“Yeah, me either.” I said.

*    *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Ten years ago I made a solemn vow to never be in debt again, especially for a car. I wasn’t playing around, I meant that shit.

Then, a couple of years ago, having just returned from South America flat busted broke and in need of a job, my car threw a rod. In LA, to work, you gotta have a car, right? I mean, how else could I shlep the hour and a half drive each way to get ’over the hill,’ every single day to Burbank?

I could hardly wait to march down to a car dealership and sign the next four years or more of my life away so I could be a slave to a car payment. And never be able to save money to travel. And be stuck in an endless cycle of working and driving long distances to get there, all to pay for a car. Fuck that, I drew a line in my west side Venice beach sand.

I was lucky enough to find a freelance job in Santa Monica and I rode my bike to work for the next three months, and saved all my money. I like having money in the bank. It’s much nicer than not having money in the bank. I didn’t want to blow my whole load of meager savings on a car, a thing that always depreciates in value. So, I started going every Tuesday morning to an LAPD car auction in Marina Del Rey.

One Tuesday morn, I walked into the tow yard with $1500 in cash. I’d learned a lot after a month of car auction investigation, mostly that there is a whole industry of greasy, sleezy car dudes who scour these auctions looking for great deals on cars to flip. I watched them quietly, took notes, asked a few regulars some well thought out questions, avoided the people who muttered to themselves, and now I was ready.

No car stood out above the rest that day. During the pre-inspection, I noted several cars with potential. I laughed at the plaid seats  of a high-mileage, early 80′s rusted out Toyota hatchback full of car maintenance supplies. The auction started and when they got to the plaid-seated car, the auctioneer smiled and said, “She’s a runner!” and sure enough, they produced a key and cranked that old car right up.

You have to act fast at these auctions. I didn’t really have time to think about it. The only people bidding on this little car were the junk yard guys and I couldn’t let them take it away. I raised my hand to bid and five seconds later, for $350, I was the owner of a dirty, old-man car filled with lotto tickets and cigarette butts. We named her Bomb Diggity. Diggity for short.

I never expected it to last more than two months. Here it is, a year and a half later still going. I’ve cleaned her up – no, I didn’t check all the lotto tickets to see if there was a winner. (So many people ask me about that, I don’t get it.) But last week, I let artist Isabelle Alford-Lago paint blonde gorillas on it. Why?

Why not?

Two large tequila bottles sit on a picnic table surrounded by a few older women. The Patron bottle is empty; they’ve just cracked open the Sauza Commemorativo and are cutting more limes. A line of people buzz around three tables packed full of carnitas, asada, roasted chicken and other delicacies. Others grab beers out of ice-filled buckets. Nearly a dozen kids run around playing, dancing and pushing one another across the yard in a plastic kiddie car.

A mariachi band surrounds my friend’s mother. She is completely enthralled, locked inside the gaze of the violinist,  singing the songs along with him with all her heart and tears in her eyes. Suddenly, mariachis are momentarily upstaged.

“What’s that flying in the air?” Someone points to a kite-shaped plane that seems to be doing acrobatics in the clouds. The thing seems relatively flat and glides through the sky like a giant grey manta ray, smooth and menacing at the same time. The kids begin shouting, “Batman!” Suddenly everyone’s cameras point toward the graceful triangular object circling the party.

“It’s stealth bomber – the most important plane in the US Air Force!” replies my friend’s brother.

The mariachis keep their mesmerizing presence, never break their intense concentration in singing their songs, never stop looking my friend’s mother in the eye. The stealth bomber keeps circling the sky in a large loop that encompasses the entire neighborhood. It seems our party and the merry band of roving performers is the target of it’s vortex.

As I sit eating the best Mexican beef brisket I’ve ever had and toasting rounds of Sauza with friends while the trumpets of the mariachis play in the background, I feel a nagging discomfort in my belly as the ominous stealth bomber continues to silently patrol the airspace all around us. Those guys flying that thing are on our side, I think to myself, but how scary it would be if they weren’t. It’s a bit unsettling.

As the kids continue to squeal in delight and the band plays on, I notice the bass player look up a few times with a nervous glance. The jets quietly purr over the horns and guitar only when the bomber flies directly overhead. I can’t help but sit there and let my food get cold and my beer get warm. What abject fear the sight of that machine gliding low through a neighborhood in Baghdad must cause! The damage that thing is capable of is immense and frightening. Something in my gut will not allow me to cheer it on.

