Tito’s home-boy was in town for the weekend. To celebrate, a bunch of the homies stayed up all night drinking Patron and High Life. Tito did the right thing and slept at his friend’s crib even though he had to get back to the east side early in the morning, yo.

He left at some-thing like 7 AM with blood shot eyes and a headache and sped down the 110, taking advantage of the clear roads. From out of nowhere, a cop pulls him over.

The cop proceeds to give Tito a field sobriety test. The sun rises bright and clear over the po-po’s shoulder and Tito’s eyes directly hit in the morning glare and it’s messing him up. “Hey, man,” he says to the cop, “Can I do this . . . like . . . not staring directly into the sun, sir?”

That was the best part of Tito’s day, because the officer obliged. Try as he might, the cop could not declare him drunk, even after dragging the test on for five rounds of the same finger-tracking exercise. And indeed, he no longer was drunk, just hurting with hangover. He escapes with only a speeding ticket. Happy Holidays, Tito . . . from your friends, the LAPD.

He doesn’t get much sleep during the day. There’s another big party that night, but he’s still crabby and cranky from the morning. “Let’s go to the club,” says Tito as the party winds down. “My cousin will be the designated driver, yo. I’m not risking it again.”

So Tito and his friends go to the club. They stand in a long line in the cold in front of The Havana Club in Alhambra. Anna doesn’t stand in line for a club, ever, for any reason, but she concedes this time, because Tito had a bad day and all he wants to do is get into this club and have a pitcher of beer with his friends.

They get to the head of the line. The doorman looks at Tito’s clothes, shakes his head and says, “Man, your pants are too baggy and you gotta lose the jacket.” He points to a sign on the door that says “Strict dress code enforced.”

“Man, we don’t need to go in there anyway, dawg,” says Tito’s friend.

Tito’s sister is already inside, however, and he can’t just leave her there. She comes out and yells at Tito in front of his friends for not dressing better. His cousin drives him twenty minutes to his home where he changes his pants and loses the sports jacket.

Tito returns to the Havana Club, irritated cousin in tow and re-enters the line, which of course, is much longer now. He stands there with his friends for over an hour. The line doesn’t move, but somehow many people who seem to know the doorman are ushered inside by his wide gracious arm, including three Alhambra cops in full uniform. Tito, hoping to find out if his pants are acceptable, attempts to make eye contact with the doorman on more than one occasion, but is ignored.

The three Alhambra cops saunter outside the club a while later, grinning and carrying ziplock baggies of cigars in one hand whilst keeping a finger on their night-sticks with the other. Tito is still freezing in line with his cousin and his friends. It’s nearly 1 AM by this time and any buzz he might have had earlier has melted away.

Then the line moves. The doorman approaches Tito and says to him as he shakes his head, “Man, I wish I would have seen you earlier. Those pants, they are still just too baggy, man.”

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!”

Around noon today while sitting at the coffee shop, Matt says, “Alex died yesterday at four o’clock. That’s all I know.”

Whoa, Alex died?! Alex, the jackass in Nashville who really kind of rubbed me the wrong way? I didn’t really like him too much, but my disdain for him seems so petty now and my sorrow for his pain and suffering in this life is all that’s left. And peace toward his spirit. He sometimes did and said things that made me question, made me go out of my comfort zone and often made me angry.

He also made me laugh sometimes. He’d say just about anything, no matter how off color or inappropriate, and although this sometimes infuriated me, it also was inspiring, because this guy was truly living. It was after midnight at Foobar in Nashville the first night Matt and Hardy introduced me to Alex.

At one point in the evening, I told the group, “I have to go to the drug store.”

Alex gruffly said, “Wh-a-a-t? Are you on your period or something?” I was a little annoyed by his comment because it was true and because he was so damned loud and crass about it, but he returned less than 45 seconds later and flung an assortment of feminine products down on the bar next to my beer.

This guy has a fantastical story for everything and a penchant for grabbing your unsuspecting hand and shoving your fingertips relentlessly into his left eye socket so you can feel the titanium plate in his head. He’s been stabbed and shot. He’s a well-tatted punk-rockabilly dude; you can spot him as a bruiser upon first sight. He’ll be your amicable guide to the underbelly of East Nashville.  He’ll encourage you to drink another. And another. And another. And he’ll help you get into slightly mindful-mindless trouble. He talks loud and doesn’t care who hears it. He just lets it fly. Ultimately, I’ve got respect for that - because it’s truthful.

