Bright-eyed and bushy-…bushed in our new LA home, my roommate Kaylana and I decided it was time for a bar crawl around our area, a term that has oft become literal as the crawl gets going. Part of the appeal of our new city is the racial diversity that marks my roommate and I as oxymoronic exotic white girls. We had already made a pact to be “Yes Men” in our new environment; that is, to say “mmmmmk” to any and all adventures that arise.

After downing tequila that could pass as polyurethane, we stumbled over to our first bar, not before being stopped and pulled into what can only be described as the underbelly of the sushi world. Some failed-actor-turned-host dude rubbed his junk all over my shoulder and there were Japanese as far as the squinted eye could see. We needed to leave STAT. We were annoyed to discover that the next club had a cover charge, but our lacking skin pigmentation and bubble butts seemed to be cover enough for the older man running the door, who let us in for free. The dance floor was otherworldly…or just plain wordly, with each shade of brown represented, to my delight. We danced like no one was watching….except for the fact that everyone was with a sort of ‘what-the-fuck-these-white-bitches-doing?’ look. After elbow-dropping three different people’s drinks, I decided to break Kaylana and I’s pact and say “No Man” to getting my ass beat.

En route to the third bar, we walked toward a group of black guys, one of whom was wearing glasses. Kryptonite. My vagina spoke up, “Where you guys headed?” My brain was angry with her but not enough to stop her. The guys informed us that they were rappers and were walking just down the street to their function, at which they would be performing with the likes of Rick Ross and The Game. Not one to succumb to name-dropping but one to follow a pact, I nodded with Kaylana, “Yes,” as we had promised one another and got into the Head Stranger’s car. Things started to get exciting [sketchy] as the guy drove well past what he made out to be the close-by locale of said function*. Upon arrival, we were treated less like royalty but more like Aryan Vagina Gods. Escorted past yet another cover-charge-taker and into a spacious dark house, Kaylana pointed out some graphic framed photos of people doing the ‘happy dance.’ We were quickly distracted from the décor by the DJ and posse who “wanted to meet us” onstage. Hood Kasey red flag #1: Too much attention. We were the only white people present, let alone white girls in little dresses and I had just narrowly escaped getting my ass beaten. I was cautious of the attention we were receiving. In her adorable openness, Kaylana expressed her amusement to one of the posse members about his double-fisting bottles of Hennessy and Moscato. I anxiously grabbed her elbow to pull her aside and inform her of the situation we were in, “Bitch, we aren’t in Oregon anymore and we’re definitely the minority. We are getting way too much attention and you need to not act like yourself – just this once - so we can escape this adventure alive. Play it cool. Remember: we didn’t graduate from college and we’re from Santa Monica. And no big words!”

After meeting DJ Cali, whom I listen to daily, we hopped off the stage for a tour of the house, so kindly led by the rappers. Walking through the kitchen, I noticed a large award shaped like a crystal. It was an AVN Award (the Oscars of Porn) for “Best Dungeon.” I grabbed Kaylana to show her the gem I found and laugh the fear away. It was a little reminder that we live in the Valley, the porn capital of the world. As we re-joined the group, we were hit with the question more LA strangers have asked me than anyone ever has: Do you smoke? “Duh,” I so articulately responded. We were to be smoked out. And, hence, we reached the most frightening flight of stairs I’ve ever seen. “Down here is the VIP,” explained unidentifiable rapper #6. To me, VIP does not stand for “Very Important Person” at all, but rather it seems that the acronym actually means, “Very Iffy Person,” because it’s not like Hilary Clinton’s up in the VIP. The VIP section is always comprised of folks who think cough syrup is a suitable mixer for vodka or dudes whose pick-up line is, “WHOOOOO!” As we headed down to the “Best Dungeon” in the biz, my head kept screaming, “Thisisabadidea! Thisisabadidea! Thisisabadidea!” but my body kept on walking like, “This is a fantastic idea!” Alcohol is a hell of a drug.

