Yes, it's all making so much sense now... except for the no sex part

Well, shortly after my first assignment/first day on the job as a general assignment reporter, I developed a wicked case of insomnia and a wretched, if-i-could-sleep-it would-keep-me-up-anyway-it's-so-bad, cough.

It might be the poor air quality due to all the smoke from the Governator's heroic speeches about dealing with the fires burning up everyone's ranchero-style homes in San Diego. Or it might be the drastic climate changes I keep putting my dear old body through, as I go from tropical to cold urban shoreline to dry hot dusty desert to air conditioned office. Who knows? Who cares?!

But strangely, after a couple nights of sweaty restlessness (by the way, there's no sex happening at the parents' house, folks--er, I mean, not any that I'm involved in... EW!) I started experiencing a kind of clarity of purpose.

It occurred to me that perhaps everything is actually going the way it's supposed to. Oh, certainly not according to my quick and easy plan:

1) I sacrifice EVERYTHING on Maui to move to San Francisco, where;
2) I get hired as a small-time writer in a bigtime city newspaper/newsweekly/magazine/website, and;
3) I make tons of dough and lots of new friends and have tons of great sex and in a few years, New York beckons. Then, the world...

Apparently, I missed a few steps between 1) and 2). Like:

a) I freeze my ass off from day one and can never shake the cold unless I am wearing my old college hoody sweatshirt, full thermal bodysuit, two pairs of wool socks and my thick, ratty black terrycloth bathrobe, which is all the time, because;
b) I am unemployed for the better part of three months, despite sending out seemingly endless resumes and cover letters everyday to every publication I can find, and even an occasional university sleep research lab where they stick electrodes on you and watch you sleep. Yeah, I applied to do that... But I figured I had nothing better to do, because;
c) I can have no fun since my reserved funds are tapped out after the first month, my friends stop coming around because they're too busy working their asses off to survive in the big city themselves (and possibly because I am always wearing that fucking robe). But somehow (because I am a girl) I do manage to score a few spare nights of hot sex (because it helps in downtimes like these), although I am reminded that even hot sex with hot strangers (even if they are nice strangers who are not so strange) is not as hot as hot sex with someone you love, or even just like a whole lot--i.e. I am reminded that I am, yet again, single. And, when you're cold, broke and in thermal underwear, that means very, very A-L-O-N-E.
d) I run to mummy and daddy's house as a last resort.
e) I get hired as a small-time writer in a bigtime, small town newspaper, where I learn lots, mainly about my own flexibility and openness, before;

[CONTINUE TO #2...]

This pretty much sums up So Cal for me right here...
A quote from today's New York Times:

"There were Mercedes and Jaguars pulling out, people evacuating, and the migrants were still working."
- ENRIQUE MORONES, who helps immigrants in Southern California, discussing illegal immigrants left to fend for themselves in the wildfires

That, and this odd perpetual desire to get my car washed.

My First Day...

So I did pass my drug screening, in spite of my paranoid dreams and secondhand-ish date with the Thespian on Saturday night.

They asked me to come in at 2, in order to fill out the requisite Gannett paperwork and such, then the nice ladies in HR chatted amiably about Hawaii and my so-called reasons for moving away from there, and they snapped my photo, tacked it onto a badge, and shuffled my up to editorial--or, "The Information Center"--on the second floor.

I was told straight off that my immediate supervisor was no longer there. So the first editor greeted me and suggested I attend the Page One meeting, where a handful of other editors discussed what was worthy of attention for the next day, then they scattered across the newsroom and my initial editor left me with one of the senior writers to introduce me to the computer system which, we soon discovered, I could do nothing with until I had my official sign-in name and passcode assigned by IT.

So then IT came over, mumbled some weird tech-jargon and dashed off, when another editor came over and hospitably suggested we take a tour of the facilities.

And let me just tell you--the place is gargantuan! Each floor was a labyrinth of cubicles and departments, with glassed-in corner offices for the heads. Down in the basement, a factory of industrial workers moved in beat to the automated pressline, surrounded by surreal-sized spools of paper and vats of ink... I loved the smell of it at once.

