Oxymorons & Hangovers

A Night of Funny People

...was such a fucking good time. Those tickets were a rare and unique Christmas present and I’m so grateful for them. I went with Josh, Kiddo’s dad. Downtown LA’s craptastic one way streets take a lot of getting used to. This wasn’t my first trip to the Orpheum, nor the first time I drove right past it and then spent the better part of another half hour trying to get back to it. I was so goddamned done with driving by the time we paid to park in almost-adjacent lot. We killed time in a deliciously grimy taco stand and wandered into a hidden upscale bar. When I commented on how obscured it was from the street, he commented perfectly, “…it’s like bragging you know how to find it.” This is why I like him. Because I almost said the same line at the same moment and the world almost combusted.

In the venue, red wine prices weren’t quite like grabbing your ankles, but almost. The seats were very decent although there was a huge camera behind my head. I will be looking for the irregular dent in my hair when Funny People hits theaters.

Since becoming a total stand-up comedy whore, I have been fortunate enough to see almost all of my favorites, some multiple times. I’d yet to see Sarah Silverman and Patton Oswalt though. They happened to be the specials guests as well as David Spade. I was a little squeally – a combination of good wine and excitement. There is definitely a difference between a comedy actor and a stand-up comedian. Adam Sandler didn’t get many laughs, although when told to give a standing ovation for the character he was playing, the audience happily obliged. Several times. Seth Rogen did pretty well, even though his character is supposed to be the crappy opener to Sandler’s character. Oswalt was by far the fucking best. He did religion better than anyone – except maybe Eddie Izzard.

There are layoffs going around my old job again. I’m devastated for my old friends, some out of work and some shaking in their boots to keep a grip on their job. My mom and dad both work there as well. It seems like no one is safe from being laid off. Tomorrow will probably be ugly… ugh.

-Pretty Lush

Dilemna and/or exhaustion

I'm sunk into the couch, sipping and sweating out a shitty Monday, to the tune of The Ultimate Fighter playing loud in the background. (Since they won't, may I stab Junie?) My calves are tight from about eight miles of treading in Converse for the Los Angeles AIDS Walk (10k plus ridiculously distanced parking). My cousin put together a small team and I'm really proud of her efforts. No matter how rough the walk, the high is unbeatable. The breast cancer walk prepared me because I'm not nearly as sore as I anticipated. Believe it or not, this Lush has more compassion than she knows what to do with. And Lucy was a fantastic sport, the little attention whore.

I took my sister to see Nick & Nora's Infinite Playlist. I felt poked in all my sore spots after that one. It was fantastic; mirroring so many of the aspects of my relationships in the past few years. I kind of adored it a lot.

Four years ago I stopped taking medication for depression. It took a while but finally the solid blocks on my creativity came loose. I'm a week and a half into a new perscription and layer by layer, the walls are going up again. Maybe I'm just tired. I fucking hope so. What's worse? Sealing an already clogged outlet or ending every day wishing you could tear your skin off?

I'm on a mission to rid the county of as many Yes on 8 signs as possible. I had no idea my neighbors were such bigots. It's infuriating. Matter of fact, pajamas and all, I'm going to get one I saw outside earlier. Goodnight.

-Pretty Lush

Honesty

Just like when it sprinkles in So Cal and CNN has everyone on STORM WATCH!, the earth shakes around a bit and it's like: APOCALYPSE. Seriously the live feed on the pharmacy where an entire box of tampons and a bottle of shampoo fell off the shelf is a little underwhelming. Let's take the hype down to a two.

I guess it was pretty crazy to feel an earthquake past the denial phase. Last time I felt one was a quick few seconds of tremor that could have either been a very small earthquake... or a fat co-worker on the second floor. Today was more like, "Is thaaat... fuck me, the room's moving!" I ran. With no direction in mind, I ran from my desk and then quickly regained my cool and fell into a brisk walk to the kitchen for some ice water. At least two people saw the panic in my eyes and probably thought, "I knew that new girl was wired wrong."

The Dodger game last night was what you'd call a great loss. They alllmost came back from being down seven with six runs in two innings. Torre was (dramatically) thrown out. And the whole damn stadium ripped up for his walk back to the dugout after standing up for his guys.

I want a Kiss Cam at my wedding.