Purveyors of the “Yes Man” lifestyle, Kaylana and I sat, bemused, in a tiny, dark S&M dungeon with a group of rappers whom we had just met. As the joint was passed, Kaylana explained to the guys how she couldn’t smoke because she was looking for a job (two concepts they had clearly never heard of before). I puffed and I passed and I looked down to see that my nether region was touching the bench I sat on, which was set in front of a brick wall that had two rings attached to it, for hooking handcuffs onto. I pulled down my dress a few inches for protection. We were in a place where no one could hear our screams and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. It was difficult to leave, though, as a rapper cleverly named, “Hollywood” wouldn’t stop talking about the music videos we would star in and how the team who brought up Tupac was behind them. He bragged about how his boss is Rick Ross, whom I pointed out was more talented, fatter than, and more alive than Biggie Smalls. Me make good observation.

To my relief, the smoke session ended and we finished our tour of the place. The weed opened my eyes and it hit me just where we had ended up…in a mansion used as a set for S&M porno’s! Intricate 9-foot spider webs of chains angling every corner, crazy high-tech sex equipment, and then the guys took us into a bedroom they called “Super VIP.” Red walls, black detailing, mirrors on the ceiling, and a bed that I’m pretty sure I could visibly see crabs crawling on. The cherry-on-top was the final sight we caught as we went outside: a human-sized doghouse with a label reading, “BITCH.” All of this is true. I excused Kaylana and myself to the bathroom to concoct an escape plan that ended up being Run-For-It. An oldie but goodie that has consistently saved my ass.

We sprinted, laughing, down the street and called a taxi. Clutching my pocketknife, I made Kaylana wait with me in the doorway of a closed El Pollo Loco because even the idea of food comforts me when I’m stressed. Kaylana answered a phone call from the taxi guy who said he had just pulled up. We started walking to the “taxi cab” which was just an unmarked vehicle and I decided it was a no-go because we had already gotten into a stranger’s car earlier that night and I wasn’t positive it would be a superb idea to do it again. We fast-walked our way home through Little Mexico, basking in the surreality of the city we chose to make home. Welcome to LA.

*Function = black club/party.

The funniest part about the upcoming Presidential election is that the focal point, the deciding factor in who will be voted America’s Most Popular, is the American economy. Which candidate can take us back to our successful capitalist infancy as we struggle through our toddlerhood in a 21st Century landscape. Obama is leading voters in terms of likability and all that other nonsense we asshole Ameri-can’s base our political opinions upon, while Romney is pulling his weight by cock-teasing the public with allusions of re-building America’s economy. This is hilarious to me because what the public, at large, does not seem to grasp is that we do not need to re-build the American economy, per se. The problem is that we are NO LONGER  simply the American Economy but, rather, we are part of a Global Economy. In 2012, the American Economy IS the Global Economy. Not in the way that we control the world (though we do make a dent); it is because of world trade. With the ease of modern-day communication and travel, along with trade barriers dropping like freshman at a Fraternity hazing, comes a global community with one big fat [oh] fuck of an economy. Everybody is reliant on everybody else and isn’t that horrifying? In America, we don’t really grow our own crops anymore. The majority of food we eat is comprised of imported ingredients. The majority of clothing we wear is imported from the sweaty, bloody, exploited hands of Chinese teenagers, as with our electronics and all of the other crap we fill our storage units and empty souls with. My point is that America’s economy is not suffering particularly because rich people hire rich people to work for them or because black people are lazy or because our President wants free health care for all citizens, nooooo. Our economy is suffering because our middle class is disappearing due to Corporations outsourcing our working class jobs. That shit that haunts me at night!! We are being reduced to a privileged upper class and a hustling, disenfranchised lower class. We even glamorize the upper class by only airing television shows displaying people living in wealth. The media, through our televisions, has taught us that happiness and normalcy equals money and creature comforts. Ouch. Since Roseanne ended, a groundbreaking show, programs featuring middle- or lower-class families and lifestyles have all but disappeared. The working class - THE BACKBONE of AMERICA - is dwindling and a massive reason for this is that WE (OUR GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS WHOM WE ELECTED) are dropping trade barriers.

