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.
Hello vast internet and its readers. Forgive me, for we have not spoken for awhile; nevertheless, my pen still meets with paper. Today I begin a personal social experiment, a self-diagnostic. At the very least, it will be many hours of answers to questions asked during therapy sessions all compacted neatly into one little notebook.
Meanwhile, I recommend reading the following for male and female, young and old readers alike:
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…
The angel on my left says true friends do not treat each other like shit while the daemon on my right thinks that they are the most fun I will ever know.
The point at which good advice is accepted and applied is not necessarily a certain level of maturity, but rather a breaking point–a point of realization.
Quite some time ago my aunt, with whom I am not that close, shared valuable advice with me; however, at that time I was not at the breaking point that would allow me to listen and heed her words. I was on the phone with two of my drunken friends from early high school years while she overheard my end of the conversation. I am not sure what she deduced from half of a phone call, but I do know that whatever her assumptions, they were bad. She did not approve of the people with whom I was fraternizing. After ending the conversation with my friends, I awarded her disapproving glance with a casual “My friends are wild”. I did not mean that they were wild in a negative manner, such as irresponsible or inappropriate, but rather that they were entertaining . Primarily they entertained me. She replied, as I will remember indefinitely, “What is important when choosing friends is their character”.
Years later, tonight specifically, I realize the magnitude of her words. Friends are not for entertainment, they are for support. I cannot say this thought has never entered my mind since the beginnings of our friendships. Character. The first time I questioned the presence of this quality I should have resolved to end it there. I did actually–try. I have tried numerous times to sever the likes of you from my life, remove the poison completely, but each time I am suckered into the concord effect; each time I think that after putting so many years, time, and effort into this broken friendship, throwing it away would be a waste.
But I will be deceived no longer.
You may call my actions immature, but the ironic fact is that neither of you even understood what I meant by “goodbye”. You may think this temporary–”oh she’s pissed, she’s fed up”–and expect me to return the next day as if nothing ever happened, but I will be taken for granted no longer.
Apologies stand meaningless without sincerity, and they are certainly worthless when the hollow words change nothing. I do not want an apology. I do not even want you to change, contrary to popular belief. Really, I would not change or wish change upon the two of you.
I just want out. I want to spend my time with my friends who have character, upstanding character. Friends from whom I learn. Friends who allow me to grow. People who do not leave me hurt and would never constantly berate me the way that you do, joking or not. Because everyone knows you are not actually joking.
You see I really was not acting immature by giving you the “cold shoulder”. That was not even a cold shoulder, rather I reached the breaking point of realization that what I do or say really does not matter, and my actions proved the point. You did not even notice that I had ceased communication until the fact was pointed out to you, despite my blatant, complete silence the entire night.
You do not care what I have to say. You do not care about what I think. You berate me in every aspect possible: my intelligence, my personality, my feelings, my capabilities, my appearance. You do not respect my possessions. You appreciate neither my company nor my friendship.
I am at that breaking point where I can no longer see any reason to endure the aforementioned abuse. You see the truly, truly ironic part about this whole situation is that the majority of all of my problems revolve around my trust issues–the trust issues that became instilled within me because of this SAME FUCKING CIRCUMSTANCE. My heart was broken, not by a lover, but by my best friend. This was forever ago. Yet I still cannot put all of my trust into one person, no matter their kindness or character. It is impossible for me to completely open up to any one single person. Do you want to know why I have intimacy issues? BECAUSE I NEVER LEARNED.
I never changed. I make the same repetitive mistake like some dumbass on the shallow end of the learning curve. Which is why I am not asking you to change. I am the one who needs to change.
I change today. Today at 3:18 am I change, not because I am immature, as this just might be the smartest and most mature decision I have made in awhile, but because I have reached the breaking point. I deserve friends who act as such. I deserve friends with character.