Jeffrey got me thinking the other day. He was musing on about how people will bend over backwards for something new. And when they aquire it, it becomes a part of their life and the excitement of the new gets completely absorbed in the routine. It's true of everything. Even getting a new car is only exciting for so long. And then the monotony of the morning commute edges in. Always having to wash it because you thought black was a good idea. A new apartment, a new fuck buddy, a new gagdet... the sparkle wears right off the chrome in time. How do you avoid giving in to that? How do you keep routine from completely gnawing at your sanity and making you want to slit your wrist at six a.m.? Because um, I'm twenty-three... and it's happening. I'm gonna be one son of a bitch in my forties. I really don't think Jeff analyzed it with such a sour taste as I'm wont to do. It's scary to think of... but I'm glad I acknowledge it. Maybe I'll learn something.

The most random circumstances got me thinking the other day from behind a rum and Coke, that no one ever really prepares you for real life because no one wants to admit that you don't always win. You don't always knock it out of the park in the bottom of the ninth, or win over your nemesis, or score the winning point, or get the girl. You don't always attain the fence and the grass and the kids without real life finding a way in to your movie reel. Real life has fucking problems, man. Nightmares. In every Hollywood movie about the struggling actress, she gets a big break, right? What about the ones who die trying? What if you don't fucking win? Or what if when you do win, your love drops fatally ill? That's the reality of life. You think you're gonna get handed anything great without some sort of negative circumstances, you gotta stop watching so much Disney channel. There has to be some yin to the yang.

I guess you just gotta make the rest of it all a really good fucking ride.

I swear I'm not being a fun sponge. I'm trying to live better. I'm constantly giving myself a pep talk. A lot lately. Brash on the outside but trust me, I'm forcing a bubbly pink whirlwind on the inside to avoid being one of those people taking out my shit life on the wait staff.

I'm gonna go have lasagna and beer with some friends and make birthday cards with Kiddo. I gotta shake this day.

-Pretty Lush

Post-lunch lethargy

Last night, Adam Richmond was kind of enough to put Ree and I down on his guest list for what turned out to be a very hilarious show at the Improv in Hollywood. We were stifling yawns when we got in and sipping languidly from cold beer bottles. In the showroom we switched to liquor and the comedians started taking the stage. We were fully awake and falling out of our chairs shortly after. During a cigarette break, Ree made subtle head motions and asked, "Dude. Is that Bud Bundy?" It was, in fact, David Faustino. And he is a very small guy. A full head shorter than me, I noted when we brushed past in the bar. Ree also ran into a dude from Big Brother, but you'll have to ask her about it. I've never seen that show.

I swear, I could be a stand-up spectator every night of the week. Especially when the server is buying the drink, as he did at the end of the night. Such a good soul.

Today was pay day but my monies were absorbed into the abyss of debt. Which is a shame because I thought I could budget for a tattoo this weekend. I was kidding myself. Perhaps in the next decade, I'll earn some scripty-scrawl on my forearms.

I just pounded a bag of gummi bears. What's with the after taste?

END, FRIDAY AFTERNOON. END. PUT YOURSELF AND THE REST OF THE SLAVES OUT OF THEIR MISERY AND COMMENCE NIGHT TIME HI-JINX. 'cept I'm packing more tonight so my 'jinx will all be covered by the abundance of bubble wrap I brought home from work.

Ew, go wash the lame off. You should really up your standards when it comes to reading blogs, friend.

-Pretty Lush

Going down as: The Night Dave Attell Bought Me a Bud Light

It is my luck that on the one morning that I may be on time to work, maybe even early!, that Kiddo can't find her shoes or 'painting book'* (not to be confused with 'fishy book'). The carseat isn't buckled in from having caravanned the ladies last night and the seatbelt becomes a twisty, uncooperative bitch. Kiddo can't sit and relax in said seat until her Jack Skellington doll is hung in it's proper spot above her seat on the oh-shit bar. I tumble into the car, deep breathe... and spill a giant mug of chocolate milk all over the passenger seat.

Good Friday, indeed.

*The 'painting  book' is a book of Picasso paintings and little blurbs about each one. She delightedly flips through it for hours and informs everyone that, "Picasso did these." Snob.

Although fuzzy, stuffy, sleepy, cottonmouth-y and a number of other dwarves of hangover symptoms, I can optimistically say that last night was one of the best. I collected a couple sexy dates and headed out to the Hollywood Improv. At the box office, I was informed that I was not on the list, even after the gal who called to tell me I'd won the tickets promised I would be. Breathe in - explain story - exasperated employee prints four party ticket. WIN. We waited in some line for a while - shivering and dreaming of the warm luxury of liquor. We eventually got choice seating at the table we always pick, coincidentally. There's something comforting about sitting below a poster-sized Jerry Seinfeld, head at crotch-level. We doubled up the drink orders and fried appetizers for the opening acts.