The stealth bomber, we surmise, is flying overhead to commemorate the 68th anniversary of Pearl Harbor. It seems odd to think of the thing as a symbol of victory and safety. Everyone waves to it as it flies low overhead, but I can’t shake the creepy feeling inside myself until it is gone. Can’t stop thinking about parties in other parts of the world that it could turn into a grease spot within seconds.

Oh the beer-guzzling!

The tinsel-spewing good times of the LA Santacon  . . .

Matt and I . . . bottom front. El Cid.

Then later . . . I stole a sign from one of those clowns . . .

I’m sporting my grandma’s green taffeta ball gown. As you can see, things got a lil’ fuzzy . . .

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.

Yesterday I was cranky upon arrival. And hot! It was HOT here – 100 degrees plus. I tried to go to sleep, but the caffeine in my system made me toss and turn. Plus, the bed radiated heat. I could feel it coming up in waves. And the fan blew hot air. There was just no escape from the yuck of the searing, mother-fucking oppressive heat!!!

I was numb yesterday – having just returned from an exciting and surprising 8 month adventure with lots of twists and turns, starts and stops not to mention changes and amendments in plan, I just didn’t know anything but blank numbness. And crankiness. Raaarg! Did I mention cr-r-anky? I sat inside a corner restaurant in a foreign-to-me Los Angeles neighborhood drinking water with ice cubes melting faster than the polar ice caps and really wondered what the hell I was I thinking, coming back to Los Angeles.

Then I went back home and took a nap, awoke at sunset in a puddle of sweat and cat hair, drank a couple of glasses of wine, listened to an Ella Fitzgerald record, listened to the closeness of the neighbors as I was tucked away inside my comfortable space and read a book as I sprawled out in the middle of the hardwood floor. I was beginning to feel better.

Then my friends came home. We all sat on the patio and Matt and I re-told hours of our summertime adventure stories. We laughed and joked and drank cold water that we’d put in the freezer hours before. I heard that the hot day was just a fluke. I still am looking forward to getting back to Venice, though, where I can roller skate to my heart’s content with cool ocean breezes tumbling through my hair.

I woke up this morning with a slight lingering crankiness, but now that I’ve had some tea and an English muffin and plans to jet over to Venice to empty my cram-packed worrisome car, I seem to be all sun-shiney once again.

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.

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.

All Non-Partisan voters were able to cast their vote for a presidential nominee from the Democratic ticket or the American Independent ticket. If you came through my polling place, and you were on the roster as Non-Partisan, you were told that you were also allowed to choose from the Democratic and American Independent tickets. All Non-Partisan voters were still given a Non-Partisan ballot and told to go to their voting booth of choice: Democratic, American Independent, Non-Partisan. We told everyone to very carefully read #6!

Number 6 was the infamous bubble question of – “do you want to be disenfranchised . . .” Appparently this bubble needed to be punched in order for the vote to count. I think this is too tricky for voters. If the Dems and the AI party opened up their tickets to NP voters, then let the floodgates open, with no hoops, tricks or confusion. It’s akin to being ‘kinda pregnant.’ You either are or you aren’t.

As one of the pollworkers, I’m not even sure which is correct – that if you are an NP voter and you wanted to vote as a Dem that you get a Dem ticket or if you still should have voted on an NP ticket and checked bubble #6. I voted on the Dem ticket (provisionally, I might add!) and there was no #6. So, that would mean that only the NP tickets had question #6, the question that you had to punch, which we’ve all agreed is redundant.

And, if it makes anyone feel any better, my vote probably ‘won’t count’ because I forgot that I am an NP voter and when I voted provisionally, I couldn’t remember how I was registered, so I voted on a Dem ticket.

Is my blood boiling that my vote ‘may not count?’ No, not so much as the mistake was a call to get my own politics in order . . . as in . . . know which party I’m affiliated with and go in to the polls a little better-informed. Maybe look-up ‘disenfranchised’ in the dictionary.

Am I annoyed with the continual shenanigans in our voting system? Yes! But I believe that community involvement can help foster awareness, which will lead to a better system. I consider this primary as practice. Let’s not get too agitated over the primary, fellow Angelino NP voters! Let’s all take this as a big lesson to open our eyes for whatever they try to pull over on us next time.

Also, I’ll say this: I don’t have a TV, nor do I listen to the radio, so I’m thankfully not sitting here being fed an AP story about “Bubble-gate” every hour on the hour.