Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Over The Hill. Seriously, I'm Over the Hill. Gulp.

Welcome to mummy's insomniac world.  She is sipping on god awful Smirnoff Vodka, mixed with orange juice from a WIC office and fighting the urge to yell to all within earshot "Fuck. My. Life."

But she won't. Because despite the hour (it's 3:36am) and the circumstances, life is pretty fucking good.
My vagina is healthy, my teeth are still in tact and thank god the state of Illinois has a statute of limitations. So my record is clear.

I haven't been blogging. And I am truly sorry for this. I've been away due to travel, lack of internet access, pot addled binges and moving.

I have moved from my beloved LGBT & gay adjacent capital of southern California West Hollywood. To: Burbank.

Mummy lives in Burbank, California. Bur. Bank. Home to Johnny Carson. Bob Hope. And other old white men, that I--
Oh no darling don't cry. Nononon my little duckie, never to worry! Mumsy will still go on being a bigoted hosebag! Drinking her way to top! Tossing hand grenades at anyone in her way.  I shant let this suburban resting ground for old white people, suck me into the abyss of conservatism! Nay! I will go on titty honking beautiful women on the street, and harassing men for their dick meat! I will continue wearing my wave clips and doo rags, munching on sunflower seeds, and quoting Al Sharpton at every fucking turn. NO BODY IS GONNA CHANGE OLD SLICK! BECAUSE EVERYONE KNOWS THAT CHANGE IS GOOD! no Wait. Change is. shit. CUT!

I ain't nobody's philosopher or alchemist. But I can say for certain, change is good.
But it ain't easy.

I have dreaded this move. I have lived in Los Angeles for 7 years. And ALWAYS on the other side of the hill. Not the Valley. Yes, I am owning up to my fucking prejudice.  My hatred of the "other side of the hill" was drilled into my sister Rusty. See, when I first moved here, I lived with her. She lived on the West Side (near the ocean) and she refused to go to the valley.  "No man, I ain't doing. Neither are you! We cannot deal with the V-word. No."

The neighborhoods (in order of residency) so far: Mar Vista, Venice, Mid-Wilshire, West Adams, Larchmont Village, West Hollywood and now--Bur. Bank.
For those of you familiar with Los Angeles, you can note that those are pretty good neighborhoods. Of course ALL neighborhoods have shit zones (Lord knows West Adams was a tough stay) but West Hollywood? Jesus fuck, I've wanted to live there since I moved to LA. If you have no idea what West Hollywood is--or looks like. Turn on the telly, flip to the Bravo network, and catch the show Flipping Out  (my fav show!) with Jeffery Lewis. And you'll see my 'hood.

The city of West Hollywood is noted for fashion, design, dining, and of course gaydom.  All things that I simply adore. This 'hood ain't for everybody, but it was certainly made for fuckers like me.

Lets be honest, it's a hipster 'hood. Now, months ago if you'd asked me if I were a Blipster (a black hipster) I would've told you to eat the corn out of my poo. I would have gone on a Paul Robeson oratorical rant, citing my roots. "From Chicago. The City of Big Shoulders! The White City! Hog Butcher to the world! I was from the South Side. I'm not some sissy! Fuck you asshole, I'm from Chi City. We are corrupt. We thugs! And We don't brew coffee, we eat that shit whole bean! Fuck hipsters!!!!"

Buuut the truth of the matter is, I am a fucking hipster. Blipster.
I'm also a Buppie--a bootleg Buppie (a black yuppie--
'cept I ain't got no money, and I shoplift, and live in a morally gray my shit is quite boot leg).
Wanna know when I realized I was a Blipster-Buppie? When I would go home, to Chicago.  My mother, my wonderful Mami, would make me beautiful meals--but if I didn't have coffee? Or vino? I would seriously consider calling DCFS. For child abuse. And I'm a grown ass woman.  I would call and cry to my big brother "I think something is wrong with Mami. She keeps offering me Sanka and Tasters Choice...I don't drink instant coffee. I think that's a symptom of like dementia, or lime disease. Or maybe it's Asbestos. We should send her away. Mami isn't fit to be a mommy.  And she doesn't have any spirits here. I can't go to that liquor store. There are too many moon crickets standing in the vestibule.  I need my vino.  Not Hypnotic. I hate Chicago! I hate you! "

My brother would promptly call me an idiot, and instruct me to be on the porch in 5 minutes. He'd be there to take me to Starbucks. A place I hate. But, like any hype/addict will tell you. You take what you can. One. Day. At. A. TIME.

Anyway, back to Bur. Bank. I decided to move here.  I will be sharing a house with wonderful mates, and I know in the end--it will help me become more responsible. Accountable for my own shit. In a suburban setting. *Throws up in mouth.

I am going to miss West Hollywood. My daily 5mile walks throughout the Fairfax District, to Beverly Hills. I'm going to miss strolling up Melrose and passing my favorite shops Helmut Lang, Urth Cafe, Vera Wang, Maxfield, Varvatos...Comme Ca, and Cecconi. Restaurants that I'd have to turn tricks to afford...I'm going to miss all my elderly Russian people who would spit at me as I chirped "Dos Vadanya" or "Hey hey happy Dolph Lungdren to you!" Because, well--what the fuck else do you say to Russian people? But they were my neighbors, and I wanted to be nice to them.

Well, now I have new neighbors.  They're old. And white. And I don't know what to say to them. Maybe I'll strike up conversations about cottage cheese, and Mel Torme. White people seem to be at ease with him. And their gonna have to be at ease with me. Cuz there's a new blipster in town.

Ciao for now fuckers,


NEXT BLOG: Mayonnaise, Horseradish, and Creme Fraiche.  How white sauces by White people can lower your credit score.

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