Plug: KT Tatara is a new favorite of mine. I saw him a year or two ago as an opening act at my very first Improv venture. I drank too much and spaced his name that night and never heard of him again but I always remembered he was fucking hilarious. So last night as he approached the stage, I all but squirmed out of my seat with excitement. It still remains - he's fucking hilarious.

So my gutly girl friend Ree spots Dave Attell walking in during the openers. SOMEHOW she flags him, performs a come hither and next thing I know, he's at our freakin' table and I'm telling the story of how he canceled the show I bought tickets to last week before karma got all reward-y and sent me four free tickets for being awesome a winner in a contest. He said we'd have to meet in the bar later and I promise I waited until he was gone to squeal.

The topping on my about-to-hang-with-Dave excitement cake was when Jeff Ross took the stage, unexpectedly. I knew he was in town from the KROQ show that morning but didn't think he'd be all special guest and shit.

In the bar after the show, Dave (do I think we're close enough to be on a first name basis? No, I think it's corny to full name him at every mention and ain't there a lot) bought us all drinks and explained the cancellation. As the bar crowded more and more, we talked to some others and took pictures like silly fangirls. It was a fucking good time, if ever there was one. Totally worth the bloodshot eyes and scratchy voice of today, which isn't conducive to all the phone answering I'm doing in place of the receptionist.

Quotable quote: "Getting an abortion on Easter Sunday is a manly thing to do. And then eat eggs after? Yeah." - Attell

Plug #2: Adam Richmond. OMFG, so funny. Like uproarious, falling out of chair funny.

I think my work is closing headquarters at noon. Best news ever? I believe so.

-Pretty Lush

Myopic is my post

If I could send static straight to hell, never to flounce through my hair again, I would. I would do it right now. My head feels like one of those touchy-feely globes of electricity or something. You know what I'm talking about. (Wait, static can stay on one condition: It only effects Kiddo's hair when she goes down a slide and comes up with her hair on all ends. That was hilarious.)

St. Patrick's Day is now and my entire company is green clad and Irish. There was some mass e-mail regarding green snacks to be brought and shared. If I go near the kitchen again, I will emerge with more chips and salsa or perhaps a sugar cookie. None of this is an essential part of my well being or complete breakfast, so I will stay put and blog.

This weekend was a little lazy. Some laundry and some DVDs -- mostly season three of Entourage and some X-Men. There were comedians late Saturday night in Hollywood and a lot of vanilla rum. (I'll reiterate that Daniel Tosh is hilarious and Hollywood is my favorite.) I notice this move that I do before I drink where I raise my glass to about eye level so I can get an idea of where my straw is before it ends up in my nose or eye, instead of just looking away from the stage for a milisecond. It appears as though I'm cheering the room repeatedly. Once I noticed that I do it often, I wanted someone else to notice and awkwardly raise their glass back at me, like, "Cheers?"

There was Ms. Pac Man and a local park in the late afternoon on Sunday. I've been taking Kiddo to the park more often. The inbetween winter and summer chill of new spring begs to be indulged in. I'm not an outdoors person but there was some swinging, sliding and hill wandering on Sunday and I enjoyed it more than even I realized.

Speaking of outdoors, there's a hike scheduled for semi-early this coming Saturday morning in Laguna. I'm told the view is incredible but we'll see if the sake haze over my eyes clears long enough for me to appreciate it. On Friday night I'm meeting up with a girl I haven't seen since I was about sixteen for Japanese. We'd been close friends throughout elementary and middle school but there was moving and school changing and life and we became very distanced, getting in touch only about six months ago via MySpace. See, it has benefits. (Why are people immediately on the defense at the mention of their own MySpace? And by people, I mean me. Do you do this?)

Tenebrous is my mind. Glowering are my eyebrows. Caliginous is my brain. Aberrant is my logic. Thesarus is my heart.

