Dear Miss USA: Getting Up IS Hard To Do

Dear Miss USA,

Aren't you glad the Miss Universe pageant is over? After your ordeal of falling on stage on Monday night, in front of a TV audience of a billion people, how are you doing?

Tell me what happened. Were your heels too high? Did you step on your dress? Was it the music? Personally, I love that Sean Paul/Keyshia Cole song, don't you? I thought it was great that you all got to strut your stuff to it during the evening gown competition. But, I wouldn't blame you if you suddenly started thinking of Sean Paul and just lost your balance, because, well, he's pretty fly.

I'm sorry, don't cry. I know, I'm bringing up painful memories. And folks are definitely making some mean and unnecessary comments about you. Who knew that the footage of your falling would be such a hit on YouTube? But, don't worry. In case it feels like the end, I am proof that you can fall on stage and still be a success in life.

In fourth grade, I was in a play called "A Keg of Gunpowder". I wasn't the leading lady or even in a supporting role of that amazing, revolutionary war tale. In fact, I might have only had two or three lines. But, I had to dance on stage. While I was dancing, I stepped on my floor-length costume and BAM! Down I went.

I know, a billion people weren't watching me do it. And I wasn't getting stared at by Nina Garcia and the other "judges". But I did have a very stern nun named Sister Paula hissing at me from the side of the stage, "Get up! Get up! NOW!"

What she meant was, "Get up before I kill you because you're ruining the play!" Yes, Sister Paula was a fierce woman, one of those old-school teachers who believed that humiliation helps the soul grow character. I think she liked to make kids cry just so she could spit out her famously stinging setdown, "Stop crying those baby alligator tears."

The third day of school in her class, we had a written assignment due. She held mine up in front of the class. "Do you know how to write?"

From her tone, I knew something was wrong. I was scared to death, but I answered, "Yes,". Not a pop-my-neck-with-sass kind of yes. Not a bored sighing kind of yes. It was definitely a meek mouse yes.

She pounced immediately. "No, you do not. This," she shook my paper in my face, "is not cursive. This is printing. Printing is not writing." She then proceeded to rip my paper up and throw it in the trash, promising that if I didn't learn how to properly write in cursive, I wouldn't make it out of the fourth grade.

So you can imagine how well my tripping on the long skirt of my costume went over with Sister Paula. You can imagine how, when I tumbled forward into the props, knocking them all over the place, I was convinced she was going to emerge from the eaves to box my ears.

At least you had the presence of mind to get right back up, strut your stuff and smile, despite the boos from that rude crowd. I don't even think there was a Sister Paula type there to yell at you and tell you to get up! Given your backbone, I'm sure you'll go on to be a success in the world and no one will even remember this little incident after the next pop-culture "news" story hits the Internet.

In fact, since your little mishap seems to have brought out quite a few antagonistic comments (see the comments on the YouTube footage) between Mexicans and Americans, maybe you can add some Mexican/American unity efforts to your Miss USA platform. See, some good could come out of this after all.

If you need a shoulder to cry on, just let me know.

Warmly,

Los Angelista

A Sonnet Of Remembrance And Love

When death's kiss comes will you remember me?
Petals soft against the touch of your hands
Sweet scented dreams floating across the sea
Carrying love's vision to distant lands.

Before we meet again, my bloom will fade
Inhale now, my fragrance falters too fast
Physical replaced by memories made
This image of loveliness cannot last.


The soul released by such tender embrace
Seeking to gaze upon luminous joy
Fearless, never again to see your face
This handmaiden nothing can now destroy.

Hearts cleansed, your innocent tears are leaving
Eternally true souls still believing.

OCD Listening: It's All True by Tracey Thorn

I started my other blog, Reading and Listening because I wanted someplace to put the music and books that I'm into. The problem is that I'm lazy and I don't update that blog enough with everything I'm reading and listening. I may shut it down and just post it all over here. I haven't decided yet.

In the meantime, I have listened to "It's All True" by Tracey Thorn a good 77 times in the past 24 hours. And that's just the radio edit. If I add in the dub version (18 times) or two other remixes of it (7 times), that takes me to 102 times in the past 24 hours. I'm not kidding. Yeah, I might have a little bit of OCD with this song. (Hey, we all have our own issues, right?)

