Let's shoot up! Or smoke up! Or however you injest meth! I actually don't know.

I went for a run last night on the Venice boardwalk in the dark, one of my favorite pastimes.
I passed a group of homeless meth heads (yes, I know they were meth heads because they looked like [THIS]), and the bald one yelled out to me:

Hey, baby! You ever see a grown white man naked before?

This sounded strange to me. I didn’t know whether to be:

1. Excited because he must have thought my supple skin to be of virgin quality.

2. Insulted because he must have thought I hadn’t been able to get anyone to undress in front of me before.

3. Insulted because he must have thought I was a pedophile and had only seen non-grown naked white men before.

4. Flattered because he must have thought I was a lesbian (I’ve always felt I’m not edgy enough to be a lesbian.).

Involuntarily, I screamed, ‘Yes! Yes, I have.’

The group burst out in meth head laughter.

But then I thought about it.
That meth head knew me so well.

Methy was almost correct in his skepticism.
Now, I’m:

5. Amazed that he could tell I have a black/brown man fetish.

I have actually only seen one grown white man naked. (If you’re reading this, yes it’s you. [see how I did that to make him feel special when I’m actually just covering my ass in case I missed one?]) Genius.

Meth heads are so brilliant. I need to get me some of that. I’ll age prematurely, but I’ll be able to see into the sexual partners of others, an invaluable talent. If this blog gets incoherent and choppy, you know why. But if my face skin starts sloughing off at dinner, can someone please get me on that intervention show so I can have a miracle recovery and then finally get a book deal?

Shit. My future just got so bright. Meth for everyone! On me!

Sex at the Salad Bar

Thanks, friends, for your concerned emails and for looking at me with that signature head tilt as if I’m a Haitian orphan. It’s sweet. I get it. I sound lonely and pathetic. Two weeks ago I admitted to trolling the Craigslist Missed Connections and last week I wanted someone to hold my hand while I fell asleep. If I’d read this blog, I would have been barfing all over the place and then weeping for pathetic old me.

Sigh.

It’s true that I want to be in love. I said it last week, and I can’t take it back.
But you know what’s worse than NOT being in love?
Dating.
It’s much, much worse.

Dating has so much potential to be amazing-- the excitement of this new person who could possibly end up playing a huge role in your life. But then there are the smiles that melt into pained grins. And the guys who arrive an hour late. And the same conversations about siblings and birthplaces and parents. And the fake offering to pay the check. And the men who let me. And the texting afterward.

It’s all so gross.
And although I do want to be in love, I don’t want to be a dater. In fact, I’d like to announce that I’m done dating. I’m out-dated. I’m a Dater Hater. I hereby declare that I am retiring from the dating scene until 2011. No more no more no more.

This means, of course, that I should probably stop shopping at Whole Foods.

Shopping at the Whole Foods in Venice beach is no ordinary grocery experience. This particular Whole Foods is a meat market. And it also sells meat.

There are more single people in this place than produce. And the cornucopia of promiscuity is obvious with every squeeze of a cantaloupe. There are skinny girls in daisy dukes, tan yogi men in scarves, salty surfer boys, and hipsters in V-necks. They’re all dripping with sexual tension as they measure out the bulk flax seed. Scooping peas from the salad bar is the new porn. You can’t pick out a bok choy without someone complimenting your pink aura or saying, ‘You must be tired because you’ve been doing downward dog in my mind all night.’

It’s just disgusting.

And also really fucking exciting. Because there’s nothing like the hope that fills your whole being when you spot that man with the smoldering eyes in the freezer section.

THAT is the best part of being single-- the hope, the anticipation, the numbness, the excitement of walking into the cookie aisle and knowing that any one of the men eyeing the gluten-free chocolate chips could be the man you wake up to for the rest of your life (And the fact that you can eat two PBJs for dinner in complete silence while naked.).

Was someone saying something about love? Maybe I prefer a lifetime of titillation at the salad bar. Now that I’m rethinking it, I can’t give it all up-- the hope, the men, or the Kashi cereal. I think it’s about time I come out of retirement.

