I saw Santa last night – twice! And that was within a one-mile radius. Saw him on Main Street in Santa Monica with a bunch of carolers and a few moments later on Abbot Kinney in Venice with an elf. (Two different Santas, mind you.)

While looking for a picture to accompany my post, I stumbled across this site. It looked as though it was harmless at first. I determined that I was on the “nice” list, rather than “naughty.” Apparently, my “politeness often good, but has room for improvement. Could help around house more instead of watching so much TV.” I do love my Lost and Desperate Housewives.

But this is the kicker. Turns out that the site is really a front for a toy called the Santa Beacon, a little square with lights so Santa knows where your house is! The company also claims that the Santa Beacon is “visible up to 2 miles away.” It’s a freakin’ Bat Signal for Santa! Maybe it’s just me, but that seems a little messed up, doesn’t it? If I were a kid (I’m really not that far off, given my mentality) and my friend had a Santa Beacon and I didn’t, I’d be pissed at my parents if I thought Santa wouldn’t be able to find my house. And all this time I thought being nice and providing cookies and milk was enough to gain Santa’s attention. Apparently ya gotta represent Vegas-style these days.

The next time I see Santa roaming the streets of L.A., I’m gonna tell him to put this toy company on the “naughty” list.

Her body was hot. Literally. You could almost see the microwave lines emit from her nude nude nude body but considering the room was cold cold cold, the warmth was an added plus – I’ll have to remember to tip her well. As I got up to leave, she asked me to stay and lie down next to her…guess she had some things on her mind. I guess this is what “they” call the GFE. The girl friend experience. I got mine, now she gets hers. The City of Industry was cracking down on massage parlors, requiring that all girls obtain their masseuse license. Most of these girls are immigrants, some illegal some not, but english is definately not their primary language. Forced to work here against their will? I doubt it, I’m pretty sure they could drive off anytime in their nice bmw or mercedes they roll around in. But that test might force some of them to find work elsewhere. Like a strip club as “Coco” had been propositioned to. She asked if she should try that line of work. Shit, I don’t know. I am neither a stripper or a girl. But I read my copy of “…girls are from venus”, Coco wasn’t really looking for an answer that men are prone to give. She just needed someone to talk to. She’ll probably try it for a few days to see how it goes. We smiled at each other and as she got up to get dressed, I thought to myself, her body is hot. Figuretively.

…who are throwing rocks at my windows.

I usually sleep like the dead, but I kept waking up through the night due to the pitter-patter(?) of the rain last night.

Today was my first time hanging out at Bar Sinister (Sat nights @ Boardnerís). I was obviously the biggest faker there, but no one seemed to mind. With a load of friends also pushing it to be on the scene (only in LA) where else encourages you to have so much fun pretending to be someone else? I canít wait to go back. It must have worked cuz we fooled a batch of girls from the OC. What are real estate developers and wedding planners from Orange County doing at Goth night? I call bullshit on that!

Anyway, back to the point. I encourage anyone with black clothes and a penchant for posing to go to this club. Itís exactly what you imagined as a kid a nightclub should be. Slavic.

Tonight also marks the first time I ate one of those bacon wrapped hotdogs sold on mobile carts on Hollywood Blvd and elsewhere. Offensive in odor, I always thought, but darn it if they arenít tasty. Order it with everything and you get green peppers. What?! Green peppers? Sounds crazy, but it works.

Today was my first time hanging out in Griffith Park. A friend of a friend was having a birthday party (which turned into an engagement party) at the site of the old L.A. Zoo. According to a sign, the stone enclosures were built in the 1930s to house bears, lions, monkeys and lots of other animals. Now, they have barbecue grills and picnic tables instead.

I got to watch little kids beat the crap out of that blue piñata, and participate in my first ever potato sack race. It sounded so old-fashioned until I heard that the hosts couldn’t find potato sacks anywhere locally and had to buy them online.

December is busy season for everyone, I know. People have holiday parties, there are obligatory office shindigs, and everyone tries to cram in as much social life with the humans they choose to be around before they have to encounter their dysfunctional genetically-related counterparts. As the resident devil on your shoulder, I say go ahead and ditch your office holiday party this weekend and plan on a night of therapeutic comedy and booze!