So, Tracey Thorn... if her name doesn't ring a bell for you, that's a shame because she's the hauntingly perfect voice from the duo Everything But The Girl. Still doesn't ring a bell? Remember their hit, "Missing"? The Todd Terry remix of that song came out about 12 years ago and was a huge hit. It was also the "Mango" song from that Saturday Night Live skit.

Anyway, I'm a ridiculous fan of EBTG and Tracey Thorn. I've been dying for some new stuff from them and it's been a long time coming. Tracey hasn't recorded since 2000 because she took time off from music to raise the kids she has with her partner from EBTG, Ben Watt. Well, now she's back with a new solo album called Out of the Woods and the first single, "It's All True" is '80's redux done right. Wow, the wait's been worth it. The synth bass in this song is out of control. If you don't dance to this, something is clearly wrong with you, like your legs are broken and you're in a wheelchair.

I love the "It's All True" video just as much as the song because it so different from the videos most female artists are putting out these days. You aren't going to see a shot of Tracey's barely clothed ass shaking in the camera. No boobs bouncing either. In fact, we never see a close-up of Tracey in this video. Instead, the camera starts closer and then pans OUT for an even wider shot! What a relief that she's still about the real deal and not merely the oversexed hype that seems to pass for music these days.

Also, for you all who love Tetris, with about 27 seconds left, this video has some creative Tetris imagery via umbrellas. I was Tetris champ of my dorm in my freshman year of undergrad so I went totally crazy when I saw it.

Hope you enjoy...

The End Of The World During "At World's End"

Thursday night found me at The Grove checking out opening night of "Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End". No need for a spoiler alert here because I'm not going to tell you anything about the plot.

I'll will tell you that it's a very very long film. Almost three hours long. Don't get the large drink, okay?

No, it's not the best film on earth, but I wasn't expecting it to be. The fact that the other two were decent movies at all was a nice bonus on top of the real reason the films became successful: the eye candy factor.

I'll go ahead and confess my sins in case you haven't guessed from the picture. My main reason for going was so I could see some Orlando Bloom.

I adore Orlando Bloom. In fact, I like him so much that three years ago, I had an Orlando Bloom themed birthday party. I like him so much that I have a full-size Legolas poster in my office at work.

No, I'm not kidding.
Yes, I completely understand if you think that's a bit freakish and extreme.
No, I don't care whether you think I'm insane or not.

Orlando is hot. He's so hot, I think MIMS wrote his "This Is Why I'm Hot" song while watching some Orlando Bloom movies. But we all know that hot isn't enough for Liz. You have to be hot and a nice guy for me to be down. Orlando's niceness always comes across in his interviews.

If you're trying to think up a reason why he's not hot, like, for example, you want to say he's a bad actor, just admit it, you're being a player hater. Besides, I know I'm not alone in my adoration. In fact, I guess the parents who brought their FOUR children to "At World's End" must feel the same way that I do about Mr. Bloom.

These idiots dragged a baby that looked to be around six months old, some toddler twins, and a bigger kid into the theater. By bigger, I mean that the boy was probably, at the most, five years old. Oh, and did I mention that the baby had a stinky diaper and the father changed it in inside the theater?

Now, in case you think I'm being overtly judgmental, I'll fess up. I let my kids stay up late. I'm not one of those parents that make my kids go to bed at 7 pm, mainly because if I did that, I'd never see them. I'll also admit that I sometimes take my boys out on a weeknight. Maybe we'll get really wild and roll by the Los Feliz Toys-R-Us.

But my kids are not going to a PG-13 rated Pirate movie at 8:15 pm on a Thursday night. Only a truly selfish dumb ass takes their small children to see a movie where there are rotting pirate teeth, monsters and people getting hacked with swords. I mean, all that might scare the children. The poor little children might start to cry.

And cry they did. Profusely. During some of the action sequences, these kids hollered so loudly that I seriously thought it was the end of the world instead of "At World's End." And neither parent got up to take the crying children out.

I get the rebellion. I really do. As a parent, you can start to feel a little resentful that pre-kids, you could go to the movies whenever and see whatever you want. No "Rated G" restrictions to have to deal with. No paying for a babysitter. No having to be home at a decent hour. Hours of Orlando-gazing on a big screen instead of your TV at home...

I guess the parents figured they had paid their $12.50 admission price per child so they weren't going anywhere. Plus, they probably thought that everyone else in the theatre would merely think the wailing was some additional sound effects at the end when Will Turner...

