10. I can whine about mid 80s temperatures100 degree weather and not be pummeled (in both the physical and verbal sense) by the eavesdropping public.
9 1/2. Prostitutes are generally indistinguishable from the rest, or rather a large portion of the normal female population is generally indistinguishable from prostitutes… guilty.
9. It’s 50/50 whether she is his date or his daughter…
8 1/2. We are the melting pot of the US melting pot… just divided into various districts and subcultures. Little Ethiopia anyone?
8. The street signs in the neighborhood actually say “Little Ethiopia.” (That’s right, LA is legit.)
7. We can drive (but we fly) to Vegas.
6. ANYONE wearing large sunglasses and red lipstick in Hollywood or Beverly Hills is a magnet for tourists and cameras.
5. Gay Pride, Bitches!
4 1/2. Other cities: OMG IT’S A FILM CREW! DO YOU SEE ANY MOVIE STARS?!? WHAT ARE THEY FILMING!?!? OMG I DON’T KNOW WHO THEY ARE, BUT I WANT THEIR AUTOGRAPHS!
Los Angeles: FUCK FILMING, AGAIN!?!? HERE’S TAKING ANOTHER DETOUR…
4. Other cities: OMG I SAW ON TMZ LAST NIGHT, BRITNEY SPEARS TOTALLY RAN OVER A GUY’S FOOT! THAT’S LIKE SOO CRAZY!
Los Angeles: FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! MY FOOT!
3. Yellow traffic lights actually do mean speed up.
2. Los Angeles people aren’t snobbish like San Francisco “Northern California People.” Though we may eat 100% organic, we are 100% FAKE, and we don’t give a damn about it.
1. Los Angeles is an addiction, the greatest love/hate relationship of all time.
For my first blog post on our newly redesigned site, I find it perfectly fitting to tell you the tale of my maiden voyage to THE ORIGINAL STARBUCKS. Perhaps I did not emphasize that enough.
The Original Starbucks
My tale begins with three college students piling into my roommate(Leigh!)’s car at the wee, early hour of 9:00am. After many miles of sleeping traveling, from city to city and climate to climate, the three students arrive at Berkeley (read: sssssssss) for room and board–specifically couches and the most amazing bread from a small restaurant named La Note.
P.S. I’m just kidding about the sssssssss thing. Between football seasons, I ♥ Berkeley.
Two days of glorious fun in San Francisco pass, of which include miniature tales of dinosaurs, skulls, middle-of-nowhere-sushi, bar hopping, drinking, Saint Patty’s Day celebrations, Leigh purposefully provoking a debate with Brandice so she does not freak out that she is under millions of tons of water in a NON-WATERPROOF tram-thing, and much much more.
Alas, after many more miles of traveling and mountainous driving, the three students arrive in Seattle, which is where our real tale begins…
The first scheduled tourist destination is Pike Place, which for all of those unfamiliar with Seattle, really just means PIKE PLACE STARBUCKS, AKA:
The Original Starbucks
Well, maybe it is the Farmer’s Market of Seattle… but Pike Place is the home of the very first Starbucks EVER. And really this post is just an excuse venue for me to post pictures and brag because anybody who knows me will name my Starbucks addiction as one of my most defining qualities.
As we are walking through the quirky Pike Place, which smells of fish and fish, I see it. There. Without being told this is the original Starbucks (because I am retarded and failed to correlate Pike Place Roast with PIKE PLACE BEING THE HOME OF THE ORIGINAL STARBUCKS), I know. I know this Starbucks must be the first, the original. I walk near the intimidating yet welcoming entrance, one foot slowly following the other, and then stand in awe below the historic uglysiren. (←Must read link to your left)
Immediately upon stepping within the store’s handsomely aged walls, my nostrils fill with the sublime and heavenly smell of… well, STARBUCKS COFFEE. (Geez, what did you expect?) I approach the counter and, with my heart fluttering, order my usual–yet it is completely unusual and intoxicating. Then magically from across the store my drink appears.
