In some senses, I suppose I’m adapting well to my living situation. While on the one hand I really like it, there’s the other hand to consider. The other hand being my roommate. My roommate who, because she’s just so interesting, I’ve diagnosed with a never-before-seen condition:

Bipolar Anal Retentiveness

I can think of no other explanation for hearing “Make yourself at home” and “We don’t use trash bags in the trash can” from the same mouth. The bipolar thing also relates to the fact that some days she’s fun and amiable, and actually enjoys conversing with me, or at least exchanging pleasantries.

And then there’s the other side. The one that makes me want to yowl like a cat in heat and flee the premises. An action that’s rather difficult to accomplish, however, because she’s like a minx and corners me. Then she kills me with her absolute lack of sense of humor. Her ‘pounce’, if you will, involves her saying “Um,” before beginning. Yesterday, I’m pouring a bowl of cereal for breakfast:

B.A.R. Roommate: Um, Phil?
Phil: Yo?
B.A.R. Roommate: Um, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.
Phil: What’s up?
B.A.R. Roommate: Um, well, I’ve been noticing the plates in the dish rack, and the bottoms of them don’t seem to be getting cleaned.
Phil: That’s strange. Must be water streaks or something.
B.A.R. Roommate: [ignoring Phil] Um, see, it’s not nice to have the bottoms of your plate dirty. Imagine going to eat at a restaurant and having the plate with your food on it dirty. On the bottom.
Phil: …
B.A.R. Roommate: So just make sure to clean the bottoms of them really well.
Phil: …
B.A.R. Roommate: Okay, thanks. See you later!

Later, I wondered why I didn’t deliver a more catty remark than the stunned silence I gave her. I don’t know, but one thing is becoming clear: if she’s looking at the undersides of plates and thinking that water streaks (she’s as guilty as I am, leaving the plates to drip dry and all) are somehow causes for infectious diseases, then it’s time for a serious intervention. Food needs to be stored on the counters, couch pillows need to get tossed around and left in disarray*, magnets need to cover the entire refrigerator, and by golly, she’s got to wear something other than her little business suits that are only black and white, and her sweats and sweatshirts that are all navy blue.

So, any predictions about what will come next? I’d be interested in hearing what you think will be the next order of contention, once I fool her into believing that I’ve actually taken her words to heart.

*I’m thinking that perhaps a family of Sock Zombies might really come in handy to hide between the pillows, especially on the days when she has company. The super elite guests will go to move the pillows and sit down, and suddenly their unsuspecting fingers will get bitten off. And if she gets upset, I’ve already got my own personal zombie body guard to throw at her, so I’m covered.

As a means of fast and incredible (and fun) transportation, I got a back bike, that is, shortly after moving here (and by ’shortly’, I mean ‘a week’). Of course, LA isn’t know for having the bike-friendliest streets around. Heck, it’s not even all that friendly when you’re driving a car.

Decent bike paths and marked bike lanes are nowhere to be found. So that leaves two options for the biker: sharing the road with the insane drivers. Or sharing the sidewalks with the insane walkers. I’ve generally opted for the latter, for the simple reason that there tend to be far fewer of them, and also they generally move slower than, oh, 50mph when on residential streets.

I’m willing to bet that brake specialists are among the richest people in Los Angeles. Why? Maybe it’s because there’s so much stop and go traffic. Maybe it’s because there’s so many traffic lights and stop signs. OR, maybe it’s because people like to travel no slower than 40mph, even in parking lots, and then slam on their breaks when they’re no further than ten feet from wherever it is they need to stop. The only thing people in LA do better than slamming on their brakes is hitting the accelerator.

Don’t even get me started on the pedestrians here. As a general rule, it seems that ONE person walking a sidewalk ten feet wide must take up approximately 80% of the available space at any given time. So when I’m biking and want to pass them and allow plenty of space, I”m left having to pick whichever direction they’re not moseying, and hope that I’m right.

After working for the better part of today, I was riding home (uphill) in the wind. Whilst traveling up the final part of the hill to the street I live on, I came across a small driveway that’s generally deserted due to no one really occupying the building right there.

If there’s anything I’ve learned about getting around in this city, it’s this: don’t trust anyone! I slowed down a bit as I approached the drive, and saw nothing in my line of site. Except there was something there; something I did not detect due to the greater distance. In any normal city, this would not have been a problem. But when you’re going 45mph in the little alleyway, you tend to approach the driveway at a rate of holy-shit-fast! And then have to slam on your brakes because, lo and behold, there’s a biker crossing your path! A biker by the name of Phil, in fact. A Phil-biker who didn’t (and doesn’t) much fancy the idea of being introduced to you by means of the bumper on your Mercedes.