Oh, yeah, I said I wasn't going to tell you anything about the plot. Just know, those kids weren't the only one's in there crying. (Shh...I was crying too!)

Maybe Cloning Isn't Such A Bad Idea After All

I've decided I need to clone myself.

Every year, the end of the school year rolls around and all hell breaks loose with my work schedule.

So, I figure it would be so useful to have another one of me running around doing a few things on my behalf. What would be even better though is if somehow I could still reap the benefits of the good things the clone does and have the clone do things I don't want to do or can't do.

Here are some tasks I could assign to my clone:

Exercise: I like to exercise but sometimes it's hard to find the time to do so when I get really busy. To fit it in, I find myself jumping rope in my living room at 5:30 am to hardcore techno. (Don't worry, no neighbors banged on my door because I was listening to my iPod while I was jumping.) But you see, if I had a clone, the clone could do the jumping and I could stay in bed and try to sleep a little bit longer.

Have Insomnia: Speaking of sleep, the clone can definitely be the one to suffer from chronic insomnia. Maybe then I can be free to try to catch some z's.

Laundry: The clone can be the one to sort the clothes, wash them and hang them on the clothes line, take them off the line, and then fold them or hang them up.

Get an Attitude: To be fair, I'm not sure if the woman in the parking lot down in Compton meant to hit me with her glass bottle when she threw it out of her car window a couple of hours ago. She might have just been doing some drive-by littering, and not actually trying to hit me. But, she did hit me with the bottle as I was walking from my car. The bottle still had some sort of orange drink in it. That orange drink got all over my clothes.

Now, my clone could have picked the bottle up and thrown it back at the car. My clone could have chased the car down, reached through the window, grabbed her by her multi-colored weave and let her know what I really think about her and her bottle. Alas, the real Liz can't do that because that's how people get shot and stabbed.

Enough about me and my clone. What about you? What would you have your clone do?

And a special shout out to all my Baha'i peeps today. Happy Declaration of the Bab! I hope no one threw any bottles at you!

Bravery

I have come to the conclusion that I am not particularly brave. Especially when it comes to things with eight furry legs and beady eyes that stare back at you. Things like tarantulas.

Saturday afternoon found us in Exposition Park at the annual Bug Fair at the Natural History Museum. After a nanosecond-long attempt at holding a tarantula, which ended with me instantly saying,"Ok, you can take it off my hand, NOW!" I've decided I like bugs best when they're outside, not when they're crawling up my arm.

Fortunately, that esteemed attribute of bravery seems to be manifesting itself quite healthily in my eldest son. I'm now renaming him "Master Tarantula Holder of Los Angeles".

It was great to see my son getting to talk with the scientists who research all the arachnids and bugs out there. He met the professors and got to talk to the college students about why they got into studying bugs in the first place.

If you're worried it was all high-brow intellectualism, never fear.

At one table, manned by a guy I'd say was in his late fifties, my son held his second tarantula. Then, when he was finished holding the spider, he said, "Thank you for letting me hold your spider. He was a really nice spider."

The guy paused for a moment...and I know that pause. It's the, "I can't believe kids can be so polite" pause. He leaned down and said, "Young man, let me shake your hand."

My son extended his hand and they shook hands.

The man continued. "You like the Spiderman movies?"

My son nodded, "Yes".

"Then you can tell all your friends that you just met the man who did the spiders for the Spiderman movies."

After that experience, I think my son may be altering his dreams of becoming a pediatrician and may now be gunning for bug-handler instead. He held five tarantulas, three African millipedes, a stick bug, and a scorpion on Saturday.

He really had to work his way up to the scorpion. He asked all the bug scientists if a scorpion's dangerous. They all said yes, but you know the disclaimer, "If you provoke it!" I was not down for the scorpion holding. I mean, the stinger on that thing is huge! But he really wanted to do it. Afterwards, he said, "Do you want to try it, Mommy. It's not so bad."

Um, no. That's okay. I am not as brave as he is.

My son thinks he's invincible. He believes he can do anything. I don't want him to lose that bravery.

Doing My Civic Duty

I can't believe it, but I'm actually sitting in the downtown Los Angeles Courthouse waiting to find out if I'm going to be assigned to a trial or not.

Yes, I've been called for jury duty.

Every night this week, I've called the 800 number on my jury summons to see if I needed to report for jury duty. And every night, the automated voice said that I hadn't been called for the following day.

