God Save the Queens!

God Save the Queens! Ptown is a Ragnar Valhalla and a Photobomber's Paradise

God, I love people. I did a brand ambassador event today with my husband for the fun of it, and I can see how it can be addictive. I enjoyed being high energy, non-stop silly, cracking jokes and sharing slogans of my own making. Even with laryngitis and ill fitting attire. It rocked. Even with the bumping pop hits carving pathways in my brain and the propensity for my gravely voice to, like a herring swimming up stream, have a hard time making its destination. Even wearing tennis shoes and khaki shorts didn't keep me from enjoying all the runners like they were Disneyland, and I was a Japanese tourist. (Sideways peace signs.) "Enjoy the nectar of Ragnar!" "Would you like the champagne or cocktail of runners?" I felt like a barista at a Ren Faire. "Wilst thee, fair maiden taketh both thy lemon mint and thy acai grape libation? Huzzah! God save the Queens!"

When I was seven and auditioning for commercials in Los Angeles, I felt like a shill and a brand whore to the point that my punk rock attitude prevented me from landing any gigs. Barbies? Fuck Barbie, she can never relax and she's molded to the shape of her footwear. Didn't they outlaw foot binding, people? Okay, so maybe I was a little more introverted, "I prefer to use my imagination, than play with toys." A little Wednesday Adams with the casting directors. "Let's start with you...The scrawny one with the gap. How would you describe a slinky to your best friend?" "Dead people are my best friends, and they don't like when I play with plastic slinkies." "Blondie. No the one with the cheerful smile. What do you love about the new My Little Pony?" "LeRoy says you're disingenuous, and that Scratch n' Sniff My Little Ponies pose a hazard to my health." "Who's Leroy?" "My pet snake. He's right behind you. He died last year..."

Flash forward to my career as a medium. I keep seeing this blonde chick running on the beach at 3am. This time she passes by me close enough to make conversation. I'm in my below-freezing Russian/Siberian hovel/schtettel/bread line attire: layers of Northface mountain climbing gear, my dear dead grandfather's world war II hat (the only possession which my stepmom didn't steal from me to sell at a yard sale), Doc Martin's knee-high boots and a tattered coat that looks like I walk wolves for a living. I'm attempting to read an inscrutable channeled dictation in my notebook. It's Uma Thurman asking, "Why don't you use a flashlight?" I laugh. "Because I like being in the pitch blackness." "What about one of those small dim clip lights?" "But then, I wouldn't be able to see the angels as well." "Why are you sitting on the ground, why don't you use a lawn chair?" "Because, I like being connected to the earth." "What about a low one? Aren't you cold sitting on the wet sand?" "The freezing temperatures keep me awake, and besides, I like to know I can take off running if I need to. Not being one to want to leave behind dinky high turnover furniture of little sentimental value, in my wake."



Gallery opening. Some star turned artist illuminating his still life and abstract out-of-focus photos. Everyone's talking about how amazing they are. I'm with my husband and mother, talking as loudly as I can about how horrible they are. Trying to bring some semblance of sanity to the bullshit fest. Speaking in arty lingo (drawing from the training I received from a very early age). Lingo I've long since forgotten. I'm trying to start a truth trend. Vincent Gallo spots me wild-eyed and wades through the dressed-to-the-nines in artfunk celebutantes and hangers-on, pointing at me, and moving as quickly as possible. I bolt as quickly as I can, crouching down, reliving a shining moment from my elementary school basketball career. Maneuvering swiftly to avoid a foul. Outside, I cling behind a door, (one part leech, one part stealth bomber,) frozen like an opossum. Barely breathing. He looks both ways, manically. His wife asking him what he's doing. I think he said, the girl, the girl. I was so relieved when he lost my trail. My husband and mom finally exited the belly of the whale, into the parking lot of Bergamot Station. "What the heck was that about?" "We were afraid Vincent Gallo was going to attack you." "I was afraid he was going to abduct me, handcuff me to a stove and Buffalo 69 a brainwashed, drugged up fragment of my former self. Phew!"

What is the point of these ramblings? LA is surreal and a strange place to grow up. It's nice to realize that there's a whole world out there with amazing authentic people leading meaningful, useful and productive lives with grace, beauty, strength and courage...and costumes.... With the advent of the selfie, youtube, self-publishing and reality TV, the world stage has expanded. There's enough media to go around. There's the potential there for balance between people realizing their dreams (as people promote every kind of career and platform imaginable) with people creating a global community.