Dealing With My Brain

I had another nightmare last night.

First off, I was working on a movie set that was behind schedule... as an extra.

Then, while in holding, some random (but clearly specific) girl asked me where she could read the KATHY Comic book. I told her it was down in the lunch room, because that's where she saw me reading it in the first place (duh... creepy girl).

I can't focus on here at that point, because I'm trying to find my stuff, which I had cleverly concealed in some giant, shallow manhole? Nope, I was just looking under there for the hell of it (the cover was alarmingly light for being concrete). I didn't end up finding my stuff because I got distracted by this gorgeous, sprawling archaeological dig happening right behind me. It was unearthing a surprisingly complete T-Rex skeleton. I started taking pictures with my iPhone. I immediately wanted to post the photos on my FaceBook page with a snarky caption, like, "See! PROOF that God put those bones there only 6000 years ago ;)"

I started taking pictures, but first mistakenly took video. DAMMIT! My phone has been moving slower and crashing when I take video lately :( As I was adjusting, Christopher Seiber was walking along the other edge of the massive rectangular dig site (opposite the T-Rex) who then waved and yelled "Hi!" I waved back, thinking "How the hell does he know who I am? He must be mistaking me someone else. It happens all the time in New York... Stupid Doppelgangers...

Anyways, so I get back to taking pictures of the T-Rex, when I realize I should be taking photos of EVERYTHING! After all, I am in Egypt (I mentioned this... right?). I begin taking photos of all the buildings saying to my fellow American extras who must also have been flown out first-class to work on this film (and to think, I still didn't want to work on set... ungrateful) "Look how old everything is!" as I was photographing retro-sheik-chic apartment buildings. Realizing that these structures couldn't possibly be older than the 70's, it occurred to me that the pyramids would be excellent photo-fodder... being in Egypt and all. So I, and some other Americans (extras ditching-out on their job, I presume) begin looking.

...Of course, the first attraction we come across is DISNEY-EGYPT! I immediately became indignant. "@$!#ing Mouse! Ruining history..." (because I've always cared sooooo deeply about the subject...). I choose to walk on the outskirts of their fancy sand-bag borders, awkwardly tripping in the sand while a couple in a tent appreciates my folly.

I immediately come upon a sandstone building (only one story... maybe two) and find myself whisked into it. Dammit! It's another Disney attraction. Ugh, FINE Eisner! I'll walk through your tourist trap quickly, but only so I can emerge from the other side of the building, away from your fake celebrations of the old world.

I enter this building to find that it is a Middle-Eastern sideshow... consisting entirely of gaunt "yogis" doing stereotypical things (like snake-charming, stretching, carpet-flying)... actually they're just sitting on the floor or jumping around. They're all crowded together (yet, evenly spaced) throughout the long, wide hallway. I'm clearly too intelligent to pay any attention to this racist application of a commercially pandering vision of the past. I rush past all of these guys... all the while thinking "Ew... they're all scrawny with bad skin, I would so never sleep with any of them..."

I make it down the hallway to find that it turns right into another identical one filled with sickly Disney employees... but something is different. As I'm rushing past, I notice that the "yogis" are getting progressively skinnier and more repulsive... What used to be pock-marked faces and bony arms were becoming weeping pustules and shriveled appendages. Oh gawd! What a disturbingly effective sideshow... yeesh I always forget what a good production Disney puts on... they've got it down to a science, you know.

The individuals I'm flying past (this is all happening at a nearly fast-foward speed) who used to be these pruny gurus, have become these terrifying representations of humanity. Men are hopping back and forth, flailing these flappy collections of flesh that could barely be referred to as arms and legs. And, of course they are ALL trying to get close to me. They want my attention for some reason. It's okay, I'm used to ignoring unwanted advances... though I'm not sure what these people could possibly want from me. I can't imagine them having any need beyond that of a swift, sudden death. Seriously.

The third/fourth/? hallway is slightly smaller, but the creatures could scarcely be called "people." What used to be vague excuses for limbs have become nonexistent. These things were lumpy, wormlike creatures smacking their own "parts" together with soft fleshy resonance. How were they alive? Aborted fetuses are more developed than these things. Seriously, who feeds these things and allows them to exist!? I don't imagine they're content with their station in life. Of course, the worse these abominations are, the more they want my attention. Finally, I come across some lumps on the floor, reminiscent of Jimmy Dean sausage links (I actually got slightly hungry in the dream...). Alright, have I found a door yet-OHGAWDTHEY'REALIVE!!! That's right, the "sausages" (there are 2, each about the size of 3 Dachshunds linked together) are alive and have begun rolling back and forth, once or twice, touching my bare feet (sweetjeebus). Good. A door. I'm gone.