Last night, I forgot to call. I woke up at 6:30 this morning and remembered that I should probably call. I figured I'd hear that voice telling me that I was free to go about my regularly scheduled business.

No such luck. The voice said I needed to report at 7:30 a.m.

So now I'm in a room that sure as heck looks a lot different from those rooms on Law and Order. There's wood paneling but there are some really bright fluorescent lights overhead. I just finished juror orientation. During orientation, I learned that LA has the largest court system in the world, with over 6,000 trials. Over 5 million people intersect with the court system out here each year. Wow. I had no idea.

The guy giving the orientation, Jose, had jokes for days. He told us about how we got a raise for jury pay. It used to be $5 and now it's $15. He told us about jurors that will answer their cell phones while they're in the jury box. He told us we can't talk to the media, but he said, "If, after your service, you want to speak to the media, write a book, make a movie, that's up to you. But don't talk to the media now." Oh yes, I definitely live in LA.

I was hoping to be excused right away but Jose said we'll be here till 4 or 5 this afternoon. Thank goodness for wireless. Now I just need to find a plug for when my laptop battery dies.

We'll see if I get assigned to a case. It's a good hair day so maybe some lawyer will pick me.

I Need Anger Management Classes, But In The Meantime...

I'll warn you, I'm feeling a little angry right now. And I have an awful headache. Put those two things together and I'll be the first to admit that I'm probably not in a good place.

I'm sorry.

But if you think my less friendly, less cheerful musings are going to bother you, come back tomorrow and I'm sure I'll have returned to my senses.

Why the blog-rage? Well, here's a few things I'm thinking about after tonight's edition of my novel writing class:

1) Since rappers are being scrutinized about their profanity laced lyrics, why shouldn't fiction writers be subject to the same thing? For some reason, "high-brow" fiction writers can say, "F*** you, b***h!" and it's respected...as long as it advances the plot and tells us something relevant about the character. Those books go on to be bestsellers, get literary prizes, get favorited on Amazon. And it's all good. BUT, if rappers cuss and call folks out of their name, then we're a nation full of outrage. Call me a poor critical thinker, but doesn't that sound like a double standard to you?

2) I've noticed how when it comes time to describe a darker-skinned person of color, the Caucasian writer highlights what white teeth the person has. It's like those white teeth are a shining beacon of light in a sea of darkness. I'm surprised they don't also talk about how white the eyeballs are. How about this for you: "His teeth were white against the darkness of his skin. His eyes were dark pools in a sea of ivory." Oh please.

3) I don't give a damn that Michael Chabon wrote a 600 page novel and then tossed it out and started over on something new. Good for him. I don't have the luxury to do that.

4) Next time the question of, "So, what's everyone reading?" gets posed to the group, I'm going to say I'm reading The Bible. Or maybe I'll say that I'm reading a romance novel. I'm sure both of those would get the same reaction of horror. To add to the shock value, I think I'll then pull either The Bible or the bodice ripper out of my bag and provide a visual. Maybe everyone will be afraid and think I'm going to do a read-aloud.

I feel much better now. Thanks for listening.

Celebrities

Sometimes when I go places with my two sons, I feel like I'm traveling with a couple of A-list celebrities.

Because of the, "Oh my GAWD! They are SOOO cute!" factor here's some of the things they've experienced:

They have gotten free food and/or drinks from restaurants. And I'm not just talking about Denny's where kids eat free on Tuesdays.

They have received complimentary clothing. "Let's give that little boy an Amoeba Music t-shirt."

They've been blinded by a camera-phone picture snapping frenzy. (The phone wielders were tourists who mistakenly thought my sons were on some Disney Channel show.) And the last time we got pictures done professionally, I thought the photographer was going to have an orgasm.

"Yes, YES! Ohhh YESSS! That's the perfect shot!"

All that enthusiasm ended when it was time for the group family photos. "Um, mom, let's have you move a little to your right. Um. No. A little more. Um. No, let's try a different pose."

My sons are very mellow about all this attention and I've had to learn to not growl at people who compliment them. We've had to have a couple of chats about how cute is as cute does, but they are, overall, very unassuming.

However, this past week, I've had to deal with them making celebrity style demands due to the arrival of an even bigger celebrity, their grandpa.

My dad has been here in LA for work and the level of frenzy surrounding his visit was unprecedented.

There have been requests for more time in the bathtub because, "We need to get extra clean for grandpa."

