Like every American culture slave/addict/robot, I am trying to lose weight. I feed (and feed and consume and waste and feed...) right into it. I will obviously be happier when I lose weight.
I pay a gym to let me run on their machines, lift their weights, and stretch on their glorious mats. I've been running on this elliptical for over thirty minutes, well past my legal gym cardio limit. I'm building up to five miles a day, and apparently it takes a LONG TIME to run five miles. How long? I don't know, I keep slowing down.
A toddler stumbles by, suspended from her mother's hand. Her little brow is furrowed, mouth all open and slobbery. Oh, somebody help her understand, why are these big people running and not going anywhere, leaking out water, and wearing horribly fitted clothes? She is clearly not old enough to be confused by what she sees, and her face is probably screwed up from the general odor of the place.
Far more strange than the truly insane things you see people doing at the gym, are the smells. It's best to breathe through your mouth, but nasal passages left ajar will guide you through a forest of smells. There's all kinds of ghastly body odor, and then there's perfume, lotion, and alcohol being sweated out. I probably smell like hell, I can't remember the last time I washed this hoody, the heavy hoody I purposefully wear to make me sweat MORE.
Does this behavior sound unhealthy? Because "I workout to be healthy, to be in shape, to feel good." Certainly not to be skinny, definitely not to attain a body image I've never had... I would say something here like "fuck los angeles and all these pretty people" but the people aren't that pretty. Or, "fuck the american apparel ads, making every girl out to be starved-like-a-prisoner-of-war-skinny." But this is way older than my stay in LA, this mindset. Way older than my memory of being influenced by ads or my Barbies or whatever else screws up little girls. I can't remember a time I've been happy with my body. I imagine myself in the womb, swimming around in self hatred even before my gender developed. This image makes me laugh, and rationale takes over, thank god. Rationale, or hunger, who knows. I love food. mmmm food. I've come to terms with my body image and I'll keep working out to off set the soy lattes, the burritos, and the sushi, my true LA demons...
27 April 2006
Ice Cube gets Steak Sauce, I get a Blog.
It's the fourth or fifth time that morning I swing into the amazon aisles of the Ralph's in Sylmar, CA. I would visit the store many more times during the day, in the same frenzy, buying whatever bizarre item I was sent to retrieve. I had ignored the what-the-hell gaze of the cashier through the separate a.m. purchases of 200 plastic hangers, 3 packs of cigarettes, and an armload of air fresheners. It was the quiet town pronounced curl of her eyebrows and lips when I asked if they sold dry ice that persuaded me to quickly explain that I was working on a film shoot up the road, and I was on a run for last minute buys.
Every film shoot needs a runner, and I'm running. I always knew I could win Supermarket Sweep. This trip is a quest for A1 steak sauce, used in 9 out of 10 steakhouses!, demanded by 1 hip hop artist for his New York steak lunch. A pristine, unopened bottle. I can do that. I take a short cut around the deli and when I pass the fish market, this little girl gets a mix of assuredness and horror as I hear her mother respond, "Of course the fish are dead!"
The sauce inches down the black belt, and when the cashier sees my latest treasure hunt, she gives me a knowing smile. Now we're friends, we have this understanding, this implied wink between us. We notice that we both bleach our hair, we both wear silver jewelry, we both chew gum! A world of connection has just been been born in the universe! And if she would just move a little faster, I could get Ice Cube his steak sauce before the director cuts for lunch!
Which, miraculously, I do. And by the end of the day, his enormous bodyguard will apologize for giving me such a hard time. It is obvious that the fish are dead? I really don't know anymore. I've seen so many absolutely unreal things happen in (and around) Los Angeles, that I'm through assuming. And as a resolve, I've started this here blog, all free and public, to document and share my "partially unemployed and considerably young" account of my second year in LA. I think it's important now, to document, to better my voice, and to hopefully entertain.
I waded through the first year. All my observations were skewed on everything I hated about LA, everything that sets it apart from other cities, especially the east coast skylines I grew up in. There's no place to walk here, where's the public garden, where's a fucking dunkin donuts, and why do i feel like an alien in every bar??? That was a sample of my general feelings toward this vast expanse: a longing for familiarity and a confused estrangement. And not that one year is a long time, but it's a long long time, isn't it? Especially for the recently graduated artist. This is me. I quit my steady assistant job last month, I'm working freelance when I can find gigs. I'm writing a new script. I'm trying to find a room mate after my best friend moved to San Francisco quite unexpectedly. I'm running out of money and gas is no less than $3.15 a gallon. This is where I'm starting, let's see where it goes...
Every film shoot needs a runner, and I'm running. I always knew I could win Supermarket Sweep. This trip is a quest for A1 steak sauce, used in 9 out of 10 steakhouses!, demanded by 1 hip hop artist for his New York steak lunch. A pristine, unopened bottle. I can do that. I take a short cut around the deli and when I pass the fish market, this little girl gets a mix of assuredness and horror as I hear her mother respond, "Of course the fish are dead!"
The sauce inches down the black belt, and when the cashier sees my latest treasure hunt, she gives me a knowing smile. Now we're friends, we have this understanding, this implied wink between us. We notice that we both bleach our hair, we both wear silver jewelry, we both chew gum! A world of connection has just been been born in the universe! And if she would just move a little faster, I could get Ice Cube his steak sauce before the director cuts for lunch!
Which, miraculously, I do. And by the end of the day, his enormous bodyguard will apologize for giving me such a hard time. It is obvious that the fish are dead? I really don't know anymore. I've seen so many absolutely unreal things happen in (and around) Los Angeles, that I'm through assuming. And as a resolve, I've started this here blog, all free and public, to document and share my "partially unemployed and considerably young" account of my second year in LA. I think it's important now, to document, to better my voice, and to hopefully entertain.
I waded through the first year. All my observations were skewed on everything I hated about LA, everything that sets it apart from other cities, especially the east coast skylines I grew up in. There's no place to walk here, where's the public garden, where's a fucking dunkin donuts, and why do i feel like an alien in every bar??? That was a sample of my general feelings toward this vast expanse: a longing for familiarity and a confused estrangement. And not that one year is a long time, but it's a long long time, isn't it? Especially for the recently graduated artist. This is me. I quit my steady assistant job last month, I'm working freelance when I can find gigs. I'm writing a new script. I'm trying to find a room mate after my best friend moved to San Francisco quite unexpectedly. I'm running out of money and gas is no less than $3.15 a gallon. This is where I'm starting, let's see where it goes...
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