Imagine my horror as I walked through the parking lot tonight, only to see from afar a white piece of paper flapping on my windshield looking conspicuously like a parking ticket. I could not imagine WHY I would get a ticket. I have my parking permit up, my plates are current. But with my luck, I would not be surprised. I then felt the cold grip of Los Angeles county on my wallet, putting my ATM card in an immovable vise and destroying my credit. The unfeeling county treasurer was already making plans to use my hard earned dollars to construct more swank lofts downtown without trying to control the homeless situation beforehand ("who cares about the stench of urine and Wild Irish Rose, you've got 6000 square feet!). I see the obdurate Honda dealer rubbing his hands together, calculating my car's resale value as the repo man drives my car into the lot. I try and see me taking the bus, oh, but I can't because they're ON STRIKE. Damn the Man! As I finally approached my car, I resigned myself to a life of Top Ramen or Pabst Blue Ribbon dinners. I ripped the ticket out from under my wipers to see what I did this time, because I made sure I was at least two rows away from a handicap spot. "Come to our church services and meet Him personally!" oooh. Not funny, on so many different levels. Are these people not aware that their flyer looks like a parking ticket? In the 100 yards since I saw the "ticket", I had already planned my life as a bag lady. The sobbing was five yards away from happening. Damn those bible thumpers! Damn them for freaking me out and then trying to trick me into calming myself with the lord! I shake my fist at you all! [1:26 AM] |

Monday, October 27, 2003

It's a pun, get it? I'm going to start talking about a bad parking experience now. See? It's all coming together. Oh my god, am I running out of material already that I have to resort to using puns? How very very sad. It was either that or "the handicap get all the good spots", and I'm this close to knocking on the doorway to hell as it is. Anyway... I have a parking ticket. "Whatever", you say. "Pay the damn thing and shut up". But this is no ordinary parking ticket. No, this is for parking in a handicap spot. $330 in LA! Holy crap! Yes, I know, my fault for parking in a handicap spot. But let me explain... After spending some time watching pseudo-theater, some friends and I wanted a bite to eat. And this being LA, we all drove separately. So I went to meet them in Los Feliz (pronounced Los Fell-EESE if you're a "local", because they want SOMETHING to distinguish them from the ratty Hollywood crowd. Whatever.). It's Friday night, so of course I'm circling looking for parking. And circling and circling. Nothing available for a 7 block radius, except for the shady old man in the BofA parking lot, charging four bucks, but you're not really sure if it's legit, and he's going to take off with your money AND you're going to get a ticket. And even that lot is far from where you have to go. At this point, I'm starving. I'm fed up with all of the Hollywood hipsters running in front of my car to catch up with friends or standing in front of my car in the middle of the street to say goodbye, so I can't move, etc., etc. So I tried the post office lot across the street from where we were meeting, and lo and behold, there's an open spot! But it's in one of the handicap spots. I park and look at the other cars in the those spots, and only one of the other four bear a placard. At this point I'm about ready to run over some over-styled-to-look-messy scenester just for fun, but I can't because my blood sugar is dangerously low, and I haven't had enough alcohol to become fully apathetic. And I'm wearing heels. I never wear heels. (I thought I would try and blend in) How am I supposed to walk ten+ blocks in heels that I'm not used to? So I said screw it, it's after hours and if there's a disabled/elderly person going out at midnight to try and go to the post office, I'm saving them the trouble of getting out of the car to see that IT'S CLOSED. And I'm still hungry. These other people must know it's okay, they're doing it (I guess I'm a lemming). I away I go. Since you already know the outcome of this little tale, it comes as no surprise that a ticket awaited my arrival. But what I was NOT expecting, was that my car was the only car in the handicapped spots. What happened to the others? Where were my comrades when I needed them most? There was my lonely little rice rocket all alone. Others probably read that as, "What an asshole, parking in the handicap spots like they owned the world. What a total disregard for others! Does that person have no soul?" (as I would have thought were it not my car). And little co-dependant in me winced at the thought of someone looking down at me, even the scenesters. So ultimately, I deserved the ticket, but my broke ass can't really afford it, so I guess I have to whore myself again. See you on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. Someone tell me a parking ticket story that sucks more. Things always seem better when some else is more miserable than you are. [6:03 PM] |