-Pretty Lush

During this weekend I only came alive in the wee hours. On barely any sleep, I worked Friday before heading to Hollywood for a show at the Improv where Aisha Tyler headlined. Anyone who didn't know who she was would finally go, "Ooooh, Ross' black girlfriend from Friendssssss." Yeah, that one. She's rauchy and hilarious. Any sexy female who uses the phrase 'sphincter of doom' gets my mojo risin'. Post-show, my friend Jamie and I went to a little bar in downtown Fullerton for more Dub Scouts. Since someone else was driving, a rare treat, I went ahead and got tanked.

Almost all of the following day was spent in bed, until I finally decided to get human and go buy a birthday present for a friend of mine at my favorite music store. A couple DVDs later, my girl Kim and I went to the local bar for a round of drinks before heading to my cousin's birthday party at some local lodge they'd rented. It was nice seeing family members that I haven't been around in months. After loving on my relatives and braving the hideous rain on the drive home, Kim, my mom and I all played a revealing game of Never Have I Ever. When Kim stated, "Never have I ever been caught by the authorities having sex in public," and my mom drank, the stories began to roll. It was fucking hilarious.

I stayed in bed until an embarassing hour the next day. I spent some time being overly excited that it was a close friend's birthday and rambling on about how America has no culture, but I kinda dig that we celebrate the day someone's life began on an annual basis. Finally deciding to humanize as the sun was setting, I got ready and picked up my girl Kristine for a Social Distortion show at the House of Blues in Anheim. Once again, I was fucking blown away. If you saw this one guy (his name has slipped me...) come on stage and bust his harmonica solos alone, you could call it a good night. But then there's these great songs and acoustics and solos and Mike Ness with that face...

K: I love that arrogant face.
Lush: I want to slap it. And then kiss it.
K: And then sit on it.

We got roped into promising our time to some golf cart tour of this multi-million dollar resort in SD this Sunday, for which we'll be compensated with a two day, one night stay on Catalina Island, a wine tour package in Temecula, and fifty bucks toward any Live Nation concert tickets. I'm pretty vulnerable but it sounds like a little trouble for a lot of fun.

Not the good wet

LA/Orange County has been pelted with rain for the majority of the week. Sometimes it is so hard and loud that I'm reminded of Venus on the Halfshell by 'Kilgore Trout,' (Breakfast of Champions, anyone?) where Earth is flooded to essentially wipe it's filthy, overpopulated, overpolluted slate clean. ("The game of life was called off on account of rain.") Driving home from a girl friend's last night, I felt the tail end of my car waver slighty when I would lose traction on the wet freeway. After once, I slowed down to a minimum speed. After twice, I was below the speed limit. Three wavers later, images of grotesque hydroplane death dancing in my head, I was in the slow lane doing forty, hands at 10 & 2 on the wheel, singing Rilo Kiley furiously to distract myself. ALL OF OUR FRIENDS WERE GATHERED THERE, WITH THEIR PETS JUST TALKING SHIT, ABOUT HOW WE'RE ALL SO UPSET ABOUT THE DISAPPEARING GROUND... interjecting silent safety prayers to unknown weather gods.

Clearly, I made it.

The wind kicked in around two a.m. while I lay wide awake in bed, shaking some form of metal on metal outside my window. I'm fucking exhausted and my morning coffee is only lasting so long.

Must not crash for it is Friday and there are plans to be hatched.

-Pretty Lush

Despite the pouring rain throughout the day, two of my girl friends and I took on the Hollywood freeway last night. We left just as the clouds parted and the weather cleared - and it seemed no one noticed because the freeway was as empty as the 5 or 101 could ever be. Even for a Wednesday night, I couldn't believe how few people were out. We went to the Whisky A Go Go to see my friend's band, Dub Scouts. It took one beer for me to feel better as I'd been on a rampage all day. Probably hormones, but fuck, have I been grouchy. Work is gnawing away at me with dull, rusty blades. I anticipate the weekend more than ever.

'Smile fucked' was used as a verb last night... as in, "Ew. He just looked me like he wondered what I look like naked. I think he smile fucked me."

Hm. Yes, please.

-Pretty Lush

A Culturally Rich Sunday

I just wrote a detailed account of my Sunday journey through Chinatown (& the awesome dragons everywhere), and the overpriced underground parking, and the ten block walk to LA's MOCA (Museum of Contemporary Art), and the exquisite colorfulness that is Takashi Murakami and all the glorious and incredible paintings and massive glass/metal pieces on display, and the insanely delicious Japanese lunch in a tiny restaurant somewhere in Little Tokyo... and then the site ate my post alive. Curse expletive curse!

Here:

mmhmm. I wish you were there.