There was also a cafe, two employee lounges and an exercise room. Then she dropped me back off at my "desk"--or just an empty cubicle--mentioned what my first assignment was going to be: The Art of Food & Wine Festival (Hurray! Right up my alley! But she also mentioned that we couldn't get started on it until the next day's press conference). Then she told me to scope around and get comfortable with the computer system. As soon as she left, the old-school dial-up phone on my desk rang loudly. I leaned over the cubicle in front of me and asked if I should answer it.

"Beats me," said anonymous writer dude. "I'm not usually here either."

After a while, I went searching for one of the editors for guidance, and was told to split--"Just be back by 9:30 tomorrow for the meeting."

So I left, lingering a bit outside the building to admire the sun setting over the San Jacinto mountains and the cream-toned colors of the desert floor. My mom insisted we meet at our favorite fancy (and gay, thank you) neighborhood bar and restaurant, Shame on the Moon.

While she showed off my badge to random passers-by, I tried to engage my gay-boyfriend crush of a bartender, Johnny, but was getting cock-blocked by the fabulous May-December couple to my right. We went home shortly thereafter, where I opened a mailed box of a beautifully archived book of all the Holoholo Girl columns I'd written at Maui Time Weekly.

I'll admit, I got a little choked up, scanning through the pages of debauchery and cheap thrills of life on Maui. Of course, doing this walk down memory lane over the din of spoiled Rottweilers play-fighting and spitting drool in every direction, my step-dad blurting out wine scores from the latest Wine Spectator and guffawing, my mother periodically shuffling off to crush more ice for her cocktail, all while I was thinking about the perplexing non-events of my new exciting career day... well, I hate to say it was a defining moment but...

"For every door that closes, another one opens," said Mom, suddenly.

Um, yeah...

Yes, I Live With My Parents...

Tonight my mom asked me where the phrase "cut the mustard" originated from. My stepdad poured me a glass of 2004 Bogle Phantom--a lovely old vine zin, petite syrah and mourvedre blend--while he roasted lamb, and I quickly searched online for my mom's request, telling her of my discoveries of the many theories of the phrase.

From this, she proceeded to launch into a story my grandmother used to tell her about making mustard as a girl, and how her grandfather suffered from the effects of mustard gas used in WWI.

"But you know, your step-father also has his own version of the phrase he likes to use," she said.

They both giggled. I paused, with due trepidation.

"Okay," I finally said. "What's the phrase?"

"I may be too old to cut the mustard," he said, grinning. "But I ain't too old to lick the jar."

Weird to see Magic Mountain at night, lit up by raging fires on the surrounding hillsides...

As I am often wont to do, I ate bad food (In 'N Out, though it could be worse) and listened to bad radio (all the hits of the '70s, '80s and '90s) and it was sooo good. I landed at the ole HSF's house in Riverside around midnight. The next morning, I found my way through the smoke and debris (seriously) to my folks' house in Rancho Mirage, then the pre-employment drug screening in Palm Desert.

It's so odd to be back in the desert. For real, this time.

The Long Road Home...

Begrudgingly, I packed up most of my stuff, said goodbye to the roommate and my cool little SF 'hood, and made the I-5 trek down to Southern California, despite breaking news reports of the world going up in flames.

I promise I will post pictures soon...

My Girl...

Knowing that I would be needing to leave SF in a few short days, I started making the calls to people I wanted to see before I left. And I hadn't seen my good pal Sash, surprisingly, in a few weeks.

I guess my timing couldn't be better. Sash was in the beginning throes of the many phases of Breakup affliction, brought on by that neurological disorder called Love. I was only too glad to impart my bitter wisdom and good spinsterly support.

We ended up going to the sophisticated and hip Mission District spot, Range, where her roommate, Justin, was bartending.

We copped prime real estate at the bar, and became the official judges in a bar-off. Or was a cock-fight? Anyway, we drank some good shit.

Range is known for imaginative cocktails, and Justin and Mike at the bar created liquefied masterpieces on the spot for us, with ingredients like freshly mottled chile water, elderflower, huckleberries and molasses... and yeah, gin, tequila, vodka, campari and wine, as well.