Sunday, October 26, 2003

I just got off the phone with a friend of mine, who is still involved in filmmaking. I think he's either a masochist or retarded, maybe both. Anyway, he called me during his break while on set, because if he wasn't doing anything, there was a 90% chance someone would yell at him. The other 10% would be someone telling him to do something that wasn't his job. So we were chatting, and in the background I hear, "Oh my god, can't they do SOMETHING about these fires already, we're TRYING to FILM here!" Because the Fire Department is being so lax about it since they don't realize that it's impeding on a high-budget production. On a normal planet, you'd think, ha ha, that person is being funny, although that wasn't very funny. But this being LA and everything, where we revolve around a different sun (I believe this week it's Colin Farrel), you know this woman is completely serious. You would think at least I'd be able to feel the collective eye-rolling of 150 crew members through the phone, but no, the absurdity of the comment made no mark on these jaded souls. Instead, it was just me shouting at my dog, "holy crap, did you just hear that Kali? Can you believe she just said that? Will no one share this moment with me?" My dog just snorted and rolled over, while my friend on the other line just said unaffected, "well, I guess I better go. I have to make sure (insert famous person's name here)'s martini is real." Arguing with Hollywood is like the Special Olympics, no matter who wins, you're still retarded. But in Hollywood, you won't get a hug. And I used to wonder how Arnold got elected? [10:12 PM] |

I recently had a conversation with a friend, and it ended with her remarking, with a sigh, "I wonder if I'll ever find my soulmate". I just said, "of course you will, you're a great person", not really thinking about what I had just said. Well, sure she's a great person, but should I be encouraging that line of thinking? That the sole purpose in her life is to find a soulmate? So I thought about it some more until "The Bachelor" was over (because I'm a glutton for punishment), and then I REALLY thought about it, and it struck me: I don't want to meet my soulmate, and for so many reasons too. I'm only 30, I'm not that old, if I met my soulmate (hereby to be refered as SM, I don't want to keep typing it out) now, then it's over. That's it, that's who I'm stuck with for life. Play time is over, time to grow up. Then there's the fact that most people assume that their SM will be the perfect person.Come on, there aren't that many perfect people in the world, hell, there are very very few of them around, and why in the world would they want to be with you when they want perfect people too? So that leaves a lot of sub-par and assholes for the rest of us mortals. Maybe you're SM is the perfect person for YOU. And if that's the case, I certainly don't want to meet my SM. I admit, I'm an asshole. What can I say, I'm a product of my environment(s). I grew up on the beaches of LA, making me a lazy ass, then lived in San Francisco during the Dot.com boom and fall, making me a greedy-short-attention-span-scenester, then back to Hollywood to work in entertainment, making me the devil. So what was my point? Oh yes, overall, I'm an asshole, so what does that make my SM? There is the adage, "Like attracts like". Great, so I get another asshole. One works fine for me, I don't need any more. So what's to say those last five failed romances weren't my SM? Because if they were, I'm happy staying single, thankyouverymuch. Who wants to be with an asshole? So is that like saying, who in the hell would want to be with me? On the other hand, there is also the handy cliche, "opposites attract". That doesn't please the palate either really. Because now I picture some whiny, pussy-ass mother f**ker who likes to talk about his feelings and emotions all the time. Again, quite happy with the dog otherwise. I don't know, it just seems like a lose-lose situation for us ordinary folk. So you can take your SM, and leave me here with my musings instead. And maybe, just maybe, one day I'll find the right dose of Preperation H for my asshole. [9:06 PM] |

Saturday, October 25, 2003

Did you know my keyboard doesn't have a cent symbol on it? Does the company assume I never use change? Anyway, I left most of my tools at a friend's place and I needed to do some repairs (what a renaissance woman!), so I ambled down to the local Asian $.99 store to pick up some basics. You can never have too many basics. Unless they break on you while you're trying to use them! Not just one, but two. I got one of those screwdrivers that have a ton of bits you can interchange on the handle, but they don't fit too well, and they keep popping out while trying to use them. Then my new needlenose pliers were crappy enough to bend at the tip. The moral of this story? Stop being such a cheap ass and buy yourself some good tools! Or better yet, stop being such a lazy ass and go to your friend's place (even though it's in the Valley) and get your damn tools! [8:39 PM] |