They asked to have their hair washed, brushed, and dried with the diffuser attachment on the hair dryer. Why all this effort? "So grandpa won't think bugs live in our hair."

My punk-rock, skateboarding youngest made the ultimate sacrifice and washed all his hand-drawn ink pen tattoos off his arms. He didn't want grandpa to think he was a bad boy. He also didn't want to wear blue jeans because, "Grandpa doesn't like blue jeans." This is not true, but the mythology was powerful enough to cause some impressive temper tantrums when it came time to get dressed.

Despite their admiration of him, my dad got to experience being part of the Olinga/Toussaint entourage while we were all at the Cheesecake Factory in Marina Del Rey. Not one, not two, but three servers crowded around to coo over these two. I think my dad was getting a little annoyed by the gushing girl who kept saying, "Oh my gawd! They are so cute! Can I babysit for them? I'll babysit for free, they're so cute!"

Afterwards, my dad told me I should be afraid of the future. I absolutely agree.

A Mother's Greatest Fear

I hope all you mothers out there had a wonderful Mother's Day yesterday.

Mine was all that I could have hoped because I spent it with my two sons. My eldest son is now able to write so well that on the card he gave me, he wrote, "I love you Mommy" all by himself. My youngest isn't writing legibly yet, but I treasure the shy smiles he gives me after he comes to kiss me on the cheek.

What mother doesn't love these things and wouldn't want to have such sweetness forever? It's unnatural for a mother to put her children in harms way. But sometimes harm comes to a child no matter what a mother may do to prevent it.

I've been reading the Los Angeles Times' "Homicide Blog" over the past couple of weeks. It's a gruesome record of all the murders that take place in LA County, not just the murders that make the evening news. The murdered are primarily male, primarily black and Latino. They mostly live in South LA in the low-income neighborhoods I work in.

I thought about this blog for awhile yesterday. After all, you're only a mother because of your kids. And, I can't imagine the grief a mother feels when her child is murdered, when the sweet boy that used to give a hug "just because" is no longer there.

I get particularly saddened by the murders of children and teenagers. They are too young and too innocent, their potential snuffed out too quickly. Maybe their mothers welcomed their kisses or the little notes that said"I love you". Or maybe they had terrible mothers who were emotionally and physically abusive, or alcoholic, or drug addicted.

I'm not any of those things, but someone could still come along and end it for my boys. It sounds terribly morbid, I know. I just know we aren't guaranteed any time on this earth. It can all be over in an instant. Even though I work so hard to be a good mother and strive to teach my sons the things they need to know to be healthy and happy in this world and prepare spiritually for the next, something could happen to them. I don't know if I could deal with that, how I could live if something were to happen to one of my boys.

How does a mother go on after tragedy has knocked on the door and snatched away that which is most precious?

Michael Jackson: Obsession Of A New Generation

My kids have a little Michael Jackson obsession going on.

How did this all happen? Well, remember the days when MTV actually played videos around the clock and you could sit there and tape those videos onto a VHS tape? My husband was one of those folks that did that. So he has every single Michael Jackson video and lots of footage from award show performances. Long ago when he was working in a media services office, he dubbed all this footage onto one tape. Now he's converted them to DVD and my sons constantly want to watch it.

My three year-old, Toussaint, is concerned about the state of Michael Jackson's bladder. "Michael Jackson doesn't wear pull-ups."

My six year-old, Olinga, is concerned about Michael's skin. "Why can't the doctors fix him and make him black again? He doesn't look so healthy with that white skin. He should go to Dr. Yazdani." Olinga has so much faith in his pediatrician that he doesn't believe me when I tell him that Dr. Yazdani can't fix Michael's skin.

They both have fashion suggestions for Michael. "Michael Jackson needs a Power Ranger shirt to go with his red jacket."

There are also regular reenactments of the dancing/fight scene from the "Beat It" video.

This fun and exciting game usually starts with Olinga saying, "Hey, Toussaint, let's play "Beat It"!"

They debate over who's going to get to be Michael Jackson and who's going to be the bad guy. Then they jump around singing the chorus, which they believe to be, "Beat it! Beat it! No one wants to be the meat hit!"

The latest request? They want me to get some rope. Why do they need rope?

"Hey Mommy, can you tie our hands together like they do in the video?"

Olinga also loves the dancing in the video for Billie Jean. But now when we walk to the park I get asked, "Why doesn't the sidewalk light up for me like it does for Michael Jackson?"