We feasted on the most melt-in-your-mouthingest hamachi, and chicory lettuce with barhi dates, hazelnuts and grated parmesan, mushroom-stuffed pasta with brown butter and toasted walnuts, brown rice and shiitake mushroom stuffed chard with sunchoke puree and roasted scallions, and an apple-pear tart with cardamom ice cream.

Oh, to be broke, young-ish and living like a rockstar...

Engorged and wholly Sash-iated, i went home and had some wicked crazy dreams. And, of course, a monster hangover the next day. Again.

Time for More...

As for this current career conundrum: The biggest thing, I think, is to just keep open to the experiences I've been offered and flow with whatever happens along the way... even if for the next couple months it means revisiting the desert of my youth, So Cal's strange plastic surgery-addled lifestyle and the syncopated rhythms of rich old white conservatives/working-class Hispanic democrats/and transient retired Canadians of the Coachella Valley, generally speaking.

Yeah, I've decided to take The Desert Sun key features reporter job in Palm Springs--albeit on a 6-8 week trial basis. In the meantime, I'm gonna sublet the pad in SF, and continue scoping out opportunities there.

It was an agonizing decision to make but I feel comfortable with my inconclusive conclusion. It's kind of my way.

So with that dirty deed done, and one day of recuperation under my belt, I was ready to party it up with my Energizer Bunny buddy, Elan, and his merry mates, Andrew and Beth, at Annie's Social Club, where a triple-header of Montana pop-punk bands would be performing.

We stopped and had beers at Zeitgeist along the way, so we missed the first band. And I was too busy flirting with Andrew to pay too much attention to the second band, but apparently Elan had taken it upon himself to announce to the third band, The Hermans (some kids he knew from his hometown, Missoula), that I was some bigtime local music journalist.

After I punched my dear friend in the gut, I thought perhaps the least I could do was show a little cleavage on the frontlines, and maybe even ask an interview-ish question or two at halftime. Petting Andrew and getting trashed would have to wait.

But as it turned out, The Hermans were really quite good, and they gave me a cool on-the-road journal that they were actually doing a book tour for. As a band, they were tight, and very energetic without being gimmicky. It was full-on rock, with integrity. And you could tell they were having fun, although the crowd was severely lacking, save for my bosoms, Beth's appreciative head-nodding and Elan's erratic jumping around.

All in all, it was a fun night.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, my roommate (also another rockstar drummer/unemployed/ex-deli worker) has decided to move back to Jersey.

!

Decisions, Decisions...

Hungover or not, I did still have a big decision to make:
Take the dream job but live in the desert (literally and figuratively) of my adolescence? Or stick it out in the city and hustle my wares on the street corner until somebody hires me as a real bonafide literary artiste?

I think they only do that if you're the phony gay son of a prostitute. Bummer.

But so I consulted with everyone and anyone I could, to try to gain some insight and come to some kind of conclusion that wouldn't leave me nauseous about the prospects.

Of course, the lingering taste of Jamesons didn't really help with that much.

So This Is What It's Like...

That night at the Amber with Jeff was immensely therapeutic and spiritually uplifting. We're old pals--and Jeff is a true San Franciscan rockstar/artist/deli worker--so we talked at length about our goals, dreams and desires (yes, they are different things). We debated with our good friend Bob--also a fellow SF rockstar (check out his band, Blood Panda) and deli worker--about the history of rock 'n roll and Nirvana's place in it, as we both interpret it, oh-so-differently. And really, we just got shit-faced drunk. A good time was had by all.

But the boys also introduced me to Shady, a cool and classy bartender chick who, in her spare time, takes to interviewing local and visiting musicians and posts the podcasts online, along with a team of fellow journalists at Piratepods.com.

She was a very cool chick, indeed. And she seemed receptive to me taking the load off of her--the constant pressure of needing to attend endless concerts and such is straining the wee lass, and she is in need of assistance.

Networking. Ain't it grand? Especially if you can do it over PBRs and whiskey shots. Now this is the kind of reporting I'm gonna like...