Thank goodness for adrenaline, and for those super-fast reflexes of mine.

Good grammar skills do not come with Ph.D.s, I’m finding. I refer to writing here, and the use of run on sentences and inappropriate commas. And the fact that authors of certain textbooks, as well as my esteemed professor for my online class, all seem to constantly need to repeat themselves, that is, they say the same things twice.

I probably wouldn’t mind it so much, except it makes for such a huge workload, that is, there’s too fucking much to do. All that reading and rereading and reiteration of the same thing instead of just saying exactly what they mean.

This is why I’ve decided to not waste my precious time on such menial tasks, as muddling through the sludge of the academician’s poor excuse for writing. I’ll instead find other texts to enjoy, that is, I’ll read whatever the hell I want to and totally (or mostly) ignore what I’m “supposed” to be reading. But I won’t feel guilty because I only want to read something that’s of quality and substance, that is, nothing that I consider to be absolute shit due in large part to its excessive word count and abstruse generalizations about the mundane.

Just thinking about it all is putting me to sleep. Which seems like a wise course of action, indeed.

I’ve never felt so in touch with my vagina. Eve Ensler and an occasion known as V-Day have opened my eyes up even more into the world of women via a school production of The Vagina Monologues.

Having only read a few of the monologues myself, and seeing a few performed for various theater classes I’ve taken, I decided it was high time I actually see the production. What I saw was a very powerful performance by a group of incredibly talented women. During the ninety minute production, I experienced a variety of emotion. There were times of extreme laughter, times of pain and sorrow, times of joy, times of aggression, and times of peacefulness.

Indeed, The Vagina Monologues expresses what is close to the hearts of women. But more importantly, it touches the lives of every human being, and it embraces life on every level.

The production I saw was not of individual women on stage, one at a time, as I had pictured in my mind it would be. Instead, it was a group of women, united as one on stage, each taking her turn to have her say. I was honored to be granted the privilege of being present in that moment, and of getting this special glimpse into the lives of those around me.

After the fact, I’m reminded of how powerful words can be. It’s impossible to see this show and not be moved. The more people who see this production, and others that strive to touch our hearts in similar ways, the better this world will be.

I thought people subsisting on only one food was some sort of myth. Namely because any one-fooders were typically actually one-food category-ers. Like “junk food” food people. Or “fast food” people. At least with those types, they’re eating their hamburgers both with cheese AND without.

I went to the dollar store tonight (ahem–the 99-Cent Store) to see what there was to see. I generally avoid the grocery aisles in such stores, because when deli meats cost only a dollar, and so does some tasty off-brand factory-made and supposedly edible cardboard chips, I start to wonder what exactly those animals looked like before they were made into lunch meat.

So while I was standing in line to check out at the lone register, I eavesdropped into the carts and hands and baskets of my fellow shoppers. The guy in front of me was purchasing hair care products. And lotion. The lady in front of him was buying some paper and art supplies for elementary schoolers. I had my little smell-good air freshener. And then there was the guy behind me. He was purchasing only one product. In bulk. Without the fancy Costco packaging.

One look into his basket was enough for me to want to leap over the register and hide. The entire bottom of his shopping cart was lined with boxes of sardines. A SHOPPING CART FULL OF SARDINES. All lined up neat and tidy, and in such density that I could practically smell them through both their tin containers AND their individual cardboard boxes.

I tried, and failed, to be sensitive toward this very portly gentleman. But I simply cannot fathom someone being allergic to every single food known to man with the exception of tiny fish soaked in olive oil. Granted, I don’t even like sardines. But he’s probably the only person on the planet who eats them three meals a day, 3,650 days per decade. Heck, just looking at them made me swear to myself that I would never again eat those icky sardines, regardless of the fact that I had no intention of ever eating them anyway.

Living in LA has a way of making you think you’re losing your mind. On a daily basis, no less. And then it always takes a good slap in the face (from yourself) to realize that everyone else is insane, not you.

Those crazy “pedestrian cross walk buttons” that cause lights in the road to suddenly flash and supposedly make it safe for people to cross when there’s no traffic light? Crazy. Even more crazy are the people who go running up to push the button and then leap into the street to cross it. Because, you know, there’s only half a dozen cars traveling 35-60 miles per hour on this street, all of which can stop on a dime (I originally had typed dame by mistake; let’s hope none of us stop on any dames). Unless, like me this evening, they happen to be halfway through the little crosswalk thing when you decide to Peter Pan it. I realize I’m attractive and all, but at least wait until my car comes to a complete stop before flinging yourself upon it.

