Girlie Margarita Night

One look at the tawdry, phallic fountain says it all. Free buffet and $4 margaritas at Don Cuco's - what's better (or worse) than that? OK, the buffet was crap and the fact that I plowed through six bowls of chips probably won't do my ass any good, but what the hell - tossing back cheep drinks with the girls is where it's at.

http://losangeles.citysearch.com/review/316407

Loaves and Bitsshes

If you have to work at home or are just hanging around the house one day, make bread. It's so damn good when it's hot, it's better than anything you can buy, and it takes just a few minutes every few hours. And of course, it's cheep.

So here's what you do:
Heat up 1/4 cup water til very warm. Throw in a spoonful of flour and sugar, then put in one packet of yeast. Go do something - take a shower or check your email - and come back 10 min later. If it's foamy, it's ALIVE. If not, throw it out and start over.

Put the yeast-water in a bowl. Throw in 3 cups flour, 2 cups very warm water, 1 melted tablespoon butter, 1 tablespoon salt and 2 tablespoons sugar. Mix for one minute. It'll hurt your arms. Add 3 more cups flour, 1/2 cup at a time. Mix. It'll hurt some more unless you drive a pickup truck without power steering.

Now you've got warm dough. Stick your hands in it. It feels good. Knead it on your floured counter for 10 min. Hell, yeah. You may need to keep adding bits of flour so it doesn't stick. This feels really good, even if it gets boring.

Put the dough in an oiled bowl. Turn it over once so the top's covered with oil. Put plastic wrap over it loosely and stick it somewhere warm. Go do something for two hours, like help produce a documentary about the National Religious Broadcasters Convention.

Come back and do the fun part: Punch it down. Divide the dough in half. Shape it into loaves and thunk it into bread pans. Cover with plastic wrap again and go do something for another 1-1/2 hours, like talking religious zealots into letting you use their footage in your film.

Come back and heat up the oven to 450. Bake 10 minutes. Turn it down to 350. Bake 30 minutes. Your house will smell like crack. Take it out, let the bread cool as long as you can stand it, then cut it and eat it with butter. Fuck, yeah, bitsshes.

Muslim Cocktail

I didn't even plan this. And we drank 'em while eating BLTs. I meant no disrespect. Star-shaped ice cube trays... who knew?

US Out of My Pants!

But American Apparel can get in anytime, cause they're sweatshop free. And you know that I know that you know that we like free.

And now it looks like I can get AA stuff fo' as cheep as Ross DFL stuff, because the lovely Craig of the model photos writes:

"Additionally, after reading through your blog more, there is this place buy our house that sells seconds from American Apparel for dirt cheap (a few doors down from 7th and Garland). I'm not certain if they have underwear, but they have a girls' section with dresses, so maybe. I get some of their t-shirts for, something like 7 for $10. It maybe 7 for $5, but I can't remember offhand."

Fuck, yeah.

Cheep AA: http://www.americanapparelstore.com/women-sale.html
Lovely Craig: http://www.flickr.com/photos/withpictures/

If I Can't Have the Gold Trans Am...

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the GM Highwire. Sure this car runs on seawater, but more importantly, the weird British dude in the video shows how you can drive from England to France and always have the steering thingy on the correct side of the road. And better yet, you just snap on the beat-up truck/cherry red convertible/sensible station wagon top of your dreams and off you go. Wooord...

Wonder if my GM-line-working, union-card-carrying, bad-joke-telling uncle could get me one of these, fo' free.

And special shout-outs to Darcy, the Future Car Queen.

Birthday Dinner with Pee Wee Herman & the Arquettes

Last night I went to my friend's bday dinner at this Indian vegetarian hole in the wall called Paru's. Someone asked the birthday girl if she knew which famous people were born on the same day as her. The birthday girl said no, but as the evening progressed, we realized that there was another party going on at the restaurant. Turns out, it was for Patricia Arquette, who was celebrating her birthday with her sister Rosanna and their friend Pee Wee Herman. There was even a kid's table. Pee Wee wasn't at it. And our version of 'Happy Birthday' was much better than theirs, even if we weren't famous.

And Paru's rocked the chick-peas, fo' cheep: http://www.parusrestaurant.com/map.htm

Good Hair, Free Panties and Bikini Models

I've been informed that if I do an entry solely about my amazing new haircut, no guy will care. So, to make sure that there's something for everyone, I've combined the good hair with free panties and bikini models. In any case, the dirt has been piling up due to the recent opossum kerfuffle, but now that we've moved past that, here we go:

1. HAIR: My sweet friend, who works at one of the fanciest salons in LA, came over to my house the other day and gave me a haircut on my balcony. Just like we used to rock it in Flint, Michigan. Except missy is used to giving blowouts to women with dyed pink mini-dogs for $150 a pop. (That's just for hot air, mind you. Cuts and color come in at about $350.) And you KNOW my hair is looking good. Of all the stuff I get fo' cheep, this is the one for which I am most grateful. Thank you, missy.

2. FREE PANTIES: Victoria's Secret has mailed out all these cards for free panties. Get some. Black string bikinis, in my case. Which leads us to...