Oh, but yeah... had to take the next day off due to one hellacious hangover. Pooh.

Back in SF...

Once I got back to my city by the bay, I was back in love. Suddenly, it didn't seem nearly as cold as when I'd left just two weeks prior. And everything was beautiful again: the crowds, the pretense, the grime. It was awesome.

I met with the website people in Oakland, who were all very genuine and nice and excited to have me help them launch their site. The publisher also offered me double the pay he had previously, which still wasn't great but would at least allow me to pay my rent. But I would definitely need to get a second job... perhaps in leather fetish wear? Yeah...

Oh, and then I got a call from PS. The Desert Sun wanted to offer me a full-time position in their newsroom. I would write for their food and dining sections, arts and entertainment, and various other general assignments, as well as a blog and online video segments. And it paid more than twice that of the website gig. It was the kind of job I'd been hoping for on the mainland--I was just kind of hoping it was going to be in San Francisco.

I mean, yes, it was my goal to come over here to write--to get more exposure and experience... and pay. But it was also my goal to live in San Francisco--a city with resources and endless inspiration. Then again, it's a city that has proven to be much harder than I imagined to get started in. But now, with my newfound "faith," perhaps I simply need to give it more time? But does that mean I should pass up an opportunity just because it's not in SF?

I was stumped. I told the editor I needed to think about it.

And then I promptly met with my buddy Jeff and we talked it out, over PBRs and shots of Jamesons at the Amber...

The Desert Sun is a Gannett-run daily that also publishes a weekly and three glossy mags in the Coachella Valley alone. It's in an immense building with a bustling, impressive, real-life newsroom they like to call, "The Information Center."

The whole interview took about three hours and I met with no less than five editors. For the most part, they seemed to like me, except for one who made me exceptionally nervous. He was very deadpanned and serious, and asked me questions like, "How do you come up with stories?" and "What makes you a good writer?" and "I see you write a lot about food--can you write about anything else?" and I just blabbed about nothing and squirmed and giggled nervously and acted like a complete idiot. When I finally did get him to crack a smile, I didn't know if it was for good or evil.

Well, whatever. It was good experience anyway. And pretty darn good overall for reinvigorating my self-esteem.

I was ready to return to San Francisco.

What Happens When You Let Go

It's amazing, really. The very next day after I decided to adopt this new philosophy of letting the good shit just happen, it did.

A website start-up in Oakland offered me a contract to help them develop content for online shopping sites. It sounded like fun, but the pay would not even cover my rent. Still, it was something. Then a publishing company in SF wanted to meet with me--but it was to run their new retail bookstore in Union Square. Ugh, retail. But again, at least it was something, and in the book realm. I also got some interest from a leather fetish shop in the Castro. Yeah... now we're talking!

And then I saw an ad on one of the many journalism job sites I've been scoping on a daily basis, for a key features reporter--in Palm Springs. Hmm. Palm Springs. Where my parents live. The desert that has held so many memories for me, land of my high school and abandoned nudist colony parties. The place that I drove so speedily away from after junior college. And also the place, upon visiting as an adult, that is making me feel so cozy again when I need it most.

What the hell, I thought. I'll send in my resume, like I've done a million times before in SF. Except this time, they called me within a couple hours.

On Being My Own Worst Enemy

Okay, so I've been in a funk; I believe I've established this point repeatedly, and for that drivel I apologize.

But for the past two and a half months, I've been unemployed, save for a couple of temp jobs--working the information desk at the Dreamforce Expo, where George Lucas was the guest speaker and INXS performed to a riotous crowd of global techies and online marketers, and working the registration desk at the American Dental Association conference where, out of 45,000 dentists, hygienists, trophy wives and the hygienists who are the trophy wives of their dentists, the very first person I registered was a very nice dentist from Wailuku.

(Also, my supervisor was this chick from Kihei who's been in the Bay Area for something like 20 years, and says she still misses Maui and plans to go back eventually. She has a side business selling leis, and fell easily back into the aloha-pidgin once she discovered I had recently moved from Maui.)