The (thankfully, almost out) Griffith Park fire? According to my youngest, "Michael Jackson started those fires, Mommy."

"Why do you think Michael Jackson started the fire?" I asked, even though I was a little afraid of his answer.

"Because Olinga said so."

Okay. So, of course I had to ask Olinga if he said this. "Olinga, did you tell Toussaint that Michael Jackson started the fire?"

Olinga's mouth fell open and from the look on his face, you would have thought it was the end of the world. He was absolutely horrified! "Michael Jackson started the fires? Oh my God!!!"

He then jumped off the couch and ran to tell my husband, "Daddy! Mommy said Michael Jackson started the fire!"

It took five minutes for me to convince everyone that I didn't say it. Who knows how this got in my youngest son's head. He continued to say that his brother told him this.

At least he didn't tell me, "Michael told me when I was sitting on his lap."

Los Angeles Burning

If you haven't heard, part of Los Angeles is on fire. The fire has been blazing through through Griffith Park since yesterday afternoon.

If you don't know Griffith Park, it's the largest park in the United States. It's home to the Griffith Park Observatory. It's home to the Hollywood Sign. The LA Zoo is there. There are miles of trails and beautiful green space. And, it's about a mile north of my house. We go there at least once a week and I love hiking there early in the morning on the weekends. It's strange to think that the trails I love to hike are now going to be charred remnants of their former selves.

How did this happen? One, yesterday was just ridiculously hot. Damn those Santa Ana winds! Indeed, 97 degrees in May doesn't bode well for our summer, especially when we only got about 3 inches of rain all winter. Two, the fire may have been started by someone who dropped a cigarette in the dry brush of the park, although that's not certain at this point.

From my office in downtown, I could see the smoke billowing high into the sky beginning at around 2:30. I headed down to Compton at a little after 4 with some colleagues and the view behind us as we headed south on the 110 Freeway was just shocking. I'd completely figured that it was some small blaze that was just really smoky and that it would be out in a heartbeat. But it was clear that the fire was bigger than any of us had imagined.

By the time we left Compton at almost 8:30 at night and were heading back north on the 110, we were just floored by the flames visible almost 20 miles away. I snagged these photos from the LA Times website so those of you that don't live here can see what all of us Angelenos saw last night.

Some progress has been made against the blaze this morning, so shout out to all the LA Firefighters who are doing there best. Griffith Park is a true wilderness and it can't be easy to fight a fire like this through such challenging terrain.

Let's all hope the fire gets completely put out soon.

The House DJ Dream

I never had a Prince button on my backpack. No New Edition patches on my jacket. No Michael Jackson pictures up in my locker. I only had two music loves: Depeche Mode and house music.

Lots of other kids who grew up in the Chicagoland area in the early 80's probably felt the same way. Ok, maybe not obsessed with the Depeche Mode thing, but definitely feeling the house music!

I fell in love with house music by listening to the tracks spun by WBMX's Hot Mix 5. They were magical, hypnotic, soulful. The music got in your heart and just made your body move. Take a look at these guys in the picture, the original five: Farley "Jackmaster" Funk. Mickey "Mixin" Oliver. Scott "Smokin" Silz. Ralphi Rosari. Kenny "Jammin" Jason. None of them would ever be jumping off the pages of GQ. Ever. The only talent required? Being able to feel the music, being able read your crowd, being able to mix so seamlessly that folks think it's all one record.

Thanks to them, I'm sure there's a whole generation that pictured ourselves behind two turntables, hauling around crates filled with the hottest 12 inches available from Gramaphone Records. I used to dream that I was going to be the biggest house music DJ in the world. I was going to rock the Northside's Riviera Nightclub and take over Shelter downtown. And then I was going to conquer Manchester, England.

I sometimes wonder how many other girls thought they could be DJs. After all, DJ'ing, like so much of the music business, is very male dominated. That hasn't changed one bit. The DJ's I'm into now, Gabriel and Dresden, Fedde Le Grand, Oxia -- they're all men. The women in the house/techno scene have three choices:
a) sing on the track,
b) dance to it, or
c) sleep with the DJ.

I have a terrible singing voice and option c wasn't happening, so I got very good at option b.