3. BIKINI MODELS: So my cool new fashion friend took me to the GenArt party this week - vodka and clothing and art but no food on the roof of the Henry Ford Theatre. She introduced me to all these fashionistas, which was super fun, and we started talking to bikini designer Ashley Paige and jewelry designer Christie Martin, who were putting on a fashion show. Drinks were drunk, good times were had, and the next thing I knew I was upstairs in the models' dressing room, all tipsy and opinionated, ineptly pinning a crumbling lily into the hair of Model #5 (the redhead).

Me. In a dressing room. With five bikini models. Give it a moment.

Anyway, I failed at the flowers, but somehow Christie honed in on my organizing skills (AKA bossing people around), and was like, "Should we start the show?" "Should the models go down now?" "Should we have them change the light?" I answered definitively each time - Secret #2 to having people think you know what you're talking about.

Then we traipsed back downstairs and watched the show with Ashley and Christie et al. The ladies looked great, the bikinis were HOT, and the jewelry was this thin gold gorgeous stuff. But with Ashley sitting right there, I felt I had to lean over and take issue with the fact that someone with a normal body could never look good in any of her togs. I thwacked my thigh a couple times for emphasis. Ashley, however, swore that she could whip up a bikini that would make my legs look fabulous, that would make any woman look like a rockstar. We shall see...

Anyway, it was really fun. Crazy life.

Oh, and something else for the guys. Here's a tip - if you want to ask a girl out or start a conversation, don't "find" a DVD of your collected works on the ground by her purse and hand it to her, saying "I think you dropped this." Unless she's a total dumbass who somehow might have forgotten whether or not she brought your DVD of bad, collected works to a party, this is not going to work. Also, ixnay on the slagging off of other females. I thought the models looked great, and repeating a thousand times how you thought they were too skinny isn't going to make me suddenly see you for the sensitive man that you are. You stand half-naked in front of a crowd and have people judge you for your body and see how you do. OK, I"m done.

http://www.ashleypaige.com/fs_main.html
http://www.christiemartin.net/home.html
And thanks to Craig Moreschini for the pic.

Possum vs. Opossum; AKA Outraged in Australia

Dear Dirt Alert,

It is with an unsettling mix of dismay and rising nationalist outrage that I write to you from Sydney this morning. I nearly dropped my vegemite toast into the crystal clear waters of Bondi Beach when I saw you claiming the Possum for the Americas in your blog. Up until today I must say I have been informed and entertained with tales of bargains, bacon and the sweaty aspects of Flint, Michigan. Indeed my associates and I find the antics of you Californians endlessly amusing. However I must emphatically reclaim the Possum for Australia (and New Guinea and Sulawesi). It is the Opossum in your hemisphere the Possum in ours. Additionally you will find the Possum's tail curls in a clockwise direction while that of the Opossum curls anti-clockwise. I trust you will redress this misinformation forthwith and continue publishing the Dirt Alert in the tradition which many of us in Australia have come to enjoy.

What next? An American kangaroo? I hope not!

Yours Sincerely,
Andrew Farrell Esq.
Bondi Beach,
Sydneytown
Australia

Last Night I Saved a Baby Possum from The Home Depot Gardening Center

Alas, this did not happen to me, but to my friends Heather and Tim. Heather sent the story along and asked if she could provide Guest Dirt, and I said hells yeah. So, without further ado, I give you:

"Last Night I Saved a Baby Possum from The Home Depot Gardening Center"

Yes, it's true. The little guy was cruising around the flats of rosemary and baby's tears, having a good old chompfest, when I spotted him and said to Tim, "what the hell is that??" It took us a moment to run through the possibilities. Could it be a deformed rat? A guinea pig on acid? A premature bunny with a long tail? Nay. Tim "The Zookeeper" Kaeding finally pegged it: our new friend was a baby possum. (Or is it opossum?? The debate roars hot).

I immediately launched into Mother Theresa mode, and made Tim go fetch a few typically useless HD employees, one of whom suggested we throw the infant out on the street and try out the "survival of the fittest theory". When they said the bugger had been there for a week (no one helped him in all that time!), I demanded "enough of this nonsense, now find
me a box." They did just that, and through a Crocodile Hunter-esque round-up, we managed to hustle him inside the box and into my car.

Here the adventure begins, as it took us over 3 hours and way too many ugly backroads of Burbank to find the SPCA. Of course we had each forgotten our cell phones, and try asking any non-English speaking gas station attendant where is the SPCA - or using any pay phone Yellow Pages, for that matter. No luck. Finally it dawned on us that nothing would be open anyhow, so we slouched on home for the night. There in the twilight of the garage, I fed our hissing houseguest quite a
nice dinner of mache lettuce, roast chicken, melon, and heirloom tomatoes. Between that and the 7 T-shirt we donated for his "bed", he was living like a king.

Today we got him safely to the SPCA, and all ends fine. We took him to the Pasadena location because my car had an appointment at Audi Rusnak, where I now have a lifelong image of Tim walking the "possum box" across the parking lot, past all the fancy Porsches, Bentleys, Audis, and throngs of Monday morning fix-it people, to deposit it in the passenger seat of his own humble Porsche.