But during the times of negative emotionality on my part towards him, I never imagined the guy dying only three months after our introduction and our episodes of partying with mutual close friends. I imagined walking into Foobar next summer and slinging back a few beers with him and his wife. I imagined saying, “Hey, remember last summer when . . . ?”

Thank you, Alex, for teaching me in a rather somber way to appreciate someone no matter how much they push my buttons. So right now, in spirit, I’m cranking up the punk rock and throwing half-empty PBR bottles at your gravestone, biker style, and screaming obscenities at you, you MF. Smashed glass is scattered everywhere and beer is flowing into the ground. I know you’d want it that way because we all talked about it this past summer one night. Drink up, man . . . you will be missed.

What a great day!

A day where we all go into the street and actually look one another in the eye and smile and breathe deeply and ripple out “Happy Thanksgiving!” to complete strangers in a glorious peal of laughter and we mean it. A moment of opportunity to reach out to others and realize that we’re all made of the same stuff. A time that the blood pressure is down because everyone moves slower, reaches out and the cities and towns just seem a bit quieter.

This year, I got all sappy.

It’s not always been this way.  Sure, I’ve had a majority of sappy and glowing Thanksgiving holidays. But, I’ve also had tearful Thanksgivings and Thanksgivings full of dread and awkward feelings. I’ve thrown up several times at late night Thanksgiving after parties from trying to wash the absurdities of the day away with strong liquor.

The craziest year was the time when my grandpa’s new wife insisted that both sides of the entire family watch a video called “All About Dialysis” while we ate a take-out turkey dinner with them. Yeah, I’m fairly certain I puked that year.

But generally, I’m thankful for the stories my elders tell. I’m thankful of those little moments when Grandma is making the gravy and she’s got flour stuck to her fingers and while her back is turned, someone feeds the dog a little scrap of turkey. I’m thankful that my Mom and Dad are the sort of folks who take serious mid-afternoon Thanksgiving nap-marathons if that’s what they feel like doing. I’m thankful for family and friends and the wacky wonder of life and all the characters I meet along the way.

Happy Thanksgiving! May you have reasons to be sappy and happy and thankful and full of love and bounty - today and every day!

Where are my contact lenses? Headlamp? Voter registration? ID? And where did my lucky spoon run off to?

These sorts of questions have plagued my existence the past eight months. About two months into my wacky cross-country journey this year, I began using the blender analogy. Take all of my possessions, put them in a giant blender and then spread them randomly across five non-contiguous states in the US and that’s pretty much been my mixed-up world for most of this year.

The moment I learned to laugh at the folly of it all was Memorial Day weekend in the Atlanta airport parking labyrinth.  I carried a soccer-ball-sized jumble of keys and couldn’t remember which car of the three in my rather loose custody that I’d parked in the lot. My own car was in storage in New Mexico and I had rental cars from both Texas and South Carolina. As we approached the lot number printed on my ticket, the bus driver said, “What kind of car?”

“I’m . . . um . . . , ” I consulted the mess of keys with a furrowed brow. “Not sure.”

“Huh, look at that,” the driver guffawed to the entire bus. “She don’t know which car she drove here! Wish I had that problem!” And we all laughed.

From then on, I stopped freaking out about misplaced items.  When I lost my contacts, I just wore my glasses, provided I could locate them, and if not, well, I just walked around blind and laughing. Then I decided that I didn’t really need my headlamp to be my woobie/security blanket any more, and I still haven’t found the darned thing. The voter registration is still in the ether somewhere too, but I was able to find my ID in time to vote, so no harm done. And my lucky spoon that’s traveled at least 10,000 miles? Seems I left it at home this last time, where I discovered it nestled in the silverware drawer upon my return. Lucky for the spoon, ’cause I’m sure I would have lost it somewhere between Tenn-Tucky and Holly Springs, Mississippi.

Although I made light of it, the blender of my life took a toll on me that I didn’t really notice until I got back to LA this past month. I’ve been wound up and overwhelmed because although all the stuff was suddenly in one place again, the blender had pureed everything into a smoothie of confusion. The power drill was found, but where was the charger? My one lonely Smart Wool sock was crying out for it’s long lost mate. I stopped wearing any sort of jewelry about two months ago, for fear that I’d lose some irreplaceable accessory.

The result was that I’ve been on edge and really didn’t even realize why until yesterday. I took a deep breath and came to my storage space/art studio in disguise. My goal? To deconstruct the blender. Two days of climbing ladders, sorting through dirt (yes, dirt) and dumping out about 10 banker’s boxes onto the floor and now I’ve gotten my flotsam of stuff whipped into recognizable and findable shape. Several trips to the Tabernacle Thrift Store and I’ve suddenly got less to worry about. The charger is found, the socks are reunited and tomorrow I plan to don some shiny things - at least one ring and a necklace.