First, head on over to see our very own Wil Wheaton in a preview show of the new ACME Love Machine show at the very fabulous ACME Comedy Theatre. It’s a preview show, so it’s half the price, but ALL of the comedy! You know you need the laughs during the hectic holiday season. There’s even a swanky restaurant next door that’ll fill you up with food and drink beforehand, and valet parking next to the theatre for $5.50. You can’t beat that kinda deal with a stick.

After you’ve laughed a stitch into your side, take a little trip over to the eassssside and visit Barbara’s at the Brewery for some super hot live DJ action from the sexy mofos at the Review. Live DJs, flowin’ booze, and $2 PBR on tap, on the premises of a former Pabst brewery! Hot chicks, cool DJs, cheap beer, and beer makin’ history are in the house.

There’s no better way to forget the holiday hell than laughing and drinking! Trust me, I know.

Okay, it’s December and I’m still wearing t-shirts in the daytime so I know this is a petty, petty thing to complain about but my semi-weekly homage to pedestrian travel has become way too fragrant.

Of course, part of the problem is the uncharacteristically large (for L.A.) lots you find on my errand route: dump a bunch of steer manure in a few Echo Park yards, no big deal; trowel it on in three Hancock Park lots (in a row!) and you have one stinky stroll–or sprint–on your hands.

Maybe it’s time to check out the services in K-town. Or maybe I’ll just do my errands in Malibu and hit the beach afterwards.

So on the commute to work this morning, I was driving south on La Brea, and noticed that the driver of an older black BMW sedan just happened to be driving behind me for several blocks.

Looking a lot like Goran Visnjic from E.R., at very single stoplight, he checked himself out in the rear-view mirror, fixing his hair and raising his sunglasses to check his eyes.

I’ve seen many women, driving behind me, applying makeup and primping themselves, but this was the first time I’ve seen a guy do something this funny.

Ladies, are you interested in a guy who spends more time in front of the mirror than you do? :o

So here’s an LA moment: I came home from my yoga class yesterday to find a note on the bed from my boyfriend and his closet empty. ARGGGHH!!! I guess the yoga really IS meant for something other than my snack-pack! Onward and upward I say. So how does a modern girl ease the transition? Yes, drink lots and stay away from the chainsaw….but other than that? I’m opting for the stay stupidly busy route and thanking my lucky stars for supportive girlfriends.

One of my favorite things in our city is the LA Central Library. Not only does the architecture rock, it’s soothing and restful and I’ve never failed to find the book I want. Even better, if you go online before you hit the stacks, you can find whatever tome you want and reserve it or get it sent to the library nearest you. Warning though: It usually takes at least two to three weeks to get the book delivered.
Other than a good book in bed….any thoughts out there on how to survive a shattered heart?

Oh Fark! Well, at least we’re in good company.

Holiday shipping must be upon us cuz at 3:30 this afternoon, the line at the Edendale Post Office was nearly out the door. A heads up for those who rarely visit the Post Office, most of them have a scale on the premises that will tell you how much postage your package needs. And many of them now have automated postage centers that take you through a step-by-step process that weighs your package and sells you stamps. Unfortunately, the machines only take debit or credit cards. No cash. Inexplicably, the Edendale PO removed the machine that would sell stamps for cash. Not a good move cuz it forces those quick purchase customers back in line, but I couldnít wait in the line for 30 minutes to offer my suggestion that they bring it back. Anyway, surely some of the people could have saved fifteen minutes or more by posting their packages themselves. Itís quick, itís easy, and itís fun (a lot of button pressingÖon a cool touch screen AND keypad!).

On another note, the Plexiglas barrier between customer and mailman (at every LA Post Office Iíve visited) is another symptom of Los Angeles antagonism that has undoubtedly turned into a cause. I often wonder if the crime prevented by Plexiglas windows outweighs the immeasurable cost in human interaction. Do we really need a two-inch piece of transparent plastic reminding us of our existential loneliness, telling us that we should be afraid or that we are indeed the cause of fear? Subconsciously, that has to add up.

Gawd it sucks to be North America’s sole marsupial. Sucks even more if you’re one that’s had the distinct disadvantage of being born and raised in L.A. Sure, your first few months out of the pouch are spent chauffeured around the neighborhood on mom’s back. But once on your own, rare is the city opossum that lives more than a couple years spent dodging poisons, pets, predators, pellet guns or Pirelli tires until it isn’t just playing dead anymore. It’s, as only Monty Python could put: “Joined the bleedin’ choir invisible! It’s an ex-’possum!”