Who wants to take me out to dinner? I promise to offer to pay and not really mean it.

2009: I love your oddness and all that stuff I did during you.

Remember that trip I went on? It was that really fun and soul-searching one that had me skipping through Southeast Asia, India, and strange places like Papua New Guinea? Lasted about 9 months?
It’s over!
I know it’s been over for a while. I know this.
But I still can’t believe it. It consumed me for all of 2008 and 2009.
Now that I’m unemployed again, I’ve had time to reflect on 2010. It’s gone so fast. And furious. Not really furious. But fast. And busy. And where did it all go? I don’t know, but I already miss it. And I miss 2009. And I know I’m not supposed to dwell on the past, but I must indulge, just this one time. This one tiny time. Ok, along with several other times because the past is what brought me to right now, and I'm pretty psyched about right now even though I pretend to complain about it. I wrote this poem on the road. And, now, here is my updated response:

I miss being a foreigner.
But it’s nice to talk about grilling and Legos and have people understand.

I miss being detached from everything.
But knowing the details makes me feel important.

I miss having absolutely no responsibility.
But it feels grown-up to be responsible.

I miss getting lost on purpose.
But I secretly love my iPhone GPS.

I miss monks.
Yes, actually I really miss monks.

I miss being able to bargain for every single thing.
But I don’t miss bargaining for every single thing.

I miss making instant new friends every day.
But there’s nothing like sharing wine with old friends.

I miss trusting total strangers.
Oh wait, I still do that.

I miss not knowing what celebrities are doing.
Why am I obsessed with Spencer and Heidi? Please help.

I miss being completely unfindable.
But I also like hiding in my own bed.

I miss wearing the same thing every day.
Oh wait, I still do that too.

I miss the unbridled curiosity about me and my country.
But it’s nice to walk to a store without anyone asking a question. Sometimes.

I miss forgetting what day it is.
I'm pretty sure it's Thursday.

I miss not worrying about my career or the future or finances.
Maybe I should stop doing that now.

I miss not knowing where I’m going until I step outside.
But I vow to do that more often.

I miss big fat meals of stuff I’ve never heard of for three bucks.

And strong Asian women who want to take me under their wings.

And reading entire books on long bus trips.

And real, silent wilderness.

And trains filled with curious people who share food and smiles.

And hour-long conversations in the language of hand gestures.

And I just miss Traveling. I miss the whole damn thing. But I’ll see it again soon.

For now: Living by the beach & Souplantation it is. I know a few guys here in Venice who speak only in hand gestures anyway, so it's almost like Traveling.

Yeah, that's me in 2009. Me and my friend, The Great Barrier Reef. Now I'm drinking coffee and listening to hipsters talk about their bicycles.

It's hard out here for a hippie.

I’m having the hardest time being a hippie lately. I had no problems last year-- never brushed my hair or wore makeup, carried my life in a sack, lived wherever I felt like it. Life couldn’t have been better.

But now I’m in Los Angeles.

Chihuahuas wear designer clothes and you’re an oddity if you don’t have a German-engineered car. Plus, my adult acne requires I wear some fancy foundation for anyone to take me seriously, and I was forced to buy some decent jeans due to my exhibitionist butt crack. So, I’m now feeling like ‘one of them.' I’m a paradox-- surrounded by creative directors in Diesel jeans by day and meditating in lotus at night. It couldn’t feel more weird. I know a guy who just paid $50,000 for a couch ('It is the focal point,' he rationalized). Some of my friends are struggling to raise $400 to send a year’s supply of water to a village in Africa. Where the hell do I fit in the mix? If I could, I’d sell that couch, pay off my student loans, and go to Africa to deliver the water myself. Does that make me a hippie or just some chick who says she’s a hippie but is just lazy and wants to use travel as an excuse for never having to work?

