Day 5: Dysfunctional Land!!!

Sorry guys, this is a parenthesis from the story I had being telling... I will finish B-Day in India later today... This was just a morning thought!

Last night, trying not to die from boredom in this house where the gloom seems to have enclave for good, I stumbled over a little great show that kept me up until 4 am called Californication. I know, I know, I’m a little late, the show has been on the air for a while now, but the truth is that when I was living in the city of “Lost Angels”, the last thing I wanted was to watch a show that depicted my dysfunctional life. Who in their right mind wants to spend the very little leisure time one has in a city like LA watching the life you are already living? Well, I guess a lot of people do, but not me, I “try” not to be such a masochist… or at least not with my entertainment time. However, after almost a year of my self-imposed exile from la, la, land I find it refreshing to  watch my own dysfunctionality. It is kind of sad and scary, but last night I went to bed feeling that maybe LA is after all the only place where I truly belong. It is a breathing town of my own breed, crazy, depressed, creative maniacs that feed from chaos and sorrow. The injection of eventual little success becomes the heroine that we keep searching for and that maintain us alive. I think we should open an AA of LA addicts, you can’t live with it, you can’t live without it!

Is dysfuntionality becoming a normal way of living? Looking around and around, crossing oceans trying to find “normality,” whatever that means, I’m staring to believe that indeed dysfuntionality is the functionality of the 21^st century. Yet, nowhere in the world “fucked upness” is embraced so humanely like in LA. People in my city, because even away from it still feels mine, assume their nature and just let it run wild. “We are different, we are fucked, lets just go all the way… who cares, my neighbor is worst than me, so I guess I’m not doing that bad.” A kid making more money than his parents it is “totally” normal. A dog eating better than a kid, having health insurance when no one in the family does, going to spas, having a cook and a hotel room with flat screen TV is “totally” indispensable. A women bleaching her asshole is not a prostitute or simply crazy, just cares about her well being. A macho man wearing jeans tighter than mine and spending more time in the mirror than any girl in town, making his hair look fucked up, is “totally” sexy and truly desired. A grandma dressing like a 15 year old is “totally cool.” Having a “totally” social line of cocaine is just fine, but don’t light a cigarette please because is descanting, it kills you and is something that only the new comers from New York do, just “totally gross.” No red meat, white meat, soft meat, dark meat, no fats, no cholesterol, no sweets, no carbs, only organic, combined with lots of buzz, pod, and the occasional E is the best diet to keep you in shape so one day you can finally drop “totally” dead in the middle of a very healthy yoga class. My bittersweet city has become such an Alice in Wonder Land that getting a job as a waitress has become as hard as getting a TV show. We creative geniuses furiously fight for that one spot open at “Koi.” For the chance of even competing, we have to ask our powerful friends to sent our headshot and put a good word in for us. It must be followed by a call from our agent who represents one of the investors to give us the last push in order to get in the “cattle call” casting to have a chance to win the precious prize to serve crispy rice tuna rolls and cosmos to the cream of the cream. Yes, you got it right, we find it “totally” normal to be called “cattle,” livestock, pieces of meat waiting for a A list director, agent, manager, producer, writer, actor, film festival, studio, or a Rock Start, to make us B and C creatures into a A list agent, director, producer, writer, actor, film festival, studio, or Rock Start. So, why in life would I be blue for such a fucked up place? Maybe because only user and abusers can understand one another?