First World Problems

While sitting at Taverna Tony’s today, beneath the ivy walls and at the whim of Malibu’s sea breeze, I overheard some things that make the howling fantods seem like a nice alternative. Witness the following:

Four blond ladies, all pushing sixty, but sporting plastic physiques and even more plastic faces, are discussing their dietary habits. While debating the menu items, the dialogue moved forward as such:

A: I’m thinking the pasta.

B: The pasta has carbs.

A: I know, but I have these pills which means the carbs don’t process. You eat two of them before the meal and you don’t get the carbs.

B: Wow, I need to get some of those. I had almost three carbs yesterday and I’m feeling it.

(author’s note: are you fucking kidding me?)

C: What are they made of?

A: That’s the weird part. They are made of carbs.

(unfathomably real uproarious laughter from the ladies)

A: It’s crazy but I can eat all the carbs I want and not get the carbs.

C: We all need to get those pills.

(Heads nod in agreement)

D: Where’d you get them?

A: I’m not sure I should tell.

D: You’re kidding.

A: Well, sleeping with a man for pills makes me sound like a drug addict.

(awkward giggles)

B: Someone should write a book about you.

A: What kind of book?

B: Like a bestseller.

That’s right about when I started contemplating suicide. But it gets worse. When I turned my ear to my right, toward the mother, the three year-old, the baby, and what I can only assume was a Hispanic nanny, the following ensued:

Baby: “Mama, Agua pease?

Mom: “You want water? Ok.

(a pause)

4 year old: “Mama, quiero zapatos nuevos.”

Mom: “What?”

4 year old: “Zapatos nuevos.”

Mom: I can’t understand you.

4 year old: “Zapatos nuevos, Mama”

(mother turning red with frustration)

Mom: “What is she saying!”

Nanny: “Sheneeds new shoes.”

Mom: “OK, well I have a salon appointment so can you please get them for her this afternoon.”

Nanny: “Yes, Mrs. xxxx”

That this kid is using Spanish to have her needs fulfilled says way too much about the parenting situation. Plunging my knife into my neck just didn’t seem like it would solve the problem. So, here I am, writing about it, attempting the wipe the stench of humanity from me, trying to figure out whether these apocalyptic events truly indicate the end of civilization. These are the folks who have proverbially “made it.” When mountains become cliff’s edges, I no longer want to climb.

DID I ACCIDENTALLY EAT MUSHROOMS?

This little junket to Arizona has given me the howling fantods.

I’ve been a bit under the weather lately, so rather than heading over to LAX for a thermometer evaluation and the nasty looks from Xanax-laden passengers who might think I’ve acquired the Ebola virus, I chose to drive from LA to Phoenix, which meant six hours of sand, Joshua trees, and enough heat to make my ass-crack look like Moses’s work – yes, I could have gone with a better image, but if we’re being honest, that pretty much nailed it.

At 6:00 a.m., I hit the road, rifling through LA traffic at a 13 mph clip and wondering when the hell rush hour became rush dawn. By the time the sun rose above my upper windshield, I was outside of Blythe, and I felt that half-mast thing happening to my eyelids – you know, where you start slapping yourself and sticking your head out the window and wondering what would happen if you just closed your eyes for a few sleep-filled seconds.

I’m listening to the comedy station on Sirius radio and hoping a Robin Williams segment comes on, when some Kentucky wildcat chimes up telling redneck jokes that knock me into a Theta state. With my eyes closed – yes I know how dangerous and idiotic it is, and I am confessing it all here and thoroughly embarrassed by my carcolepsy and stupidity – with my eyes closed, I feel my tire tag the braille bumps in the road and I snap my eyes open to hear the comedian say “…and then she put a finger in my ass,” and when I look to my right, here is the view:

Back in high school, I had some friends who went out to the desert and ate mushrooms and then came back to recount their hallucinations and a new connection with nature. I called bullshit – cowshit actually – but I was a drug prude in my teens and I never investigated the psilocybin high. Point being, there is no explanation for what the hell was happening.

I’d like to be able to report that things went smoothly from there. I’d like to be able to say that the things I heard and saw were just part of my dream state. But then, there’s the evidentiary photo…. and then that uncomfortable comedy sketch came on again an hour later.

Anyway, next time, I’m flying to Phoenix. Maybe people thinking I have the Ebola virus isn’t that bad after all.

My blogs are not usually this crass, but today sort of got to me. Sorry.