I don’t know. But the best part is that I don’t have to know. Because I live in Venice Beach! You could wake up in Venice Beach stuffed in a cannon. You could crawl out of that cannon and find an eyeless homeless man, a guy selling cotton balls and taser guns, and a yuppie jogger pushing twins in a five-thousand-dollar stroller. And none of this would seem weird. And you’d say to a man playing bongos, ‘Excuse me, do you know why I woke up in a cannon?’ And instead of looking at you as if you had five noses, he’d tap his friends on their leathery shoulders and they’d all help you find out why you awoke in this cannon. And all together you’d find a guy sleeping in the sand who remembered that you were at the local freak show (the one that features an assortment of 2-headed animals) and that you volunteered to shoot yourself from the cannon after downing a magnum bottle of Opus One (bought for you by this Hollywood big shot at a bar down the street for $749 plus tax). And then you’d hear that the freak show owner stuffed you in the cannon but ran from the cops right afterward because he’s also the owner of the medical marijuana joint across the street that was getting raided. You know the one, next to American Apparel. And so you fell asleep in the canon until now when you just awoke to the aforementioned plus a dude frying up worms on a pocket kerosene grill, not because he’s homeless but because he’s a shaman and these particular worms are from Tibet and will help him with his Tantric sexcapades, about which you don’t want know-- trust me.

It’s a strange place, this Venice area. On the beach, it looks like a scene out of Rishikesh, India-- free yoga, dirty dreadlocks, street sleepers, seedy taverns, and marijuana. Lots of marijuana.

Four blocks over is where the hippies become pseudo. Here the marijuana is legit, the bars have bouncers, and the coffee shop baristas draw hearts in the latte foam. The dreadlocks on this side of Venice were professionally installed by a guy with thick plastic glasses and expensive skinny jeans. The yoga classes run upwards of twenty bucks.

It’s strange, this paradox of lifestyles. But I love it. Because I’m neither nor. I’m not one but both. I am a daily contradiction. I like chocolate and bread pudding. I want it all. I’m every woman. It’s all in me. And there’s no point in choosing now. So, I’m gonna ride my 400-dollar bike down to the free yoga and meditate the day away with the drum circle. And then maybe wash it all down with a plate of foie gras in truffle oil. (Ok, I would never eat foie gras, but the vegetarian shit I would like doesn’t sound fancy enough to make this dichotomy sound so astounding. So just imagine something really awesome & pricey on a plate served by a super cool hipster with funky pants and Converse.)

Venice is it.

Macho men that spend sunny weekends choreographing dances on their roller skates. Where else?

OJ Simpson was in my yoga class this morning.

I swear. I thought he was in jail, but my eyes insist it was him sweating it out in his Speedo next to me in hot yoga this morning.

My, oh my! So much has happened since I’ve arrived on American soil. I left again and went to Canada. I got a paycheck, the first of 2009. I cooked risottos and eggplants and stews. I hung out with my family. I sneaked into a double-feature. I got manicures and pedicures and realized that the only thing that makes you feel like a girl again after a long year of feeling like a boy is a nice pair of 5-inch heels. I rode around town on my moped. I joined the fight against Iran’s Islamic Republic. I decided I’ll never get a dog. I went on a date. I ate dinner next to Mary-Kate or Ashley. I saw a piano recital. I noticed blogs to be quite narcissistic (what's with all the "I"s?). I made a plan for the year and then yelled at myself for making plans. I dressed like a slutty clown. I met new friends. I met old friends again. I stayed in my pajamas for a whole week straight. I learned to appreciate my little hometown and its many fragrant trees. I found a cute little apartment in Venice Beach.

New digs!

It turns out starting life again is a bit more difficult than I thought. So I’ll be parking this page until I set up my new little desk in its new little spot on January 9th. And then you’ll be able to read about funny humans in Venice Beach or along Route 66. Yep, I just drove my car from LA to Chicago and now I'll be driving it back. Hoping to spot some hummus plants or maybe even the Juice. Nah, I don't really want to spot OJ again. If I see a celebrity on my drive, it better be someone good. Like Richard Simmons.

Have a wonderful holiday season, or whatever they say. Thank you so much for making this past year really really special for me. Smell ya in 2010.