Honestly, the only way to better our economy is to do one of two things: fight it or work with it. Unfortunately, America and other world leaders are schizophrenically attempting to both battle and secretly go along with this move toward a Global Economy. It’s just fucking us in the ass! Politicians talk and talk and talk like an unfaithful boyfriend and saaaaay they will create American jobs, all the while VOTING TO ELIMINATE TRADE BARRIERS!!! Thus, outsourcing ALL OF OUR BLUE COLLAR JOBS! Political candidates say one thing, riling up the American public in a xenophobic flurry, pitchforks to the heavens, and then turn around and do their bidding in the back-alley of the White House to destroy our middle class. I cannot stress enough that the middle class is the one thing that should take precedence over everything else in being re-built. It is the key to a strong economy and the buffer against the widening gap between the rich and poor. Whether that means we all get on the same page to eliminate trade barriers, cultivate our soil for farming, and rope our economy back into our boarders, or if that means accepting change and working with other countries to strengthen the world’s economy…we gotta pick one, Tumbluz. The latter seems more feasible but fear-mongering conservatives will always hold us back from progression and success by clinging to outdated ideals and a romanticized past.

Whichever candidate ends up winning, I hope he can not only improve our Global Economy, but improve the knowledge of those within our country; educating more individuals about what the real causes of our shitty economy are so we can stop blaming “lazy poor people” for much more deep-rooted issues that are inherent to a capitalist system.

From shoulder pads to Priests, the popularity of power has stood the test of time. People are utterly magnetized to the suggestion of confidence. To the unknowing simpleton, a strong handshake and well-paced speech is the sign of a leader, a God, or at least a vessel of something higher. Not simply an observant exploiter. People, en masse, are attracted to seemingly confident people because it gives them something to believe in during weak times and in broken moments. Dangerously so, as confidence is nothing more than an act that too many utilize to control and exploit others. True strength comes not from numbing one’s pains with another’s “power,” but, rather, struggling through one’s own hardships and growing.

Recently, I had the same argument with a peer that I’ve previously had with a boyfriend. It was not about me trying to rape his bellybutton with my finger…The argument was about religion. Specifically, if religion can be a positive thing, as long as it provides a sense of comfort and strength to the individual practicing it. Essentially, live and let live if no one’s being hurt by the religious beliefs. I argued that religion is only a damaging institution, especially because it provides comfort and quasi-strength to the believers. We’ve all heard “religion is the opiate of the masses,” right? Just as my ex-beau argued, my peer stated that I shouldn’t have a problem with someone’s religious beliefs if it benefits said believer. The faulty part of this reasoning is that the sense of comfort one experiences from religion accompanies a trust that person invests into the institution – Priests and Pastors (SIMPLE HUMANS) included. The believer has absolutely no true sense of strength; their “strength” is dependent upon another simple human seeing their weakness, desiring to feel powerful, and playing a role. It’s all a rouse! I concede that the only way to find one’s true inner strength is by experiencing the pain that they numb when they invest in religion.

Religious leaders aren’t the only offenders in power play. Politicians are notorious for their exploitation of power. An easy example is Germany post-Great War, downtrodden and broke, both fiscally and emotionally. The German people were desperate for a leader whose strength they could feed off of, hence Hitler. And, as upsetting as this is, I cannot fully blame Hitler. There were hundreds of thousands of people who believed in his strength; his act. They themselves enacted his vision - the fools! But we can view millions of present-day situations and say the same thing. The masses, comprised of individual persons, must wise up and question those who utilize the act of confidence and the role of power. We accuse leaders of being manipulative, but is this not what followers desire? To be told what to do and believe? To have someone (a leader) whom they can use as a scapegoat for their own ignorant actions? Someone once called me manipulative, which hurt because I have always naturally taken leadership roles, being that I grew up as the backbone of my family. I recognize the power roles I fall into and the consequences that could come of exploiting these roles, so I always try to lead with integrity and honesty. Her comment got me thinking long and hard. My conclusion is that manipulation can easily result from leading BUT a follower has an equal amount of responsibility for their own actions. Is it not the followers that make the leader, anyway? If a follower chooses to believe a leader, then the follower assumes all responsibility for their own actions. This brings me back to my point that if EVERYBODY waded through their own struggles and feelings and emerged stronger, then the human population would not be comprised of blind cattle.