Sure, in Chicago we had Val "Psycho" Bitch and Teri Bristol down at Medusa's, (and they're still DJ'ing now at Crobar) so I had some role models, but they were the needles in the turntable haystack. Sometimes I wonder if DJ'ing being so male dominated is part of why I abandoned the dream of being a DJ. That and the teeny-tiny problem of me sometimes losing track of where I was in a record because I was too busy dancing to it. I'd be so busy doing the wop and then I'd realize, "Oops, time to mix another record in!" I'd have like four eight-counts to do it...definitely rushed, sloppy mixing.

The other reason I gave up my dream?

I credit it to the few hours I spent with Julian "Jumpin'" Perez . I was in absolute awe of him and faithfully listened and danced to his mixes almost every Friday and Saturday night of my teenage and early twenties.

When I was 21 and two days away from getting on a plane to China, I managed to hustle my way into sitting in the DJ booth with Mr. Perez. I was content watching him cue his records, watching him feel the rhythms of the tracks. I remember he let me pick out a few records to mix and then he asked if I wanted to give a try at the turntables. I was too in awe to say yes, and more than a little intimidated. I knew that I wasn't even close to being as good as he was. Not by a long shot.

As I watched him mixing, I started to wonder what he would be doing when he was 50. Would I be happy with a life of mixing in clubs for years? Sure, I was in love with the music. He clearly was in love with the music. But there were a whole lot of people out on the dance floor that were more in love with snorting stuff in the corner and trying to find a one night stand.

I had a crisis of conscious. Was being a DJ at all socially redeeming? I couldn't get past this sudden feeling that the answer was no and that I'd be on my death bed wondering what real difference I'd made as a DJ. Could I change the extremes of wealth and poverty, racism and sexism by mixing records at Shelter and Crobar? Um, probably not. I realized that being able to directly change things was really important to me, and so I let go of that dream.

There are days like today where I wonder, what if I hadn't seen things in that way? What if I'd seen the enjoyment people get from listening to the music and to the mixes as being socially redeeming in and of itself? What if I hadn't let that dream die?

I can drive myself crazy asking such questions. Do you do the same thing? What dreams have you abandoned?

I Know I Look Good...But Not THAT Good!

From the title of this post, you can clearly discern that my ego is slightly out of control. It's just that I can finally add the following to my future obituary:

"So beautiful, she once caused a fender bender on the corner of 89th and Hoover"

Yes, that's right.

I was standing on the corner, waiting to cross Hoover Street so I could get in my car and head back to my office. I'm looking both ways as any good jaywalking pedestrian should. A couple of cars drive by, and then I see a very nice white car with tricked out rims crossing through the Manchester/Hoover intersection a dozen or so yards north of me. The driver's side window's down. R.Kelly's "I'm A Flirt" is blasting. Brotherman is bobbing his head to the beat...till he sees me and starts hanging out the window, hollering at me.

"Hey! Hey, girl!"

Do men really think women are going to respond to this? I know I've posed this question before, but I just don't get it! Do men seriously think a sista's going to just leap off the curb in response?

"Oh baby! I've been waiting my whole life for you to drive by and holler at me!" Yeah, right.

To be fair to our driving friend, I probably did seem to be some sort of ethereal vision of loveliness. I might have hollered at me too! After all, we each have those days where we think we look absolutely amazing.

In fact, I felt so fly, I was having one of those, "Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?" kinds of days. It must have been the dress...

Ok, I'll stop trippin'. Let's face it, even if I had three hairy warts on the middle of my forehead and was missing my front teeth, some man somewhere would take it upon himself to holler out his car window.

I'm not interested. At all. Ever. So, I ignored him. No smile. No nod of acknowledgement. Nothing.

He did not give up.

Instead, this fool started leaning out the window a little more. And as his car moved forward, in order to maintain eye contact, he had to turn his head and body in order to look back at me. He started to yell, "Hey Now! Shaaa--"

I'll never know what gems of wisdom were going to be shouted my way because the next thing I heard and saw was...

CRASH!

Oops. Someone forgot the importance of keeping your eyes on the road at all times in case traffic slows or stops.

I have no idea why the car in front of Mr. Crashtastic slowed down. Believe me, I didn't stick around to witness the fender bender fall-out. I made a beeline across the street, jumped into my car, did a u-turn and zoomed away.

Just think, if this man had just chosen to be respectful and keep his eyes on the road, his front bumper might have been spared. And the back of the car he hit? Even though he wasn't going that fast, it was pretty smashed.