And so the story ends. The possum is in good hands, being looked over by a trusty vet as we speak. Later today they are sending him to a possum rehabilitation center after his check-up, a fact I find hysterical. Possum rehabilitation? A gourmet dinner made of the finest ingredients, plus a ride in a Porsche? That was one lucky little bugger, and it was great fun to have
him around.

Hope to see YOU around soon too, my dear!
xoxo
Heather

http://opossum.org/orphans.htm

Testosterone-Fueled Beauty

I saw this on Beachwood the other day. And it's fo' sale. Schweeet......

http://www.78ta.com/transam.htm

I Play Air Guitar on the Sunset Strip

So last night I went to a reading by Bjorn Turoque from his new book 'To Air is Human'. Yes, Bjorn is the second-greatest air guitarist in the world, and he gave everyone in the audience, including his Nana, free lessons. I was pretty good at it, but still, it was to my great surprise that I found myself onstage later that evening at the Key Club on the cheesy-ass Sunset Strip, windmilling away to 'Anyway You Want It' by Journey, as one-half of the rockin' duo known as Aero-Dynamic. (No, wait. I'm not surprised at all.) My bandmate G-Love worked the overbite, I worked the rocker-chick hair, and we both found out that what NPR sez is true: To air is human, to rock out, divine.

ROCK! (insert horns here)

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5598270

Ex-Girl

The other night my new fashion writer friend and I were out drinking drinks and spilling them down our fronts, and we traipsed off to the X-Girl Night Sale, which she knew about because it's her job to know about such things.

Now, I don't know about you, but I have a love-hate relationship with X-Girl, because they make the coolest clothes on the planet, but not in size 3 anymore. (As in 1, 2, 3.) So, what's a glamazon beanpole to do if she wants a pair of well-tailored wool pants with a switchblade discreetly silk-screened on the back cuff above the ankle?

Well, one thing to do is to make friends with said fashion writer. She knew the store owner, emailed her in advance to alert her to my dilemma, and received notice back that she, the owner, would haul out all the remaining size 3s left in the store. Word.

We also found this new line, Golden Cast, which does come in my size, and from which I scored the always-elusive Greatest Tee Ever. I knew it was a GTE because both my friends tried it on and wanted it and I haven't taken it off since I wrestled it out of their sticky little hands. And I got a fat discount. Not fo' free, but fo' cheep.

So here's the good word: Make friends with a fashion writer (it helps if she's really fucking cool). Hang out with her, join her band, but mostly, invite her to your clothes swaps.

And check out the GTE: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=30629339

Sunday Morning Homework

Here's your homework. Tomorrow morning when you wake up, make yourself a cup of coffee, put on your favorite record or playlist or CD or whatever it is the kids are listening to these day, then go back to bed. Lay around all morning, listening to music and drinking coffee, with yourself or someone else. Is there anything better?

And when was the last time you did that?

http://www.nlannon.com/music.html

iSpy Coco

So the best thing about my new computer (besides the fact that the screen stands up all by itself) is the built in iSight camera, which has this bitchin' program called Photo Booth. Basically, it lets you sit at your computer and snap photos of yourself all day long, just like at the photo booth at the Edendale Grill. Except fo' free.

If a better procrastination device has ever been made, I haven't seen it. And of course, it makes you want to go straight to the nudie pix.

What You Get Fo' Free in Flint

1. 5000000 mosquito bites
2. Fireflies
3. Sticky nephews screaming "Coco No!"

White Bread

All you need to know about the Midwest.

Screw Michael Moore

I'm in Flint, Michigan, and I haven't seen a foreign car in days.

The air is thick and sticky, just like my family, with which I am reunioning. I just had a fifty-five minute conversation with my uncle, a union member who used to work the line at GM, about biodeisel cars (for) and Priuses (against). We got huge backyards with no fences, ads for affirmative action on TV, damp-smelling basements, urban blight, and speech patterns that are creeping uncomfortably back into my brain.

This is where I was born, where my mother was born, where my dad scored and met her on a blind date, and where I first learned that a gold Trans Am with an airbrushed eagle on the hood was the pinnacle of testosterone-fueled beauty. Screw Michael Moore - Flint is mine.

Newest Member of the Family

Coming in at a stunning 13 inches long and weighing just a couple of pounds, it's the newest member of the Coco family. She's fast, she's brainy, she's flat and she's white. Just like me.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that the MacBook, the cheapest laptop that Apple's got, is SO much faster and better than my old booty-ass G4 Titanium. And much better looking. So even though I downgraded, I upgraded. And for only $1100, which is not so bad for a sexy new computer. Plus, Writers' Guild members get a discount. Of course, strictly speaking, one should actually be a member of the Writers' Guild...

So here's what you do: Go to the Mac store. Buy a computer. Smile. Let them transfer your data over, but don't let them charge you $99 bucks for it. Hold out and they'll do it for free. Smile. Leave.