The point is that my self-esteem has been knocked down quite a bit from the sending out of seemingly 100's of resumes and cover letters and getting absolutely no response. I've had to borrow lots of money from family and friends just to survive and have therefore not allowed myself to enjoy any extracurricular activities. My apartment in the sunset district is a good 20 degrees colder than it actually is outside, which is another good 20 degrees colder than the rest of the city. So then I got a two-week cold, which then turned into strep throat, which led me to seek out a free clinic, where they gave me a shot in the ass and, although I felt much better the next day, the result from the antibiotics was that I had a three-week long period.

OB is just not the way I want to be for the better part of a month.

So just about into the beginning of October, I was in a dark and scary place. I felt like I had no steam left and that I should just give up. So I took off.

Getting in my little zoom and driving somewhere gave me the tiniest sense of purpose, even if just for a few hours. Driving down I-5 always makes me feel free really--and I love stopping in Bakersfield, just to scoff and giggle at the poh-dunk place of my birth. I love checking out the people in the gas stations and wonder what kind of road trip they're on, and I love scoping the random necessities and snacks of the attached mini-marts, and I love love love scanning radio stations and trying to get a feel for a place that has approximately three country music stations, along with two Mexican, a techno disco and a gospel channel.

And at the end of my short journey, of course, my parents welcomed me with open arms. They listened to my frustrated and dying ambitions, they provided support and encouragement and (like I might have already mentioned) lots of free booze and food. So I decided to stay on another week.

I even got to visit my old high school fling (HSF, for short). He used to be a somewhat crazed, mohawked ladykiller but is now the father of two and sober for about 20 years. He read me a passage from his AA bible that basically told me to stop trying to "control the show" and just have faith that things are going to work out the way they should. For some reason, this really (finally) struck a chord with me, and I decided to give that a go. Faith.

Maybe I was trying too hard. I knew that I needed to relax. It's just that I wanted wanted WANTED so badly to get my life going in the direction I've been dreaming about for so long. But I think what I've been missing is that it already is. And I should be grateful for that, and just let it happen.

Okay.

Saw two movies today: Bourne Ultimatum and The Brave One. Really quite liked them both. And I don't know how I did it, but I couldn't have picked a better pair to see back-to-back.

Both movies seem to be about each protaganists' crisis of identity--how initially they believe themselves to be the victims of imposed chance, how they modify their behavior in order to survive--and ultimately, how they accept who they've become. It was strangely cathartic for me to witness. Not that I'm in the midst of gunning down assassins or seeking retribution against iPod-stealing thugs on the subway. But I am sort of coming to terms with the new me on the mainland...

Oh, and by the way, Jodie Foster at 44 is still smokin' hot--I think even hotter than she was in Foxes (1980). My only complaint is that in this movie I really wanted her to get it on with my African-American Benicio del Toro, Terrance Howard. I mean, I was straight-up shoving that popcorn down my throat in angst.

Do it for me, Jodie, please...

I am in Palm Springs now, visiting my folks. I've actually been here for a week and a day...

It's been kinda nice so far, with the warm temps, comfy bed, and parents stuffing me with food and drink. And they've been very supportive, too, which is just what I needed, feeling all kinds of desolute and unworthy after two months of unemployment and general malaise in the city.

I still really want to love San Francisco. But it just doesn't seem to be loving me so much right now. It's like we've (SF and I) already had the passionate sex and rock 'n roll lifestyle when we were dating in our early 20's, but now we're coming to terms with how we should deal with each other as adults. And as everyone knows, being an adult sucks ass. Little does my mistress SF know, I'd really be quite fine with the passionate sex and rock 'n roll lifestyle--i just also want to have a respectable career in writing and be able to afford snooty dinners and Napa Valley weekends from time to time. Actually, at this point, i'd be happy affording the occasional burrito in the Mission. I am so depressed.

Well, so... this is why I made the trek down to PS: I am forever freezing my ass off in the Sunset district, I do not yet have a solid source of income, and I do not have enough funds to enjoy myself whilst unemployed like the rest of the musician fuckers in the city. It's tiring.

