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.

Last night, I received my first fan letter from my dear, dear friend who shall only be named as K2.

Thanks K2 for making my night. I’m sure that there will be lots of dissappointed hunks out there, but I’m honored that you are saving your (hair) for me! K2 does know just how cheer a girl up - just last summer he saved me by handing me a beer and a joint and said, “AB, this is an intervention, honey. You must break up with that boyfriend of yours!”

SUBJECT: SHUTTING DOWN MY ESCORT BIZ 

Hey Guys,     I know this will come as a let-down to many of you hot men, but I am taking a hiatus from my popular Escort service. Yeah, I will miss the hot sex too. I must do so, however, in order to remain true to my Credo, “Pushing 50 and Still Cute!” 

You see, the wacky, wonderful Woman who was willing to assist me in coloring my hair has vanished. She may be in Peru, seeking psychedelic Cactus; or in Argentina, organizing farm workers; or in Gaza trying to rescue (or seduce) young Palestinians; nonetheless she is nowhere to be found. So, until I get to Supercuts for a trim – and get the sides colored up so I no longer look like a Super Delegate – I am taking a leave of absence.    

I will keep you all informed.    

Until then, I remain your humble, hot, and honest bottom,    
K2

I’ve been doing research into stress and the chemicals that stress pumps into your body and how some people get almost high on it.

I get edgy and my heart beats fast and I feel like I’ve had ten cups of coffee . . . my nasal passages open up so I can breathe fast, shallow breaths. Everything moves like sound that is sped up. But it’s the electricity firing off in my brain that really creates the buzz. Brain spins so fast, it’s like it’s doing jumping jacks, thoughts moving, flicking so fast that you aren’t conciously processing any of them anymore . . . it’s just like a steady stream of color or a cloth.

And you are focusing somewhere with your eyes at a tangible fixed point in front of you, but you aren’t seeing that fixed point - you are seeing that colored cloth pipeline that only exists in your sped-up spasming grey matter.

Somewhere up there in your noggin you know every single stitch and molecule of that rapidly moving, dazzling tapestry, but conciously, it’s just moving, flicking through your head like film at 24 frames per second, never seeing the gaps between the frames. You cannot hold a conversation or be present to another human.

It takes a long time to cool down and unwind. Sometimes it takes days or weeks. Sometimes months. Sometimes sleep patterns are disrupted; sometimes not. The managable peak, the worst I’ve ever experienced without cracking is the conversation point where when you are talking with someone, your end of the conversation is a hurried, broken, stuttered, “Um huh. um hm. uh huh.” You’re shaking your head uncontrollably like some kind of drug addict.

Because you are. That’s stress juice, baby.

Sometimes I get visions of a needle in my arm. That’s my inner voice, showing me that stress is my junk. And then . . . there’s the unmanagable kind of stress. ABQ has shown me mountains of it. I just want my regular stress level back!

*Sometimes we meet the best people in the worst of circumstances.

*The grass isn’t always greener, but it’s clear where the septic tank lies.

*Oh Fuckity-Fuckn-FiddleFuckstix!

*The more stratified and crazy the world becomes, the more I am an axis unto myself.

*I’m a human being human, god dammit and sometimes that means tears flow.

It’s Monday, this is how I feel. No, I’m not PMS’ing.

I keep lots of toys on my desk at work. That’s because I work in accounting. No one really wants to come into accounting. People don’t like math. People are scared of math. Hell, I’m frightened of fractions myself. I can’t do shit without my 10-key.

Paperwork makes most people’s brains shut down. And that . . . is why I keep things on my desk like little plastic frogs, a glowing bloodshot bouncing eyeball, a book called How To Lie With Statistics, and a little bulldog that pisses water. (The bulldog is for when people turn in crappy invoices - I squeeze; he pisses on the offensive bill.) And I love, love, love to force big manly teamster-type dudes to hold my light-up Winnie The Pooh pen in their greasy fingers when I need them to sign something. Fun stuff distracts and makes folks forget their belief that math is hard.

Yesterday, a stand-in came into the office to get a time card. She needed a pen. I told her, “Use my Winnie The Pooh pen.” And she left with it. I stormed out into the production office screaming, “Hey! Stop that stand-in! She bolted with my Winnie The Pooh light-up pen! Unacceptable!” Immediately the office PA took off in hot pursuit.

I got my pen back. Shew! I’m sure glad that we didn’t have to call the cops for any Pooh larceny.

My typical day this week has gone something like this:

I nearly get blasted by fire by a chef who’s flipping bananas foster and brandy under a big white tent in the high desert in Santa Fe.

I’m drinking Arnold Palmers and watching well-muscled men in metal angel wings walk past my office door while eating gourmet chocolate dipped strawberries.

LuLu the accounting dog hides under my desk whenever she gets in trouble.

And, last but not least, I’m forcing people to sign papers with a light up Winnie The Pooh pen.