A Grande Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino just for me. With a beautiful covering of mocha drizzle, also just for me. The first sip, as it moves from cup to straw to tongue, tastes of complete delight. The frappuccino’s pure magic elicits this behavior:
I do not think my poetry is for everyone. I do not think that my poetry belongs in most, and especially not traditional, publishing houses. But I certainly do with every fragment of my soul believe that my poetry + Manic D Press = just right. Save for the fact that the small press does not necessarily inform authors that their works have been trashed. Perhaps I am too demanding, but I find this a bit rude and inconsiderate:
Please do not call or email regarding your submission. We’ll be in touch if we’re going to publish your work.
Yeah, mail is lost quite rarely, but it does happen.
If I close my eyes, stick my head in the ground ostrich-style, and pretend the above quote never happened, I feel at home among the Manic D Press Books. I like the authors. I like their works. I like the cover art. The fonts. EVERYTHING seems right and equivalent to how I would like to see my works enter the print world.
Just for kicks, here is my submission letter, lovingly formed and apparently not appreciated:
To Jennifer Joseph and Manic D Press,
I cannot tolerate suck-ups.So it bothers me slightly that the following letter of submission might be misconstrued as a shiny red apple.Let me assure you, it is not.If anything, consider this an olive.Bold, flavorful, and quite literally an hors d’oeuvre, this letter’s purpose serves to market my poetry for publishing; nevertheless, in doing so, I must first tell you that when reading about and digging around Manic D Press, I have never felt more at home in a literary sense.
In regard to the Manic D Press publication that I chose to address in this letter (Matt Cook’s The Unreasonable Slug), I must reply that, in addition to specific thoughts on the author’s work, my most striking observation is the book itself.More than half of my hand-written comments were made before I even read a single line of poetry.I oohed and aahed over the simplicity and sophistic integrity of the overall piece.From the subtlety of the colors and the aesthetically pleasing cover art to the understated fonts and layout, the overall book rested in my hand an individual work of accomplished art.All of this (I swear) I noted before even reading your (Joseph’s) quote:
“It’s not just the writing itself but it’s the whole: it’s the cover, it’s the way the book feels in your hand. It’s a whole experience…a book is the proper place for words to live.”
As for Matt Cook and his poetry in general, I appreciate his phrasing, diction, and voice as in the line “probably suffered from poor packaging” on page fifteen.His poetry offers idiosyncratic and bizarre observations of ordinary topics that would otherwise fall beneath average examination, or would at least be addressed with detached language and phrasing.Yet he revisits the menial parts of life with comically dry and cynical interest, caring masked by “not” caring.Rhythmically Cook’s collective work seamlessly flows from one poem to the next, creating harmony among his words.
Nevertheless, I see similarities between his works and mine.The vague, sometimes misleading, yet intriguing titles.His free-form style rather than following traditional rhyme schemes and parameters.His use of repetition as a literary device.
However, despite these similarities, my poetry and prose contrast his observational style by speaking with a more confrontational, poignant voice.My words are personal and strong.I often describe my poetic execution as the mating of Nicole Blackman’s voice with the tone of a Kafka-Poe hybrid, perhaps with a few contemporary references in reminiscence of T. S. Elliot.Like Blackman, I command the audience’s attention by speaking directly to the reader, placing the reader in the position of one of my characters.Sometimes I assault the reader; in other instances I toy with the audience by offering multiple innuendoes and hinting toward the darker side of words’ connotations.My poetry is not one-sided.I write to challenge the audience, to evoke a response so that the written word becomes a dialogue rather than a monologue.
After trying my poetry for publication within several literary journals and magazines—to no avail—I have realized that I would rather my poetry exist as a whole, its own publication standing on a shelf in its own right.It has become my dream to work with a small, quirky press dedicated to progress and quality, so that the aesthetics and feel of the overall final product may embrace my poetic content and truly represent me as an author and a person.A book, I feel, is the proper place for my words to live, and I also believe that Manic D Press is the rightful place for my book to come to life.
Thus, I present to you a sampling of seven poems representative of my proposed book, Sunnyside Up, written under the pseudonym Mersedes Bach, which I have also used to construct my blog, Scant.