Those crosswalks that allow pedestrians to walk diagonally across an intersection? Crazy. Especially because the first time I saw one of those things, I happened to actually BE a pedestrian, and thought people were putting themselves in mortal danger. Holy shit.

Those two guys who chased me in the grocery parking lot the other day? Fucking crazy. At least on that occasion, I knew I wasn’t the one who was insane. All I wanted was my Quizno’s sub sandwich, and you crazies decided to chase me into the store asking if I would buy you a sandwich or spare a dollar. Um, when you put it that way, SHIT NO. And for future reference, (in case one or both of the chasers happens to be reading this), running after a complete stranger in a parking lot is not the best of options when you’re seeking some form of charity. Just a thought.

In case you ever wondered what would happen if you microwaved a frozen pizza that was actually meant to be oven-baked, allow me to put all such questioning thoughts to rest. But first, a few rules to avoid the fate that befell me this otherwise fine evening.

1. Pay attention to the box of pizza you place in the shopping cart. Even if you’re rushing through Target trying to grab everything you need as fast as you can because you showed up there ten minutes before they closed.

Should this first step fail you, for any reason, the following step should act as a second safeguard:

2. Pay attention to the instructions on the box before popping the pizza into the microwave for the standard 6 minutes you’ve become so used to for the purpose of zapping frozen pizzas.

Those are really the only two important things to remember. Should you fail to follow both of them, as I did, you’re in for a real treat: boiled cheese atop a delicious-looking-but-totally-nasty-and-uncooked crust. The microwave does a fantastic job of heating things up. That amazing-looking frozen crust retains its appetizingly white color, and it’s definitely hot to the touch. The cheese, in its melting and boiled glory, is just fine. Once I realized how badly I’d butchered the preparation of my savory frozen meal, I was mildly surprised that the explosion wasn’t louder; or present, for that matter.

Sadly, I was forced to dispose of the pizza carcass, because there was no way I was going to eat it, and seek out other sustenance. Of course, I still have one more such pizza in the freezer, because I thought I would be clever and buy enough pizza for me to have TWO meals instead of just one. (I’m not sure if the oven actually works, or if my roommate might suddenly try to evict me for rooting through the cupboards for a pan to use, and then she may press charges against me for actually trying to use her oven, which was, until I blundered in, mint condition.) So the fate of the second oven-baked pizza is hanging in the balance. Where, at least for the moment, it shall remain.

I don’t think I’ll ever understand some of the culture of this place. Or maybe it’s just that I live with someone who’s extraordinarily anal retentive and obsessive compulsive. Both? At this point, I have no way of knowing.

Part one: As I’ve started to settle in here, I’ve been working really hard to get all my things in order. I’ve also been trying to get used to living in a new place. Yesterday, my roommate approached me.

Roommate: So, uh, what kind of schedule do you want to have to clean the bathroom?
Phil: Oh, I’ll probably clean it once a week. On Saturday or Sunday.
Roommate: Um, actually, I’d prefer it if you cleaned it on Friday or Saturday, because I usually have company come on Sunday.

Never mind that in the month or so I’ve been here, I’ve not seen ANY company here on Sundays. And really, if she was going to tell me what days she’d prefer I clean, I’m left wondering why she bothered asking what days I wanted to do so.

Part two: I cleaned the bathroom last night. You know, to make good on the whole “schedule” thing. She has this trash can in there that has totally been grossing me out because she NEVER uses a bag for it. So I’d taken to putting plastic Target bags in there, in an effort to be a tad more sanitary. Unfortunately, she noticed it this morning. Worse, she knocked on my door and then proceeded to raise her voice at me:

Roommate: Um, Phil?
Phil: Yeah?
Roommate: Um, I just wanted to let you know that we don’t put trash bags in this trash can. It looks tacky when company comes over.
Phil: I was going for cleanliness.
Roommate: I know, but it doesn’t look nice when you have a bag with little red Target symbols in it.

Where I come from, people who visit your home don’t judge you based on what sort of trash bags you use, least of all in your bathroom. Actually, they’d probably be more likely to frown upon the LACK of trash bag. But I think the bigger question here is: who the fuck looks at the bags in someone’s bathroom? I’d be inclined to suggest they seek help if they’re in such a habit.

Meanwhile, I have to figure out some way to sneakily use trash bags. If it was up to my roommate, no doubt she’d say I would need to find chrome-colored bags if I wanted the privilege of not suddenly catching some rare non-lined-trash-can-borne illness. I might be inclined to be less afraid of the no-bag thing if it was wood or plastic. But the fact that the shiny metal shows every scratch and smudge just does me in.

