’cause I never know how much longer I’ll have it.

And deal with the broken furniture, there’s always some broken furniture that needs to be fixed when I get home. This time it’s my armoire. So, I’m not using it right now. The result is a giant pile of clothing on the floor in my cramped bedroom. When I can’t find clothes to wear, it’s difficult to get motivated in the morning.

This time when I got back home from being gone for so long, the need to purge a lot of possessions has been one of the highest priorities on my list. I’ve been stacking up books, gadgets, art supplies, clothes and anything I can find that I haven’t used or won’t use anytime soon and carting everything out the front door. The curb is my friend – along with the thrift store. And I had a giant yard sale. That helped.

And don’t you know it, the second I return home from a long journey, my body says, “Nope, sorry, I’m the one who’s taking a vacation now.”   So, I spent all last week lying in bed barely able to breathe from a nasty head cold, but I did manage to finish reading an entire novel and that was nice. I don’t think I’ve ever gone through an entire box of kleenexes like that before. I’m back to the land of the living now and just have no idea where to start . . . “can’t find clothes. Can’t put clothes into broken armoire, oh fuck it, I should just go on a bike ride, but oh yeah, I’m naked” . . . that’s kind of my thought process.

So here I stew in a swamp of clothing, papers, errands and doctor visits. I want to get it all done now. I can’t. I accept it. But there is a sense of urgency, because although I have not formally announced the destination – I’m heading off in about six weeks on another very long journey. I’m excited about it, but need to get a lot of things done before jetting off again, so I’m also kind of stressed. I’m trying to enjoy Venice as much as I can while I prepare to leave again. It’s a strange dichotomy and I find I’m not really able to enjoy sliding into the chill Venice groove while at the same time feeling the hustle and go-go-go of impending departure.

I just try to smile as much as I can and be thankful instead of bitchy, grateful instead of impatient and happy instead of overwhelmed. Gosh, these palm trees and blue skies certainly don’t suck. I have wonderful friends, opportunities and resources in my life. And as my acupuncturist made me realize today – I do know exactly what I want and I’m damn lucky for that because there are a whole lot of people who wander through their entire lives and never know exactly what it is they want.

Yeah, and I’m trying to breathe more too. I’ll keep ya’ll posted on that.

It’s a new movement habit with myself and a few of my other thirty-something girlfriends. We sit together, drink tea and bitch about how much money our IRA’s have dumped in the last quarter. There is always a napkin, usually cloth because paper is so less environmentally friendly you know, to daub crumpet-crumbed mouths. And you’d better believe there is a stack of coasters on hand to protect the expensive mahogany Edwardian secretary desk with the satinwood inlay from accidental water marks.

We know the best Feng Shui masters in all of Los Angeles. We exchange both plant cuttings and hair color advice. We sup wine and eat exotic Thai from down the street on china plates that we’ve inherited from our grandmothers. The hiring and firing of plumbers, fine chocolates, adrenal fatigue and the best way to gracefully quit a job are topics of late. To meet with my friends over tea after being gone so long is comforting, but there is, at least with me, a pervasive air of unsettledness and restlessness.

I really try to suppress the desire throw rocks at the annoying kids down the street or howl at the yuppie assholes to walk away from the Pink Berry, back slowly away from the hundred-dollar t-shirt store and get the fuck off my unfortunately-ever-more-gentrified Venice sidewalks. I try not to focus on Wal-Mart, the economy, the election – all of it encapsulated within an unending media circus that just gets me more and more distracted and annoyed and cranky and feeling all helpless and well . . . part of the manipulated, depressed sheeple (part sheep, part people) faction of society.

It’s my goal to put that angst into some other more responsible, creative and gratifying outlets. So forgive me that I’ve been gone from blogging for a few weeks. I’ve just really not been too much fun to be around. I’ve been giving myself an AnnaTude adjustment.

Then I realize I’ve been on the road for a solid year. One entire year! And I take a big sigh and get all overwhelmed with catching up on all the dumb life stuff awaiting me now that I’ve returned home. Boring shit like doctors, the vet and taxes.

Yesterday I was at my favorite thrift store in Venice, The Bible Tabernacle Thrift Store, donating stuff back to them that I’ve carted out of there over the years. I was so happy to see that they were still in business and still had the same funky style even though the grungy ole beer store next to them has been remodeled into Lincoln Ave Fine Wines and a Whole Foods megaplex has taken over the defunct Big Lots space in the stripmall down the street.

John, the unassuming guy who runs the Tabernacle, perked up when he saw me walk in the store. “I haven’t seen you in wow, how long has it been . . . ? Did you have a good time on your journey?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, “It’s been wonderful and tough sometimes, too . . . but in the end it was everything a good journey is supposed to be.” Then a smile crept across my face again. And it hasn’t left yet.