The only way people can find their own voice and strength is to fully experience their problems, not numb themselves with religion, nor follow someone else who appears to have their shit together. I cannot express the number of times I have felt sad or angry and the only response I received was to, “cheer up,” or “calm down.” Why??? People fear what they view as negative emotions and attempt to suffocate them. But I contend that if we allow ourselves to really feel those emotions, to struggle through the depths of them, and, most importantly, fight our way out, we can develop into a population of self-sufficient, critical, intelligent, and confident human beings.

This brings me to the confidence aspect of power. Why are we drawn to powerful people anyway? It is because they seem confident. Ah, confidence, the illusive attribute we all admire but can never seem to acquire. To most, confidence means a lack of fear. Everybody wants to be unafraid so it is easy to see why we are drawn to powerful folks. As I previously mentioned, confidence is not a real thing but, rather, only an act! Even those whom I meet who come across as super confident are riddled with insecurities. Look at KanYe West, ever criticized for his cockiness (extreme confidence), raps, “We all self-conscious, I’m just the first to admit it,” or Marina Diamandis who sings, “I feel like I’m the worst so I always act like I’m the best.” The lyrics of these two powerful, outwardly confident people confess that their swagger is simply an act. People have always told me that I seem unafraid, inhibition-less, and confident but I admit that those qualities are not genuine. They are a product of my attempting to overcome the fears that trouble me.

Power and confidence are great tools but do not be intimidated by those who know how to use them to their advantage. Be cautious and use your own troubles and pain as a route to your inner strength. This will also help to alleviate your fears, thus making you more fearless. By developing your own opinions and convictions, you will no longer be relying on others for strength and investing power into a handful of exploiters.  Those who harness and exploit power positions must be questioned, as we are equally as responsible for the havoc their influence reeks as they themselves are. And if you don’t have any struggles, well, that sucks.

Burrito Baby?

I would like to recount today’s series of events:

1. Woke up feeling like a Fat Fuck (comparatively speaking, as I am in LA LA Land of la thin.)

2. Attempted to work out like an annorexic and got dressed in a snug pair of shorts from when I was an untouched, uncurved 18-year-old.

3. Felt like a Fatter Fuck.

4. Received a text inviting me to Cokefest ‘12(!!!)

5. Contemplated attending said party and initiating baby’s first drug addiction. Simply for cosmetic purposes, heh heh…

6. Got stopped by an older gentleman on the street who told me I was “fit and FINE: Fit, Intelligent, Natural, and Energetic” and beautiful and what was my workout routine and he wouldn’t have stopped 99% of people and would I meet with him and be in his films. He gave me the name of his website so I could contact him.

7. Rewarded myself with a caramel macaron for such an exhausting day.

I’m here at the part of the journey where I’m all alone, whether I like it or not. “Alone will be something you are quite a lot.” Drowning in myself, wailing to no one. Broken and Breaking apart into tiny little pixels on a screen and dissolving into hardwood flooring. Scared and still on the floor of a hollow apartment I’m not supposed to be in. A short countdown to no more power and water. No food, money, nor sleep. A long list of contacts; no friends. No one to call. Where is everybody? Did I push them all away again??? A love who has moved on and forgotten.

To think I chose this over him.

No one gives a fuck if I live or die and some give a fuck to see me fail. Many really want to see me fail hard. A city trying its damndest to make me quit. But then I remember this life chose me. One doesn’t choose to be an artist. The life of an artist is a beautiful, horrifying, wondrous gift bestowed upon the special few.

Is this real?