And so... the parents are putting up with my all-day pajama parties and liquor cabinet raids, and I am subject to their weird desert lifestyle and conservative boomer musings. And their completely untrained Rottweilers. And their gardeners and UPS guys who hit on me.

No, i am not complaining. Could you just get me more ice, please? Thanks.

Cue the porno music.

Since I left Maui two months ago, the sadness and nostalgia has been coming in waves. It's like a relationship that I'm only choosing to remember the good times, and completely forgetting some of the reasons why I left. So I did what any rational, intelligent adult woman would do--I posted a bulletin on MySpace and asked for help. Like this:

Hey all,
I am having the worst case of homesickness for Maui right now. Please somebody tell me all the reasons why it sucks and why I shouldn't hop on the next plane over.

I'm serious. And if you are so gloriously happy that you can't possibly think of any of Maui's bad points, just make some shit up. Help a girl out, will ya?

Thanks mucho,
xo
HG

And then this is what some folks said:

From: Jimmy B
THE ISLAND IS UGLY...IT SMELLS LIKE CAT URINE AND RAW FISH SOUP....THERE IS NO GOOD CHURCHES TO PRAISE THE ALMIGHTY ONE AT...THEY DO NOT SELL YOGURT AT MINIT STOP...THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TRAFFIC...AND TO TOP IT ALL OFF IT IS A VOLCANO
*

From: (Order of the) White Rose
It's raining in Haiku?
We miss you too.
*

From: Opu
no Indian food
no real Chinese food
all the Hawaiian oysters are dead
no good sex shops
$45 mediocre entrees
mucho lesso inteligente people to date
limited higher education opportunities
music? c'mon!
one cd/lp store
$4.50 per gal. gas
etc.
etc.
etc.
zero professional job opportunities
*
From: The Mexican
Homesick?!?!?!?!
I wish I had Target and I won't even get into how STARVED I am for good music, Baseball and Ghirradellis.
Oh yeah, go have some Del Taco for me....
Aloha, Melissa
*

From: 1979
It's boring, expensive hot and ugly. There is nothing to do except fuck girls.

The locals are stupid, easily led, ignorant, and oftentimes racist.

The haoles are usually naive, clichéd, pretensions. It's a silly and stupid place, a pretend society, filled with obnoxious hippies.

I have to go back eventually, but can never bring myself to go through with it.
*

From: Amina
Well i guess it does suck when the rain gets in the way of my rainbow watching and the damn sand chafts my hide everytime i sit on the beach and well yeah it costs your arm and EVERY OTHER BODY part to live here and finding a real boy/girldfriend who is fun, creative, romantic, sexy without always being "on something" is next to impossible life on this rock in the middle of this pacific ocean in a word sucks

Amina
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From: Heidi
I got your back on this one! Okay, first of all, there is nothing to do. Yeah, yeah, Willie K. Whatever! It is the same "entertainment" day in, day out, month after month. When you do find something you are willing to go out for, who's there? Oh yeah, a bunch of slimey guys tryin' to get YOU to buy THEM drinks. Nobody opens doors for girls here either. And, it's HOT and that would be cool if you're at the beach or pool, but you aren't most the time because you have to work A LOT. And it's humid. Like, get-out-of-the-shower-and-towel-off-just-to-be-really-sticky
-again-within-minutes-humid. Did I mention the gigantore centipedes and scorpions?! And the alcohol is so expensive here that when I go to California I have to keep myself from clearing out shelves because it's so cheap comparatively, it seems like they're givin' it away. Also, you can only go like 50 miles away from wherever you are. In Cali, you can take a train, plane, car, bus or boat and get to mountains, beaches, wine country, baseball games, concerts, clubs, museums, rivers and historical monuments. Head north and ride the wine train. Go east and hit up all of Berkely's sweet ass 2nd hand stores. Go south and see the crazies in Santa Cruz (they are a lot like the local boys here). See a comedy show or headliner concert any night of the week just blocks from your home. Trust me. You have it made. Besides, you have plenty of friends out here to stay with, and ATA flights are as low as $390 roundtrip in October so you could get your fix if you REALLY want to leave your amazing life in glamouros SF and get a fix ;) I hope I was of help.
Love, Heidi
*

From: Yowzah!
Check my latest blog. Oh better not. You'll be sorry...
[INSERT BEAUTIFUL PHOTOS OF MAUI SUNSETS, BEACH, ET AL]
Everybody here still misses you!!!