So... the sausage people are following me... rolling after me with all their might. In retrospect, I don't understand my aversion. It's not like they could do anything to me. It was practically my civic duty to bash them against the walls of their sandstone prison and end their torment. Hell! That's probably all they wanted! Well, I'm not good with leadership, or responsibility beyond anyone but myself. I hid in the doorway of the next building I could find and watched the creatures roll obliviously past (who knows... maybe they just needed someone to open the door for them, and they were headed back to their families... or towards a cliff). I was over them.

I hear commotion in the next room and look through the space in the slightly ajar door to see a rather attractive shirtless teenage-early 20's tan brunette guy effortlessly menacing a crowd of white people (once again, still in Egypt... I'll assume we're all tourists). Either way, I immediately recognize my desire to have sex with this individual as probably what got all of these people into trouble in the first place (You know, like in HOSTEL). However, the second I even acknowledge the thought, the commotion breaks and I know I've been found out (so I head behind a slowly closing door... thus begins an annoying chase scene involving strange door-closing habits, and broken broom sticks as weapons... It gets boring.

All I know is that I woke up feeling slightly dehydrated, having to pee, and realizing I had to move my car before the street sweeper came. I did. No ticket. Win. I shouldn't feel this crappy though... I've been in LA for over 2 weeks. I've been exercising and eating impeccably. Can I please sleep all the way through the night yet??? I want my Dad's waffles right now...

Hate-Filled Rage

I've mentioned that it's hot, right? I mean, too hot. Waaay too hot. Like, burnt at the stake hot with tabasco sauce... What? I've already forgotten what my point was. Oh yes, hot. It's to the point where I end up waiting for things to cool down so I can get out of bed, which is silly, because the temperature only rises as the day wanes on. So, 1pm is usually the time when my barely functioning brain finally realizes that things are not going to change unless I literally run cold water through my hair and stand nude on my tile floor directly in front of my fan. That seemed like a lot of effort. Instead, I got up and had a smoothie. Turns out brain-freeze is just as effective at cooling me off as AC. Good. To. Know.

I took it upon myself to look up the weather all across the U. S., just to see if anyone else is as dreadfully scorched as NYC. I am now jealous. Of course, Northern Michigan is at a high of 70º and a low of 58º (ºF people, 'cuz I'm American and change is bad). This is generally the time of year when summer is in full swing and everyone is enjoying Lake Superior... as I wish I was. Right now. Los Angeles will not (and from the looks of it will never) stray from it's customary 72º. Here's where my confusion starts: New Mexico is sitting comfortably at 69º... isn't that supposed to be a desert!? New York is a COASTAL city! Shouldn't the ocean be buffering temperatures and weather, or does "lake effect" only refer to actual lakes (and not just water in general)? Either way, my compulsion to flee the East Coast only grow more severe as the days plod slowly onward.

Of course, none of the necessary packing/cleaning/selling has been taken care of. I did, however, get on the phone with my Dad a few nights ago to search for flights on United. I'm glad he called, otherwise that flight would have been booked last-minute. After doing a quick search for a one-way ticket (which I have never purchased in my life), we found one for $98...

...WHAT? $98!?!? That's only $115 with taxes and fees added on! I have NEVER found a flight that cheap, let alone one to the U. P. I am both baffled and elated by this. I couldn't make the purchase fast enough. I made sure to read everything aloud to my father as I went, just to make sure I had the date/year/airport/whatever-else-could-I-could-get-wrong right. Was it because the flight was one-way? I don't think so, because that price was sandwiched in the list by the usual $200-$300 tickets. I've decided to stop questioning my good fortune and just accept that sometimes things work out. Dad was trying to figure out how to get me up there cheaply, either through miles, coupons, or any other various tricks we've learned through decades of obnoxious air travel. I guess, sometimes, it pays to just cross your fingers and pony up the dough.

Now that I've cooled down, I'm going to take it upon myself to put away the laundry that I miraculously did a few days ago. I'm not supposed to use the washer/dryer in the back of my apartment, at least, that's what my landlord said when I first moved in. It makes no sense to me. Why do I have to drag my junk up the street and around the corner when I could just walk a few feet and get my business taken care of? I'm sure there are legitimate reasons, but during the last month, I ignored the request and did one load of late-night laundry while everyone was asleep. I even covered my tracks by putting everything as it was before I did my load (my one, small load). No problems. However, when I tried again a few days later, I took out all the dry clothing that was just sitting in the washer and put mine in. Luckily, I did not toss in the detergent first, because I put down the top to get it started, only to hear a faint buzzing accompanied by no activity. The machine was either broken or Vera (the lady of the house) had turned off the machine from the inside or something. No matter, I just removed my stuff and replaced everything as I had found it. I took my clothes in their makeshift Samsonite hamper and left them in my kitchen with the doors leading to the laundry room and outside left open behind me for air circulation. The following morning, as I was closing the doors (once I realized the air outside was apocalyptic), I was greeted with a handwritten note taped to the cabinet above the washer. "Please, stop using my washer + dryer."

