The Hermit Chronicles

I know October 31 was two weeks ago, but what is it about people in large cities and Halloween? For months people I know out here have been talking about their costumes, planning for the parade in West Hollywood, arranging parties, etc. Amid all this excitement, I was silent. I made no plans. I sewed no costume.

As part of The Great Clean-out of 2005 (see previous bog entry), I’ve been holed up in my apartment, like a new millennium JD Salinger, except I have to go to work. Sometimes I go out to buy groceries, sometimes I go have brunch with a friend. But most of the time I am a complete hermit. It occurred to me a few weeks back that I’ve been spending a lot of time with people I hate. I also hate driving (see previous blog entry). So the natural solution is to not leave my apartment. And for the past three weeks, I’ve been utterly pleased.

I’ve been so committed to my new hermit routine that I recently had this phone conversation with a friend:

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“What are you doing?”

“Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.” (Note: I have no TV.)

“What are you doing tonight?”

“This.”

“You’re kidding. You have to come out.”

“Nope.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“No it won’t.”

“It has to be more fun than what you’re doing.”

“No it doesn’t. I am having a lot of fun right now, actually.”

“C’mon, please?”

“Nope.”

“Fine, I’ll call you this weekend. You have to come out eventually.”

She was right, I ended up hanging out with that friend all day the Sunday before Halloween and the two of us had a great time. She even convinced me to come to a Halloween party. Everyone showed up in costume, from a dark angel, to Elvis, to a navy admiral.

The thing is, I think a lot of people in LA use Halloween as an excuse to dress like whores. I’m pretty sure that the US Navy isn’t issuing booty-shorts to the female admirals. I’m also sure that if I somehow wind up in Hell someday, the angels won’t be wearing booty-shorts and black crocheted halter tops.

My costume consisted of a black shirt, jeans and a corduroy blazer. When asked what I was dressed up as, I responded, “I’m a disgruntled black woman.”

My costume was the most authentic thing there. I researched it for weeks in my apartment. I can definitively say that is what a disgruntled black woman would wear if forced to attend a party. Yet I received no compliments, no kudos, no “Best Costume” awards. Why you ask?

No booty-shorts.

Back to my apartment it is!

Democracy

I hate people who don’t vote.

I rarely ever meet people like this but unfortunately I ventured out of my apartment Wednesday (Note to self: bad idea) and met someone who told me they didn’t vote.

Not, “I completely forgot to vote.”
(Which is inexcusable considering the sheer number of ads put up by the Guvenator, the unions, and the Dems in support or defiance of the no less than seven propositions on Tuesday’s ballot.)

Not, “I was on my way to vote but got in a car accident.”
(Which is a pretty good excuse; though I will say my grandma had a heart attack when she went to vote during the 2000 election, but still managed to vote before the ambulance arrived to meet her at the polls. My family is pretty dedicated to participatory democracy.)

Not, “I’m an undocumented immigrant.”
(Which is valid.)

But instead, I got, “The props were all stupid and the whole thing was a waste of money. I’m not a big voter, anyway.”

That is retarded. I can not emphasize enough how asinine that reasoning is. I immediately filled with hate and could only muster:

“Hmm.” While nodding. Then I walked away, never to see that sorry bastard again.

Dorks Unite


So last week I was faced with yet another example of why I don’t belong in LA. I was in the Whole Foods and She Works Hard for the Money, by Donna Summer was playing. So of course, I began to sing along and dance in the aisle. I was getting frozen food, ice cream, pasta, etc., while dancing and singing along. I was having a fabulous time.

I began to notice that folks were looking at me strangely. No one was joining in. No one commented about the song.

I became annoyed.

It then dawned on me, everyone at the store was too cool to dance to Donna Summer.

That is the problem with LA. Everyone is just too cool for school. I mean that both figuratively and literally.

We’ll get to the literal explanation in a later post, but for now I’d like to get back to dancing at the store.

You see, back in DC at my old shopping haunt, the 14th and P Street Fresh Fields, I danced to such artists as Chic, Earth, Wind and Fire, The Gap Band, and more. A particular favorite grocery store memory was reenacting Michael Jackson’s Thriller choreography while picking out cranberry juice with my brother. Whenever there was good music, there were people bobbing along, singing along, and dancing along to the beat. Even the employees joined in from time to time.

But then again, DC is a town for dorks, by dorks. I once had a half hour conversation at a bar with a guy who edits school textbooks. It was actually a really cool conversation. I didn’t give him my number, but the conversation was really interesting. I’ve actually discussed tort reform at a cocktail party. I had a good time at that party, as I recall.

But in a town of dorks (former student council presidents, lawyers, people who edit textbooks) no one really cares about looking cool at the Whole Foods. Actually, cool has been redefined: it’s cool to be smart. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s smart to know all the words to She Works Hard for the Money.