Y!
*

From: Siobhan
Top 10 reasons Maui sucks.
This plays better in my mind if you are reading it with a cocktail in one hand.

1. Fuck yah it sucks, holoholo girl stay gone!

2. running into exs and/or people you don't want to see. Like we all live on the damn North Shore, chances of seeing said people are high between many many night spots in Makawao/Paia/Haiku.

3. limited, shallow dating pool

4. trying to get a part for your car, art supplies, etc and waiting a looooooooong time

5. cost of eating/drinking out ($20 glass on wine at Marc Aurel, it was good, but not that good)

6. no parking (Paia & the Airport) have recently affected me personally

7. Getting stuck because of a Pali Hwy fire or accident

8. smelly French guys at Jacques

9. crappy Jawaiian versions of Mustang Sally

10. lack of big/money name age appropriate concerts. Really the Doobie Brothers? That what I am supposed to be excited about?? Don't get me started about the Who! I am firmly in the Led Zep camp.

**Bonus Bitchiness**

11. Star Begley's column. I want to love her, but am struggling with it.

I hope this made you smile and remember some of the reasons you jumped ship. Maybe you will post everyone's responses, so we can all laugh.

Miss you,
Siobhan
*

From: Shelley
Maui doesn't suck, because i miss it too. I will humour you though...

Maui boys think they've matured because they drink heinekin now instead of budweiser. You can't go to any store without seeing 8 people you know, and they're usually the ones you want to dodge. There is no restaurant open past ten. There is no good music. You have to drive to a different side of the island to buy anything or to see any sort of show. People hang out at a gas station after the bars close, and eat the food there. There is one road. People talk shit on eachother beacuse they have no real life of their own. Nobody delivers and Pizza Hut doesn't count... that's not pizza. That's gross.

But the weather is great.

love you!
*

From: Tako
Date: Oct 9, 2007 3:10 AM

Ill give you some Maui sucks. Its my day off so I tried to run some errands. "Tried" bein the operant word here. First on my list was to try to find a used wet suit cuz I just started Scuba diving. Um yeah 7 dive shops later I didnt have one but I did have a lot of attitude from all the "cool people" who make $10 an hour to work at said shops. Nice career choice, buddy.
2nd was to get a battery put in my watch. I think I hit up every fuckin jeweler on front st and the cannery mall. "Excuse me, do you know where I might get a battery put into my watch?" "Uh..de owner do, but he no here. Bumbye he come tree-tirty you come back yeah?"
I know Im impatient sometimes and Im working on it, but some days its just impossible to get shit accomplished out here. My truck is takin a shit on me and my mechanic is either in jail or rehab, his boss hasnt heard from him in 2 weeks. My neighbor is getting real good at dropping f-bombs on his kids at 6:30am when they are getting ready for school.
OK Im done bitchin now. Boy I actually feel better, thanks! Dont be too down, holoholo girl. Yeah its beautiful out here and all that but you know how Maui Style goes, right?
Bye the bye, I gave up on the chores and just drank on the beach all day. Sound familiar?
*

Saw Anthony today. He's on vacation in the OC, so we met at one of his old haunts, Cassidy's in Newport Beach. When I rolled up, there was a legion of CHP officers accosting a cute chick in a Cooper outside, and all the old fishermen dudes in the bar had their own loud version of what was going down. I think AP knew it would be my kind of place.

Then he took me over to another one of his apparently MANY bars he used to regularly visit back in his So Cal heyday, when he was a SERIOUS journalist. The Beach Ball was another divey joint right along the water. Also a very cool place, although I had to fight for AP's attention what with all the hot blonde OC chicks making out with each other at the bar.

Newport Beach has some cool bars, even if all the people are so... you know... OC.

Anyway, it was great to see Mr. P.