Dispatches from the City of Angels
I'm a writer and humorist living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my novel LOSING CLEMENTINE out March 6 from William Morrow. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Favorite Quotes:
"Taint what a horse looks like, it’s what a horse be." - A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchett
"Trying to take it easy after you've finished a manuscript is like trying to take it easy when you have a grease fire on a kitchen stove." - Jan Burke
"Put on your big girl panties, and deal with it." - Mom
"How you do anything is how you do everything."
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"Why God Me?" or "Reason number 247 why I will someday own a house"
I am fairly certain that the walls of my apartment are made of three or four layers of tissue paper, which means I have heard an awful lot of strangers having sex. This gets less amusing over time. Especially with one particular female neighbor who - well, let's just say that if the guy believes that, I've got a bridge I'd like to sell him.
But that's not really the worst of it. The worst of it is that our new neighbors have a piano. A PIANO. IN AN APARTMENT. They might as well have bought one of those air-compressor doo-hickeys they remove lug nuts with at the tire shop. It would've been less annoying. Because on top of everything else, they're just now learning how to play.
Every night at or around six o'clock, the very loud and distinct tones of "Chopsticks" played at one-quarter speed comes wafting through the tissue paper and into my bedroom-slash-office.
Six o'clock is also the time of day when, after many hours in front of my computer, I've begun bleeding out my eyeballs while trying to finish a chapter. So you can imagine how much I really, really love "Chopsticks" at that moment.
Somebody hand me the real estate section.
But that's not really the worst of it. The worst of it is that our new neighbors have a piano. A PIANO. IN AN APARTMENT. They might as well have bought one of those air-compressor doo-hickeys they remove lug nuts with at the tire shop. It would've been less annoying. Because on top of everything else, they're just now learning how to play.
Every night at or around six o'clock, the very loud and distinct tones of "Chopsticks" played at one-quarter speed comes wafting through the tissue paper and into my bedroom-slash-office.
Six o'clock is also the time of day when, after many hours in front of my computer, I've begun bleeding out my eyeballs while trying to finish a chapter. So you can imagine how much I really, really love "Chopsticks" at that moment.
Somebody hand me the real estate section.
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