Clearly, the moral of this story is, even if the most beautiful girl in the world is waiting to cross the street, just remember that car insurance is expensive in California and people like to sue out here.

The other driver is probably already consulting a lawyer. "Ow! My neck! I think I have whiplash!"

Fellas, keep your eyes on the road! Please, no more hollering out your car windows for the rest of 2007!

A Tale of Los Angeles: Smog, Racism and Police Brutality

Oh, Los Angeles. You're supposed to be the star of this little production called "City of Angels". What are you thinking? What are you doing? What in tarnation is going on?!

Los Angeles, your agent might refuse to represent you anymore if you keep acting out like this.

The first headline I read yesterday morning was, "Los Angeles Remains Most Polluted US City".

Great, just great. I'm sure my two sons are going to have the lungs of a pack a day smoker by the time they're 18. I can't say I was totally surprised about this given the brown haze that hangs over this city, particularly during the summertime. But by the end of the day, I started to wonder if it's the bad air that clouds folks judgment out here.

After reading about my reduced lung capacity, I went and clicked on the 7 am broadcast of the KTLA morning news. I wanted to see what was brewing with our scheduled immigration reform marches. A reporter standing on the corner of Broadway and Olympic in downtown popped onto my screen, saying, "I think the turnout is going to be pretty small this year. I've only seen a few protesters so far this morning." Um, yeah, moron. If it's 7 am and the march didn't start till like 10 in the morning, who's going to come down 3 hours early?

Tuesday is normally the day I'm in the office for meetings. However, since our office is located in downtown LA, we had to shut down for the day due to the marches. Never fear though, it wasn't a day off. It was a "work remotely" kind of day. So, around 10:15, I headed up Vermont to the Starbucks in Los Feliz, met with my boss, and then stayed to get a few things done.

While 10,000 people were busy marching in downtown, I got the "pleasure" of overhearing a conversation between what I'm guessing was a realtor (R) and her friend (F). I sat right next to these two and typed their conversation as they talked:

Realtor: You know what, I know I work very well with the Europeans and civilized people from New York and Chicago.

Friend: I LOVE Europe.

R: Exactly. I mean, this lady yesterday wanted me to drive around the neighborhood so she could see if she liked it, and then asked me, where are the black people?

F: Are you serious?

R: I told her, "Honey, this is Beverly Hills, there are no black people!"

F: laughing out loud at this comment.

R: Seriously, they come here and they want a nice neighborhood but they want "diversity". If they want diversity, move to Inglewood and get shot.

Sigh. I'll spare you all the verbatim of the rest of the conversation where the friend went on to discuss his three master's degrees and how he's trying to hire someone for a job, but he wants someone that is a recreational drug user. "Someone that can have a little fun on the weekend, you know." Clearly, book learning and letters behind your name doesn't mean anything.

I headed home for lunch and then drove over to another Starbucks by USC. I met with three of the teachers I supervise and it was finally time to head home again. As I drove north on Hoover Street, I heard the buzz of helicopters overhead. By the time I got to Hoover and Venice, northbound traffic was at a standstill. There was no southbound traffic.

Oh no, I'd forgotten about the afternoon march down to MacArthur Park.

Now, when I think of MacArthur Park, I don't think of a place to take my kids to play even though it's sort of pretty there. Instead, I think of drug deals, crime, fake ids, prostitution...you get the picture. It's also in one of the most congested, poor and heavily recent immigrant parts of the city, the Westlake district. Hoover Street drives by there.

Time for a u-turn and some creative driving to try to get around this march/rally.

As I drove, I turned on KNX AM1070 and heard that there was a scuffle going on with the police. The reporter said rubber bullets were being shot into the crowd, that the police were hitting reporters with their batons. It wasn't until I watched the 11 pm news that I saw the footage of what went down.

It made me feel sick. Maybe you don't come over to this blog regularly and you think I'm crazy. Maybe you come over and frequently share your thoughts. Maybe you're too shy and you never leave a comment. That's all fine. But, I want you to click this link and watch this footage.

Seeing that footage made me feel broken-hearted about this city of supposed angels. It made Los Angeles look sooo bad.

But I'm also a little bit glad.

I'm glad that we're being forced to pull back the veil, revealing once more the truths about what's really going on in this city. Change needs to happen and it needs to happen now. And I know it's not just my city. It's your city too, even if there's no media footage to show it.