How did she know? Did she awaken during my last 3am load and hear the dryer going? If that were the case, she probably would have said something the following morning. What made her think I had done my laundry that night (especially when I hadn't)? Did she notice her clothes weren't in the exact same washer configuration in which they had previously been left? Was the machine dial not in it's customary position? The loud, masculine Croatian woman never struck me as anal retentive or OCD. Then I realized my suitcase full of dirty clothes was sitting right next to the door in my kitchen, which I'm sure she saw, because most of my apartment is visible through the kitchen door. If that's the case, then it's awfully presumptuous of her. I might have been cleaning my closet the night before. Frankly, she had no proof. I'm venturing an educated guess that I'm smarter than her (and her husband... and teenage boy... combined... not that I'm a genius, I just give them very little credit), and that, if I had actually finished my load, she would never have known.

Here's the thing: I discovered that note only moments after blithely walking upstairs and giving them my cheerful, Midwestern official months notice that I was moving out for a "job" in L.A. She had looked at me, then muttered "I wish you the best of luck" as she walked back into to her house. No eye contact. Bitch. I refuse to give any indication that I know the note is for me, or that I've even seen it. It's still taped to the cabinet. That's what happens when you don't give your awesome tenant (who always pays rent on time and is very pleasant... to your face) usage of your laundry, heating, or even the ability to install AC (because you've barred the only window). He leaves you.

Perhaps I'm taking my heat-grouch out on them. Whatever, I'm sure they don't lose any sleep over it. I'm guessing from the Air Conditioning drip that hits me every time I leave my apartment, they're sleeping like rocks. Wish I could say the same.

Starting Over

I have recently made the decision to, once again, uproot my life and change my world around. After using New York City as a base for approximately 3 years and 8 months, I am making what feels to be a poorly thought-out and highly illogical move to Los Angeles.

Why?

...enh, because.

The decision came to me in late June. I was sitting with my friend Michael, discussing the hellishly early call time I had for work the following morning and whether or not I should attend the 20th Anniversary of Broadway Bares. Amidst our conversation, my friend, Tarah responded to a text message I had sent 2 hours prior. It had merely read, "September."

"Ur Coming! !!!!!!! :-) (x9)" she digitally exclaimed in a shorthand that, I assure you, is indicative of her entire persona.

"... moving ;)" I replied

*SEND* spasm

"Did you just get electrocuted?" Michael queried, with cautious befuddlement.

"No... I'm moving to L. A."

"What? When were you going to tell me? When!?"

"I just did. September... I'm going to Bares with you guys tonight."

It was a very specific decision. Of course there was, currently is, and will probably continue to be doubt, fear, and an ever-looming sense of, "really?" orbiting it. However, all of that only serves to further solidify my resolve. I have mentally prepared myself, discussed with all parties concerned, made farewell visits, and have even perused various craigslist notices for housing and cars. That's all well and good, but the fact remains my room still appears (according to my ex) to be inhabited by a meth addict. For the uninformed/inexperienced, that means it's messy. Absurdly so. I always chuckle to myself when people apologize for the state their living quarters.

It's not as if I'm a "hoarder" (or whatever they're called on that show my friends always reference). On the contrary, I have actually kept my possessions to an impressive minimum. The issue is the age-old problem of not having put things away once I've finished with them. I always know where everything is, in at least a general sense. Every once in a while, I even "catch the spirit" and go on a cleaning bender that lasts for days. Not because I have so much to go through, I just do it in minute detail. I keep every pay stub and receipt and if they do not have a specific place to go, then they slowly begin migrating from the desktop, to the floors, the kitchen counters... I think I even have a few on top of my fridge. One can imagine where my clothes end up.

I feel like Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. Again, it's not because of quantity, but more of a ticking time-bomb situation. If I don't get my rear in gear soon, I'm going to be hurting when it comes time to move and my landlords are wondering how they are going to sell prospective tenants a war-zone.

Naturally, with all of this self-imposed responsibility over my head, I felt this would be a most appropriate time to begin a new blog. I'm tired of facebook, the video games on my phone make my arms stiff, and I've watched all of the current episodes of my favorite TV shows. I suppose I could also go to bed, but I'm not tired, and it's hot.

When I say hot, I mean hhhhhhhot. New England temperatures have hit record highs and the rising moisture only seems to fall back to the earth every half-day in 10-minute, drenching intervals. The worst part is that I have no air-conditioning. I find this sort of climate paralyzing. The same with New England winters. There have been minimal days of happy medium. I even tried to purchase an AC unit yesterday, only to find that my basement dwelling is not conducive to any sort of ventilation. The window is my only source of daylight and has bars installed. Instead, I purchased one of those fancy "blade-less" fans instead... Expensive.

If I start cleaning now, I'll probably find that receipt just in time to catch my flight... In August.

-G