Hello, my name is Misanthropic Agoraphobe.

Santa Monica. Home of the Homeless. And Freaks. And obnoxious mexican gangbangers, apparently, out for a shopping spree with the hootchie mommas. And crazy people who at first glance appear completely normal -- like college professors even -- before asking you for money. The last time some kid asked me for some spare change I said "I could ask you the same question!" and, I shit you not, he reaches into his pocket and offers up 27 cents. So much for being a smart-ass.

Despite my erroneous assumption that I would finally be able to relax around strangers or out in public by myself (don't ask... I got weird about being stared at for a while -- it got to the point where it was either me becoming a full-on agoraphobe or just walking around with a red-hot poker to stick in their eyeballs. Much to my current angst I chose the former since, well, DUH! LA is just bursting at it's urban sprawled seams with beautiful, perfect, lithe, young, perky blondes a billion times -- no, a quadruple-trillion times [I bet no matter how many zeros that makes, it still doesn't come close to the number of zeros needed to describe our national deficit] more beautiful than anyone would consider me, I still have days where I let it get to me (it's worse here - cuz everyone is staring at everyone else in order to see if they're famous).

Can you all just STOP FUCKING staring please? I'm NOT A FUCKING CELEBRITY. I don't want to talk about the weather, whether or not I've found a wi-fi signal @ Starbucks (duh! If you can't read the 8 million "T-Mobile Wi-Fi Available Here" stickers placed everywhere but up your ass, you've got no hope of navigating the web) or the price of gas in Los Angeles. Just let me go about my business and I won't have to use my red-hot poker.

If your mother never taught you about etiquette (Its IMPOLITE TO STARE), then learn how to be subtle about it so I don't have to seethe with anger as I walk by you. Can't you feel the homicidal "FUCK OFF" I'm mentally sending you in return?

Bitter. Sweet.

It kills me everytime I hear Etta belting out "At Last"... I just have to close my eyes and remember. And before I know it, a little smile creeps over my lips. I'd love to understand how that happens but I'm guessing the definition of "bittersweet" is involved.

Bird life at Starbucks

This is one of those times where taking a picture wouldn't do justice to the little bird community taking shelter underneath the cafe tables outside of the Starbucks in Brentwood at this very moment. Smart little buggers. Beyond cute. All congregating underneath the tables as the rain started. Just hangin'... chillin... cleaning their feathers with hummingbird speed. Each has their own little "space" on the metal rung holding the four legs of the small tables together.

Sometimes it looks like they're shooting the shit with their neighbor... some just sit facing outward, as it waiting for the downpour to end. I'd give up a prized pair of shoes to know what they're thinking about as they watch me watching them through the glass window. I wonder if birds ever get sick of the traffic here. I wonder if they sit up on those power lines thinking "Morons! We may not have opposable thumbs -- but if this is all those idiots can manage to do with them, fuck 'em."

*Sigh* Rain on the windshield always makes my mind wander... shoots that familiar lightning bolt of electricity through my stomach... leaving butterflies in it's wake. Powerful stuff.

What do you mean, you don't "like sarcasm"?

I think people who lack the ability to appreciate funny, ascerbic, biting, dripping sarcasm are inherently not right in the head and should definitely avoid moving to New York at all costs.

(Still shaking my head... who doesn't like Seinfeld? Who doesn't laugh at Woody Allen films?!)

Like dreaming you're in school naked

Writing a blog anonymously is pretty comfortable... you can rant on and on to complete strangers what your take on life is without editing how you articulate it.

Writing a blog knowing that people you know are reading it is like the dream we all have occasionally where we're reading our book report in front of the class and suddenly looking down to see you're completely naked.

It's wierd. And I don't want to feel like I have to edit my thoughts to suit people I may or may not affect with my posts... so I'll just pretend like I've got no freaking clue who reads this and hope for the best.

No matter how hard you try...

You can't argue with chemistry. Chemistry is everything. You could be practically in love with someone's personality but if the chemistry isn't there, you're barking up the wrong tree.

So, maybe I have faulty chemistry... maybe I don't... but I've learned not to argue with it to force it to match what my head says.

His Royal Lame Duckness

What's better than a bunch of morose Democrats staring down the barrel of another 4 years?

Watching the tingle of life coming back into their limbs when they realize it's the positively-absolutely-100%-moneyback-guaranteedy last 4 years.

What? What's so funny? Oh, you're laughing at the "money back guarantee"? Why? We've all got our Social Security, man... we're guaranteed to get our money back when we retire. Shit, we're set for life... nothin funny about the guaranteed, take-it-to-the-bank promise that we'll be getting back all that hard earned cash we've been forking over since we washed dishes and mowed lawns before we were old enough to know about child labor laws the minute we turn 56.

I'm sorry, what'd he say? I couldn't hear over all of the democratic snorts of derision and fits of grumbling during His Royal Duck Lameness' State of the Oligarchy Address... Something about people my age being more likely to see a UFO than Social Security?

I think I'll run for president in '08. I've never seen a UFO.

i miss u cupcake...

monkeyboy. Doyoueverthinkofme? Doyourememberhowmyskinsmelled... warmedbytheMiamisun?

I love...

• Watching people: How they talk to the people they're with, how they talk to themselves when they think no one is watching, how they walk & carry themselves (my walk was once defined as half Marilyn Monroe, half General Patton – whatever that means… I walk the way I walk, in my opinion – no flavor or artificial colors). I love going to the beach before sunset and seeing the dark silhouettes of people as they stand at the shore watching the sun go down on the day – the composition of that image in my head is more about the interesting ways to interpret their stance… their posture… it just says more than they can explain in words about how their soul feels. Watching the setting sun.

• Facial expressions of children when they're talking about something of utmost importance… like when I ask them what super power they would want if they could have any superhero power in the world. That is the best. Kids are compact Oracles of simple truth & wisdom. Especially when you can give them back to their parents after they need a bath or ask you where babies come from.

• The smidgens of conversations one catches when walking by people on the street – I love to string them together to make complete paragraphs, seeing how funny they sound when read aloud. Each smidgen it's own mini-drama… being important enough to be spoken in public, not at all mindful of twisted eavesdroppers like myself poking fun at them.

• Being read to in bed. God, that's so sexy… Venus in Furs, The Story of O, Lolita, The Sun Also Rises, Anna Karenina, anything by Ayn Rand, hell, Roget's Thesaurus works too… who needs foreplay? Okay, I do – but reading to me is a good way to start.

• Singing "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…" to my dogs in the morning and watching them put their paws over their eyes because they're not exactly morning dogs.

• Watching Yoda run at top speed through a field – just to run through the field – and reading the purely felt, unadulterated joy on his little doggie face

• When stuck in traffic, finding life unfolding in unlikely places. Like a mama bird returning to feed the baby birds perched at the top of a lone, anemic, Charlie Brown-style sapling on the side of the freeway