Then I realize I’ve been on the road for a solid year. One entire year! And I’m smiling still and grateful, because it has been an exciting year and I am living a dream.

I forgot to pay my electric bill in Venice. But I didn’t suddenly remember that I hadn’t paid it. In fact, I thought nothing of it. I assumed I’d paid it before I left town. I get a bill every two months, and I’ve been gone a couple of months, so no big deal . . . right?

I got my latest package of mail shipped to Santa Fe from Venice. As I sorted through the bills, I notice the electric bill is red. Uh-oh . . . final notice. It’s May 7th. I had til April 29 to pay. No further notice given before power is cut off. Whoops. Hope the power’s still on for the house-sitter.

I call the electric company and pay over the phone immediately. “Hey,” I said to the customer service rep, “I’m just curious, how long has it been since I’ve paid my bill anyway? I thought I just paid it.”

“Hang on one second, ma’am.” I was on hold for at least one full minute.

He came back on the line, chuckling. “Well,” he said, “It looks like you gave us twenty bucks back in August of 2007 . . . .” 

Last year I worked on a film shoot where we had a mock-up liquor store scene. So, the show purchased several thousands of dollars’ worth of two buck chuck and King Cobra Malt Liquor in addition to having multiple liquor distributors pitch in truckloads of freebies for product placement.

After the show ended and the liquor store set was struck, all the good liquor went home with various crew members. No one ever called accounting . . . no, I’m not holding a grudge about that . . .  However, later I found that no one wanted the cases of King Cobra (or the chuck). Ain’t these people never hear’d o’ malt licka? Anyway, the set decorator was just going to throw the stuff away . . . and that’s when I had an idea!

I took all the chuck and any cases of old, hot beer that I could find and gave it away to my friends. I also took all the King Cobra home. And I saved it til the night of the next full moon. Then I put it all in the freezer for about 45 minutes, til it was nice and frosty. Then I went outside to take a peek onto the night time streets of my lovely Venice ghetto ‘hood, where, sure enough, there were crack dealers and prositutes galore. During the summer, there is alot going on out there and for some reason, the street activity picques even more during times of the full moon. So I thought I’d help out.

I brought the King Cobra outside, lined the street corner with it’s frostiness and left it sitting there for all to enjoy. I checked an hour later. No malt liquor on the sidewalk. Music pumped up a notch in the hood. Hookers dancin’ in the streets. This is how we roll in Venice.

Jetting into LA last Friday, hours after quitting my job in Albuquerque, I needed a weekend ‘home’ in LA and didn’t even know it. Every moment was GOLDEN. Here are but a few highlights:

1. Running up Washington Blvd, the heaviness of the salty ocean air hits me like an old friend.

2. The door man at Hinano didn’t need my ID; he said, “Girl, where you been? I know them blue eyes. Get yo’ ass in there!”

3. Group hug after group hug from my Venice peeps while I caught a 3BB (three beer buzz).

4. 15-mile solo oceanside mid-afternoon bike ride on my yellow Schwinn, which I miss very much.

5. Riding my bike on Speedway in Venice just after sunset and running into at least 7 close friends within 5 minutes. That’s more than 1 friend per minute!

6. Being fed tri-tip and Austrailian wine at Theory with yet another group of awesome friends.

7. Dog-piling the couch to watch Lawrence of Arabia.

8. Being woken up at 4AM by a herd of drunks who landed near my couch.

9. The shenanigan at Barnes & Noble.

10. Taking a nap at my Mar Vista art studio.

I hate to keep harping on the whole housing in Albuquerque subject, but folks . . . ! It ain’t easy findin’ good digs in The Burque, yo!

I’ve finally settled into this awesome condo, but it too has it’s definite down side. It’s VERY expensive for ABQ. It’s exactly 35.29% more expensive than my bungalow rent in Venice Beach, California, just six blocks from the water and in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in all of Los Angeles. This sleek, newly constructed place in ABQ is architectural dreaminess with it’s sexy concrete floors and tall ceilings of openness and light, be sure. But this is Albuquerque. No offense to ABQ, but my pad in Venice Beach is sweeter.

The ad said it was furnished. It’s Ikea. Does that count? I’m not sure.

The neighborhood of Nob Hill rocks. I like that, but even though it’s a cool ‘hood and all with a co-op and great coffee shops, there is still a noticeable tweeker contingency. That, and well on Saturday night there was a guy on the street with a high powered telescope, herding everyone who was walking by to take a look at Saturn in the sky. That was fuckin’ cool. It felt very Burning Man like. But also on Saturday night there was some wierd murder down the street. Both incidents are kinda like my ‘hood in Venice . . . in California . . . near the beach. Where I pay 35.29% less. . .