Sincerely,
And here lies the tentative cover art that will not be born from Manic D Press:
So tomorrow I will be getting an MRI, having an MRI, undergoing an MRI…whatever. The point is me=MRI tomorrow for participation credit in a PSYC study, researching who knows what. Especially since a scan of the inside of my brain will produce two possible results:
1) Revealing little aliens operating my body from inside my brain, just waiting for the perfect moment to burst out and take over the world. (This could explain the Pinky and the Brain thing-don’t worry, it’s a YouTube reference)
Before I get into a juicy pawn shop (or thrift store, when I feel like cheating) breakdown, let me just say how much I love Los Angeles. People watching is never boring in the Hollywood side of town, and there are more odd shops, pawn shops, and even Russian Souvenir (soon to be reviewed!) shops than I could ever hope to explore. California may be the Golden State, but Los Angeles is certainly the Eclectic City.
Now then, your favorite pawn shop investigator and mall speed dater sure got her hands dirty (literally) today. Our first stop of this series is Out of the Closet, a thrift store chain benefiting AIDS treatment and care. You know, that big thrift store on Fairfax north of The Grove. I bet you have seen it while driving past hundreds of times…but have you ever gone inside?
Honestly, the best feature was the parking located in the back. Beyond the advantage of convenient parking, this thrift shop did not have many appealing assets. The furniture was few in number (and altogether undesirable), and the books revealed little redemption. Sketchy looking clothing for both men and women seemed to be the focal point of the thrift store, hoarding most of the floor on the scary racks of the unknown. Actually, the scary part was the dressing rooms, or should I say, graciously provided cloth closets-i.e. a small room in the middle of the store made from a sheet that did not hang all the way to the ground. It might have also had a revealing crack or two, but I was too frightened to look. Nudity was not a part of the deal when I devised this series.
The electronics were present in the masses, though not surprisingly; where else would you sell/get rid of them? The resale value of a used electronic rivals that of a used tissue, which would actually be quite useful because, as I mentioned before, the place was not too clean. My hands became quite black after searching through the most promising loot of the building-the vinyl.
In fact after what seemed like forever, I finally claimed my conquest, a small little gem among the piles of rubbish, and for the grand price of …one dollar. Hey, I never said the prices were bad.
I even managed to sneak in a small “speed dating” snippet, though not really, when one of the workers at the thrift shop decided to be not-so-smooth about hitting on me. As I was sifting through the small collection of vinyl and he was returning men’s clothes to their hangers, the conversation went something like this…
Guy: Hey, excuse me. Does this look like women’s or men’s? (holds up a women’s sweater)
Me: Uh, women’s. (weird, quizzical look)
Guy: Oh, thanks. Hey, you must be a DJ too.
Me: Nope. Just looking.
Guy: Oh. (pauses…for a long time) Hey do you know what sea monkeys are?
Me: No. (even larger weird, quizzical look)
Guy: Oh, well you probably think I am strange (yes I do), but I am not. Really, let me show you what I am talking about so you don’t think I am crazy. (but I already do, as he runs off to some secret part of the store and then returns with some “insta-grow sea monkey aquarium set”) See what I mean? Crazy huh?
Me: That’s ridiculous.
So what did I learn from today’s little outing?
#1) Bring hand wipes/sanitizer to next pawn shop (and maybe mall speed dating outings as well).
#2) I should probably consider being slightly nicer if I want this whole mall speed dating thing to be a success (and by success I do not mean land a boyfriend. No. NO. NO. NO! NO!)
What should you learn from my experience? If you plan on visiting Out of the Closet, save your money or spend it at Family Books and/or Canter’s instead.
In case you have not already noticed, I blog and edit for AngeLingo, a USC literary and academic online publication. So yeah…to catch you up on my latest adventures:
With the new year, I have settled on a fresh blog topic of “Mall Speed Dating and Pawn Shops” for your reading pleasure. This semester, in order to make you a more informed Angeleno, I will be scouring the streets for tasty pawn shops hiding precious treasures and delectable jewels. I will be searching high and low from Silver Lake to perhaps even Orange County just to find for you the most outrageous pawn shop owner or manager, full of colorful stories just bursting to be told. I might even squeeze in a 10 minute speed date at a local mall, just to keep things interesting. Drop by the Beverly Center, and who knows, I just might go on a date with you…
