Here I am. Tuesday afternoon. Sitting on the couch, pulling on my dirty, ratted hair.
I’m sick. No, I don’t have the flu or the runs or conjunctivitis. I did bikram last night.
I swear…I absolutely do not know why I go. Bikram yoga is cocaine, and baby, I’m freebasing.
I went to a puppet show this past weekend. I hope you don’t think I’ve been keeping the life-changing news from you. We went on Sunday, but I wanted to take a few days to digest it. I had first/seen heard about Bob Baker and his little puppets when I saw his theater whilst driving around . I immediately thought – anyone with half a mind is all up in this shit; I have to go, and there I eventually went.
Google research proved fruitful. Come to find the damn thing is kinda popular or at least historic – oldest surviving children’s theater in LA. Dates to the 1920s. LA Historic-Cultural Monument.
I was surprisingly excited about the whole thing. And then we got there.
Yeah, LA has offered me a “stable job” in a “rough economic climate” and given me the opportunity to make a few “friends” I can “shoot the sh*t with” and count on “when times get hard.” But that’s the small stuff. What about the fact that The New Mickey Mouse Club‘s Ryan Gosling is practically a neighbor? You know, somewhere in the city? The triple-threat talent, soft-spoken feminist and movie star who I must interact with at least once in my lifetime in order to validate my existence as a human being?
It’s easy to romanticize bikram yoga if you haven’t done it in over a year. I made good on my promise to myself last night and got my 168-pound girl body downtown to get my bikram on. I was all excited to go – you know, except for the dealing with people (social anxiety), parking, traffic, mat-etiquette, skimpy-clothing parts. But the exercise I was confident I could get through this time – I would skip out of the studio – like LITERALLY skip – exhibiting that lightness-of-existence Mary Tyler Moore had in the opening sequence of her eponymous TV show.
Yeah, not as magical as I remember. 1.5 hours later and I felt like I had done pretty much all the exercise required of me for the next two years, all the while facing a mental challenge I have no interest in facing – watching my puffy, scantily-clad body (because each garment of clothing means you are one step closer to death when practicing bikram) perform the postures in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that spans the length of the studio. Bikram, please remove the mirrors.
I have a friend. Let’s call her Kirsten.
Kirsten is a bit of a conspiracy theorist. She has a dad with a machete, so it’s best to have her on your team. A year or so ago, we were gchatting and she sent me a link to a story about a home in the Los Feliz area of Los Angeles that had been the scene of two murders in the late 1950s. From what peeps surmise, the owner of the home – Dr. Harold Perelson – found himself in financial straits, despite running a cardiology practice in Inglewood. That or he was depressed. One night in December 1959, he went bat-shit crazy and bludgeoned his wife to death with a ball-peen hammer, beat his daughter like, really badly (she got away), told the two younger children to go back to bed when they got up to find out what was happening (“It’s just a nightmare”) and poisoned himself with acid before the police got there. Case closed. (The three children are still alive but their whereabouts are unknown.)
But that’s not the nutso part. Apparently the house was sold the next year in a probate auction (whatever that means), and the two people who purchased the home (Emily and Julian Enriquez) never actually lived in it. They have since died, and their son Rudy – who is based in the valley – is now the owner. AND THE HOUSE REMAINS IN THE CONDITION IT WAS IN WHEN THE MURDERS TOOK PLACE.
I took my cousin and mom to see it last weekend, because – let’s be honest, who doesn’t want to be a part of such a miracle trip? (A disgusting number of pics after the jump.)
If I was ever to leave LA, there’s one thing in particular I would miss. The street art.
I went through a phase last year – you know, work was hard and I was really lost blahblahblah – and the thought of working toward street-art fame became the answer to all my problems. I had a street name – Bumble Bea – and I created a motto image at work by remotely accessing the Adobe Creative Suite on my home laptop. I had plans to mass produce the image and subsequently worked to figure out how to pull a “Shepard Fairey” and brush an enlarged version of my signature “bee” onto the side of a vacant building in the Fairfax District. #pipedreams