Note to self: for future reference, never again go to the nearby mall on a Friday night, especially if it’s not yet 8 o’clock. No matter how much you’re craving Cold Stone, either exercise some self-control or find another slightly less convenient location. Or even restrict your cravings for ice cream to any day of the week other than Friday.

I’m generally big on exploring. It’s pretty much all I’ve been doing in my spare time: jumping in the car and driving to wherever the road takes me. This I’ve been exploring the area where I’m living as well as its nearby neighbors. I took a slightly less than Magellan approach to things tonight, and wound up hitting the biggest high school hangout in the area. All Christopher Columbus style, no less, ignoring the surrounding signs and just jumping into a place that turned out to be totally what I didn’t expect it or want it to be. It was like Back to the Future part one, only Chuck Berry was conspicuously absent on the radio.

I devoured my ice cream and then moved on to my real destination for the evening (Cold Stone was, too, but I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to scarf that stuff as fast as I wanted to tonight): a soulless and evil giant corporate bookstore that I happen to enjoy, known as Borders Books. I’ve found all sorts of useless stores in my area, such as a sewing shop, a whole bunch of real estate offices, and some makeup stores, but I’ve yet to find a good used bookstore convenient to me.

I entered Borders in the hopes of finding a book and/or book with a kit for Calligraphy. I found both, and ended up buying the latter of the two. The catalyst for the purchase itself is interesting. Given my love for the written word, I’ve lately been fascinated by more stylistic representations of writing, and have been itching to give it a try.

I wandered the store, browsing the shelves and eventually coming to the ‘art’ section. Before settling in that area to skim the titles and some of the books, I didn’t notice anything unusual. People milling about and reading books, or groups of people wandering and chatting about books or boyfriends or living in the ghetto (I actually heard a snippet of a conversation regarding that last one). Once I found the book/kit, I plopped myself down on a small wooden stool to leaf through it.

Whilst leafing, I noticed, using my superior peripheral vision, a guy walk up and stare around the area before grabbing a random book from a shelf in front of me. Without bothering to actually look at the title. I continued reading, and looked up suddenly when someone walked in front of me. And there’s this random guy, probably in his early 20’s, leaning on a center display of books and holding a big book displaying pieces of art, and staring right at me. And then offering me what I guess was supposed to be his most winning smile and a toss of his head so that his shoulder-length thick, shaggy and in all likelihood lice-ridden dark hair flopped backward.

Fortunately, my reflexes are state of the art, and I instantly focused on my book once again. Not one to give up, though, he remained. Which made it very difficult to focus on my book because, frankly, I was found the whole situation creepy. I’ve been to gay bars here. I’ve been to the gay district in West Hollywood. I’ve shopped in a mall that may as well get it over with and change its name to GAY WORLD. And, out of all these places, I’m getting cruised at fucking Borders? Holy shit.

When I moved, he moved. Where I went, he followed and tried to stay back a few shelves for the sake of remaining conspicuous. And he kept trying to catch my eye. I got my break when I rounded a corner and he didn’t notice. And then I ran for it, Calligraphy book/kit clutched to my chest for dear life. I flew down the stairs to the first level, looking back only to check that I wasn’t being followed.

I made my purchase (I’m super excited about it, by the way), and then made my escape. Obviously, I weaved my way through cars to make my path extra difficult to follow. And when I got to my car, I jumped in, locked the doors, scrunched down really low in my seat and turned up my rap music so I would just be another one of the cool high schoolers hanging out. Oh, and I also wore my baseball cap sideways and at a slight tilt. In other words, it was the best getaway ever.

Now the only thing I’m left fearing is that I’ll wind up the subject of some advertisement in a local alternative newspaper. He’ll have mistaken my look of horror and revulsion for something resembling interest, and will run an ad in the “I Saw You” section that reads:

Me: Dark and handsome, reading a book on Baroque art at Borders. You: Smiled at me over your Calligraphy book and then kept looking at me as I was eyeing you. I want your body.

Um, yeah. Terrifying.

It’s the little things I miss the most. The smiles. The laughter. For no other reason than it feels so good. Sitting in silence because nothing needs to be said. Doing things without planning or without cause, just to be present in the moment. To have nothing else matter except that sense of complete calm and happiness. The moments when my heart beats the slowest are among the most exhilarating I’ve ever experienced. Feeling instead of thinking. Overwhelming me with wonder.