And the prejudice? Jeez but legion are the haters. Freaked out by an appearance that belies the opossum’s placid and gentle demeanor, too many people nevermind the fact that the shy, nocturnal critter cleans up our greenspaces by eating snails, slugs, cockroaches, snakes, rats, carrion, and overripe fruit. Instead of even a shred of consideration they fearfully shiver and they “Ewww!” and they “Yuck!” and they champion the ignorance that The Only Good ‘Possum Is A Dead One. It is just such sad people who chuckle at the Toyota print ad in the current issue of Entertainment Weekly that pictures a poor opossum caught on the asphalt and in the headlights of an onrushing Camry, and reads:

Mile 000174: For the first time you see how ugly possums really are.
Mile 000174.1: You swerve anyway.

Right about now I would normally go PETA on Toyota’s ass and rant about how clearly appalled I am at such a reprehensible callousness coming from the very same nature-loving maker of the sainted Prius. Or I could diatribulate on the hateful distastefulness of the word “ugly.” And I could further bore shitless those of you still reading with my respect for life in all creatures tall and small (it’s up there with my irrational reverence for public transportation and alternative commuting). But I’ll stop here and just cut to the chase: I’m sending the OC-based Opossum Society of the United States a $25 donation, and thanking Schizoyota for making it too easy for me never to consider buying one of their products.

I had a breakfast meeting with the LA Times this morning at Nate & Als on Beverly in Beverly. It’s one of my favorite meeting places. There’s nothing like a delicatessen for breakfast, well maybe a greasy spoon. I love a place with some history. N&A seems to have a good balance of celebrity with zero pretensions.

Sure, some people go for the obvious Canters, but for me they jumped the shark when they opened in Vegas. Plus, it’s a little too ‘rocker still going home’ like Duke’s on the strip.

On weekends, the Original Pantry is greasy and crowded, but has the right vibe. It’s just no good for a meeting.

But my first love will always be just like mom made

So, you’re drunk. Well, perhaps you aren’t drunk at the moment, but play along. So you’re blotto, three sheets to the wind… at this point you could be a psychotic freak and drive home, but that would be bad on many levels, karmically just for starters. Rather than putting your own life and, more importantly, other people’s lives at risk, wouldn’t you rather call somebody?

Now here’s the interesting twist. The call you make results in a struggling actor or model showing up on a foldable Di Blasi scooter. They take your keys, fold up the scooter into your trunk, and drive you home.

This is the premise of Home James, operating in LA at the moment and elsewhere soon.

Now if only they had a service whereby Audrey-Hepburn-in-Roman-Holiday-esque actresses on Vespas would deliver mish mosh soup from Canter’s….

I don’t go to the out-of-town road shows often because: (a) not into big, cheesy musicals; (b) not into paying 3-6x what it costs to go see something local; and (c) don’t like the Ahmanson (although the Pantages is kinda groovy in an old-fashioned way).

I made an exception last night for Caroline, or Change and am glad I did. Partly because the show is every bit as good as I’d hopedónothing makes me happier than walking out of a large venue with a swollen nose and tears streaming down my face, but I’m weird that way. And partly because of the built-in relaxation time I got between buying my tickets at public rush and curtain. At 6pm on certain show days, they release tickets for the hoi polloi to purchase for riduculously low prices ($12, in this case–cash only).

So here’s the good part: The Music Center sports its own Pinot smack dab between the Taper and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. It is 100% al fresco and regrettably, most of the heat lamps are dedicated to the dining area (a.k.a., Rich People’s Section), but give me a couple of $8 Belvederes on the rocks and an extra New Yorker to put between my ass and the metal (!!!) barstool and I’m good to go.

Right now, it’s super-pretty at the Music Center. There’s a big, ol’ xmas tree and tons of fairy lights and last night, there was an excellent doo-wop group busking in front of the Taper. All in all, a damned good way to pass the evening, and not too-too expensive, if you cool it with the call brands and find street parking. And no, I’m not going to tell you my super-secret, free parking spot–a (cheap) girl’s gotta have her secrets.