I added a comment page. Tell me what you think. [2:53 PM] |

No, not the relationship-type (as indicated by girlfriend, no space), or a female friend (as indicated by lowercase 'g', lowercase 'f'). I'm talking Girl Friend (space, uppercase, uppercase), you know, the kind that you confide in about things you can't say to your mother or co-workers. The kind that you would like to call 'sista' but would look ridiculous because you're a 30-year old Asian woman. The kind that talk about that not-so-fresh feeling, and then discuss how it's cutting into their booty time. You always know when Girl Friends are talking because the conversation starts with, "Is it wrong when I/he/we..." or "Is it normal that/when...", then proceeds to explain in graphic detail physical ailments or not-so-charming quirks from her current mate. The Girl Friend is not there to judge or lay blame, the Girl Friend is there to give third-party medical advice that she remembers from either her or another person's experience, or she is there to happily inform you why he is wrong or advice on how to spice things up unconventionally. She will let you into her home unannounced to free you from doing the walk of shame because you stayed somewhere you shouldn't have the night before and she is conveniently located near aforementioned scene because sometimes you plan it that way because you know she will not deny you access even though you didn't mention you were going out the night before. Because Girl Friends are like that. Girl Friends will point out the huge red flags of potential mates or suitors that you seem to have missed because you heard "Blah blah blah, you look fabulous, blah blah blah, you're so adorable" and they hear, "I am soooo gay, but I don't know it yet, and I would like to come out of the closet while we're dating so my family can blame it on you". Or you hear, "I just closed a really huge deal, so I celebrated by buying that Jag out there. I still have play money left over, and I'd love to take you to this great little place up the coast. It's romantic and quiet, we won't have a care in the world!" and they hear, "Yeah, I'm going through my midlife crisis so we have to go somewhere remote where no one knows us so my wife and boss won't find out". See? What would you do without them? As for myself, I do deem myself a Girl Friend, but I also find myself as girl-friend (hyphen), not really girlfriend, but engaging in activities that can't really warrant girl friend (the girl/boy friend relationship, you ask? That's a whole 'nother post), but not really caring where it goes either way. I'm balancing precariously on that hyphen over the precipice of dark unknown, not really moving because my sherpa got impatient and forged on ahead saying I was too slow and I'm not taking my journey very seriously. I told him I thought it was just a hike, I wasn't prepared for this yet, and he stomped his feet a bit and forged on ahead, leaving me there on that hyphen, a bit confused. Now I'm just waiting for my Girl Friends to come save me. [2:21 PM] |

Friday, October 24, 2003

[2:17 PM] |

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

Let's hear it for disorders! Sometimes, when my esteem is especially low, I tend not to realize that I'm putting trash into my body and end up nauseous and/or with a migraine. I realized today must be one of those days because I found myself watching "Joe Millionaire" on TV. This headache is a doozy. Earlier this month, I was embarassed to me a Californian, now I'm embarassed to be from the states, because a little part of me enjoys watching that kind of crap. I call it "obsessive-repulsive". Kind of like a train wreck, "it's so horrible, but I can't look away!" I have to admit, some of my fondest memories were watching Temptation Island the first season while having potluck with the girls. It's kind of an ego boost, knowing you're not as ridiculously idiotic like some of those people. There's hope for me yet! [2:45 PM] |

Monday, October 20, 2003

Well, still haven't figured out how to work everything, so it looks like I'm just writing to myself for a spell. But see, this way I won't leave anything out. Because I have soooo much going on right now. Which is why I've spent nearly the entire day trying to figure how to properly blog. And I still don't have it down. Where are the girlfriends when you need them? [10:00 PM] |

Hey kids, Jerky Treat is back, albeit in a lot simpler form without cool graphics. That's what I get for moving out of San Francisco away from the geeks. More to come soon! [10:18 AM] |

Turkey Jerky

Blogarama Watch out for them Asians Aussie's Rule! Who needs a hug? The Prettiest Girl Good clean fun! Rock Star semi-nongirlfriend A whole lotta LA Because I said so

other jerky

Old Jerky

Archives 10/01/2003 - 10/31/2003 11/01/2003 - 11/30/2003 12/01/2003 - 12/31/2003 01/01/2004 - 01/31/2004 02/01/2004 - 02/29/2004 03/01/2004 - 03/31/2004 04/01/2004 - 04/30/2004 05/01/2004 - 05/31/2004 06/01/2004 - 06/30/2004 07/01/2004 - 07/31/2004 08/01/2004 - 08/31/2004 09/01/2004 - 09/30/2004 10/01/2004 - 10/31/2004 12/01/2004 - 12/31/2004