I’ve regained that underlying sense of calm and ease that I lost somewhere on the road earlier in the year. Just in time too, because I’m leaving again very soon, destination to be announced in the coming weeks. And this time, I’m leaving with just my Italian army backpack.

Finally.

I’m tired. Can’t think of words. But, suffice to say, I’ve emptied the bottle of the two buck Chuck and now my wonderful boyfriend Matt is here to pick me up. I’m going home, going to bed.

When I left for Albuquerque in February, I’d just taken a studio space and was offered a distant location job one day later, so the space became a high priced storage unit. Now, fast forward to November and two full days of work and wine and I’ve turned this space around from mere storage space to fully functioning art studio.  Two days ago, I was literally crying - with real live tears, buckets of them - just ask Matt, he’s the one who kissed them away - because I needed a space to shut out the world and get to work.

And now it’s done. And now I’m tired (and kinda drunk). And can’t find words. But that’s ok, because I’m excited about tomorrow, and those words that I live my life for will be there, waiting for me to set them free.

I dreamed my heart was black.

This scared me, because I’ve felt lately

all sad and shriveled up on the inside.

Then the scene changed.

I saw that yes,

My heart was indeed black,

But it was made of fertile soil.

Not something hard and cold and shriveled.

And there was a little seedling

growing out of it.

Waiting to be nurtured.

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.

Are you all as nervous as I am?

I remember how it felt four years ago when Bush got re-elected. My boyfriend and I buried ourselves underneath the bed covers and cried. Like so many others we knew, we swore (but kinda didn’t really mean it) that we were moving to Canada. Then we actually called Canada. We got a recorded message from the government of Canada explaining that they were too swamped with requests. Then I remember just being thoroughly depressed and uncomfortable and angry.

I remember eight years ago when Bush first got elected. I volunteered helping to set up all the event barricades in Nashville for what we all just knew was going to be Al Gore’s victory party. I just remember how dejected and defeated we all felt as the horror unfolded - like a balloon that has a slow leak. The UN-reality of the situation hit so hard that everyone was stone silent. I remember one of my friends crying and wringing her hands and saying, “This is soooo bad. Do you all know how bad this is? We’re fucked! We’re really, really fucked.”

And at the time, I really had no idea what she was talking about. But, as I came to realize, she was oh so right.

So, now, I’m nervous. I usually volunteer to work at my local polling place on election day, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sign up this time. I’d rather be out and about in the public arena when I wake up in the morning, watching the media outlets tell the sensational tale in their biased manner. I want to be ready for anything instead of feeling like I just got sucker-punched. Again. This time I at least want to be able to brace myself.

Honestly, like many of you, I’m sitting here thinking, “Will Virginia be the new Ohio or Florida?” I hope not. I fear the ground work for that kind of debacle has already been laid.

Most of all, just get out there and vote. Please. I really do care who you vote for in the end, but I’m not going to get preachy about it. Just vote. Please. I also encourage you to ask to see the roster at your polling place late in the afternoon or early evening. This way, you can see who has not come out to vote yet and you can go knock on the doors of your neighbors who haven’t voted yet, and urge them to do so or help them if they need a ride or other assistance.

And for goodness sake, please be nice to those poll workers. They essentially are volunteers who work a 14-hour day and might get some coffee and donuts for their trouble, but they are too busy to eat anyway. Be compassionate, please.

I called my Mom today.

She told me about all the layoffs that are happening at all the plants around the rural part of the US where she and my dad live their simple life that I so admire. “Yeah, there’s going to be a lot of people hurting,” she said. “They all have these big homes and big cars and now they can’t pay for them if they get laid off. They should have thought ahead and not stretched themselves so thin.”

“I agree,” I said.

“And,” she continued, “your dad was driving a route that delivered car parts, but he’s quit that route because he’s seeing that industry slow down. He’s got a new route.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked. “What’s he delivering now?”

“Oh, he’s found a route delivering toilet paper, dinner napkins, paper towels. Stuff like that.” She laughed. “He figures that people will always need toilet paper!”

Indeed. For the record, I still support cutting back on paper product usage in order to save money, but I thought I’d share this little synchronicity, since I just ranted a couple of days ago about these very products. I’m certainly glad that my dad has a job. And I’m certainly glad that my mom and dad taught me good lessons in foresight.

Ahhh, everything is so inter-connected it blows my mind sometimes.