No, I’m not at Burning Man, although it sorta feels like it. Life is good when work sort of feels like Burning Man.

I have a confession.

Over the years, I’ve acquired the habit of compulsively listening to certain music while driving my car. I’m like the mini-bus driver in a Latin American locale, going for months sometimes, spinning that one CD over and over and over again. I let it roll on like that til I tire of it, but sometimes it takes months to get to that point.

The current compulsion is Paul Simon’s Rhythm of The Saints. I drive one hour each way every day from ABQ to Santa Fe and still I allow it to play. And still I sing along wholeheartedly, gleefully and loudly. It’s been two months and I’m still not tired of it. It’s like hypnotizing myself with good jungle vibes.

Other artists on my compulsive music listening list are: Lyle Lovett, Prince, Beck, Calexico and Devandra Banhart. I notice these are all male artists and I don’t really know what’s up with that.

Anyway, my question for you all out there is - what music do you  compulsively and (happily) listen to?

The first time I drove into Santa Fe was last week. I noticed work crews of prisoners in orange jumpsuits picking up trash by the city roadside, in a heavy traffic area. A city bus pulled away from the corner, revealing more orange-clad workers, trash bags in hand, bending over.  And then all of a sudden, it was like slow motion. I watched one of the guys stumble and try to catch himself, but he just kept falling. I actually had time to think, “Oh my god, I think that guy’s gonna fall in the street!”

And then that is exactly what happened. I watched the guy fall - right into the busy six-lane divided highway - right in front of my car. Only thankfully he was up the street nearly a block, so by the time I approached, he’d already scrambled back up to the sidewalk.

It reminds me of the time I was riding my bike in Chicago under the Fullerton street exit off of I-95 . It was about 10PM. I was on a neighborhood street that sort of branched off from the on-ramp. I had to ride past the on-ramp entrance to continue down the street. And for some unknown reason, just as I rode across the on-ramp, I busted HARD and fast on my bike, a rarity for me.

The side of my face was all of a sudden lying flat on the smooth, oily pavement of the busy Interstate on-ramp and the wind was knocked out of me.  I actually had enough time to think to myself, “Holy Shit! I’m lucky that there are no cars coming at this moment!” before scrambling up and picking up my bicycle and getting the hell out of that busy thoroughfare.  

I had a pack of smokes in LA last weekend.

They dissappeared somewhere along the way. I didn’t really miss them too much and never gave a second thought about where they could have gone. But when I arrived home in Albuquerque, as I dug through my purse, searching for my keys or some such something, I spied a renegade object down there in the depths.

A piece of Nicorette, still sealed in it’s protective blister pack. . . . now I ask . . . whom among you is responsible? And did you smoke all my cigs at least?

We all met, most of us didn’t know one another, a flash-mob created at 1:10PM at the Barnes and Noble in The Grove in LA. We each grabbed a book and began reading aloud while walking throughout the store . . . and on the escalators . . . and in the grand three-story balcony.

I was running late, and bustled into the store around 1:09ish, pushing past people, sliding in my flip-flops on the marble floors, bounding to get to the third floor. I had no idea which book I was going to grab, but I definitely knew it would be on the third floor. I didn’t know how many, if any, people would be here reading with me, I was listening for others, but didn’t really hear anything. I grabbed a random book from a low shelf. It was a book of blessings. “Perfect, I thought, “It’s just what I need to be putting out to the world.”

And I began to read, and listen for others. I walked around, then sure enough brushed casually by a long haired tattooed dude who was reading Mien Kampf. Then I saw others. Then I heard others mumbling near and far, like constellations of mischeif, as I myself read as loud as I could. I noticed a couple of kids walking together arm-in-arm, reading aloud too.

The plan was to read out loud until about 1:30 or until getting kicked out.

We all continued to walk around Barnes and Noble, reading aloud and eventually we saw staff members and customers begin to look at one another like, “What the . . .?” And on we read, some were mumblers, most were just reading in a relaxed and normal way, like it was perfectly acceptable public behavior. I, on the other hand, was as loud as I could be reading poetic blessings into the air. . . a sustained theatre voice projected from the diaphragm, not screaming or anything, but definitely enough to cause people to notice. I wanted to be heard by the others, to help keep momentum going. I noticed a security guard coming near me, but he was actually going after one of the other men who were reading. It was odd, like he didn’t see me. Then a sales lady approached and said, “The customers are complaining, ma’am, you have to stop.”

I walked a couple of aisles over and commenced to the blessin’ again. Then as I rounded the balcony, I saw that security guards were escorting people out, so I put my book down. The kids were still reading and giggling. No one ever asked them to stop. I found a dear friend of mine, mumbling, but still reading. It was not yet 1:30. I hugged him, and walked out the door, glowing.

The others who’d been kicked out were standing in front. I introduced myself. They said, “Hey, wanna go for coffee?”

We did. And we planned the next shenanigan. Coming soon.