So, why didn’t I go for something less expensive in a dull neighborhood? Well, here in Albuquerque, it’s either some squat, cold adobe in a really scary and especially drab part of town . . . or this trendy part of town, that’s still kinda wierd and rough, which I like . . . sort of. I live in a rough neighborhood in Venice, which I love and feel mostly comfortable in. I’m here to report that so many more white girl alarms trip inside my head in Albuquerque than they ever do in my gun-toting cracked-out Venice ‘hood. Those freak-o’s understand me. Here I’m on guard.

There is no in-between kind of neighborhood here, not unless you want to rent an unfurnished four-bedroom soul-less house out in the vast Intel sub-divisions of Rio Rancho. No, Thank-o.

So, basically – as I throw my hand against my forehead dramatically – I have to live in the lap of luxury. Except, with Ikea furniture. And a sub-standard model TV. Shocking as I proudly have not lived in a televisioned home for about seven years now. I’m going high-tech. More on this later. The TV needs serious updating. Oh, and apparently ‘furnished’ also means you get four sets of silverware, again Ikea, but no cutting board or kitchen knife. I’m a grown-up. I cook. The agent who furnished this place is probably all of 23. I know, I’ve met him. I don’t think he cooks.

Ahh, luxury . . . sort of. Except come on - thirty-five point two nine percent.

Venice. ABQ.

And hey, in Venice, utilities are included.

Last night, my friend Stu and I were having a bit of late, post-dinner conversation for my last evening in Venice.

“I’m gonna have to look up your blog. Read the stories. Because I know I’m in some of them!” he said with a big grin.

“But, not necessarily,” I told him. “the ‘really good stuff’ doesn’t make the blog. That’s the material for my books!”

So just imagine what’s NOT making it up here. Ah, ya’ll will know soon enough. I’m sequestering myself inside a kiva in Albuquerque in the coming months, all with the intention of doing some serious writing. Don’t worry – I’ll change the names/identifying characteristics of all guilty parties.

OK, but since I’ve told you about Stu, here’s a picture of us causing trouble several years ago, one night during an episode of the Santa Ana winds. That’s one of the stories too good to make the blog. Coming soon to you in another format.

I’ve been getting up early every morning with sunrise. A new Anna. But yesterday morning, I kept waaay hunkered down beneath the covers, even though my plan was to get up early and do laundry. I’m forever looking for an excuse to not do my chores, but this was not a reason for sleeping in that I welcomed.

I was awakened this morning at 5 AM by the sound of a good ole-fashioned gunfight in my charming Venice alley. The alley, let’s face it, is only a late-night haven for hookers and crack-smokin’. I don’t mind that my neighborhood is a little rough; it has helped to slow down the gentrification process, but I will admit that I don’t think the idea of bullets flying down my streets is fun, romantic or good in any way.

I always say with pride that I’d rather have the crack-heads walking around my corner than the little yuppie lady with the yappy dog. It’s all fun and good to say that until something sobering like this happens. I’ve seen bodies in the street here, a few years ago. It’s not pretty. I don’t feel personally at risk, per se, but it’s sad to get in your car at daybreak and see a dead guy in the next intersection reflecting back at you from the rear view mirror.

I covered my head with pillows after hearing one shot whiz past my house. Then the sound of a close-by gun retaliating from another direction causes me alarm . . . it’s close enough that I can tell one shooter is facing east and the other west. In fact, my bedroom sounds like it’s right in the middle of the whole mess. Then dead quiet. Then I hear the sirens. Mind you, it’s 5 AM – (historically right around the time when Venice gunfights usually break out)!! And just when I thought I should be hearing helicopters, sure enough, I hear a low . . . whop, whop, whop . . . right on cue. I bury my head further. That chopper is gonna be circling my house, I just know it.

And then I hear something I have never heard before . . . voices. Close voices of people moving around outside, on the other side of a simple cinder block and lattice wall that separates my little piece of Venice heaven from the ‘hood. The next apartment over butts right up against the back of my place, with just a narrow, two feet at the most, space between. It’s gated and never used. But I heard whispers, cracking metal and voices moving behind my house. The voices keep moving past as the helicopter noise gets closer.

I go back to sleep. There were media trucks and cops and lots and lots of my African American neighbors at the community center today. One of the last flop-houses, the one directly across from the community center, was torn down last week. Like the end of an era. I’m just wondering – where do all the poor people go at the end of this land grab? No easy solutions. And the gunfire really disrupts the inherent symbiosis of an artsy-rough-cool neighborhood like mine, making all sides empassioned and uneasy.