My Fabulous Los Angeles Vacation, Part Five

Muffy is wet and happy! And then she has to leave.

This is part five! Click on the links to read parts one, two, three, and four.

Context: When this was written, Bush had recently announced the date for the invasion of Iraq (March 19), and reports were just coming in that SARS had hit Toronto.

Rain

The drizzle begins early Saturday morning and by the time the sun comes up...well, there IS no sun. It's a dark and unceasing downpour. I don't know if the rain is heavier than it should be or if LA just doesn't have enough storm sewers, but all the water is running downhill and taking the easiest route there: the street. When Eugene and I park it's a struggle to jump the river that is running past us. It's at least six inches deep. This is something quite rare around here. Experiencing it is a mixed blessing for a tourist without an umbrella.

Rain in the morning...

We visit Amoeba records and Wacko's, two places you need several hours to properly explore. Wacko's in particular is a purveyor of kitsch and kitsch-conscious objects, alongside books about those kitschy objects, and books about the people who collect the kitschy objects or otherwise contribute to the aggrandizement of them. They have a nice art gallery in the back where you can hear the endless, driving rain.

Later, with Chris, we check out Jet Rag, which doesn't have much happening except a killer decor: bombs and ducts and a sort of woodsy cottage feel, all at the same time. Aardvarks on Melrose is a bit meatier, but I'm destined to end my vacation without the gorgeous feather showgirl outfit that I had in my imagination. I regret not entering the ritzy boutiques on Sunset when I had the chance.

That night Talia picks me up and we drive, through the downpour, to Echo Park to see "The Cover Problem," an offshoot of a local band called "The Negro Problem," with Joe Berardi on drums. The group's headman -- Stuart, though it's uncertain if this is his first or last name -- is doing a reinterpretation of '80s pop music...or maybe he's just having fun.

Tonight's juxtaposition of styles is Morrisey vs. David Lee Roth, who Stuart can almost make you believe are the same person. The band seamlessly merges "Hot for Teacher" with "This Charming Man" with a gender-bending twist. They expose the zen meaning behind "Jump." They explore the motivation behind saying the word "zen" and "paradigm shift" on stage. These blues reinterpretations of songs are wonderful to hear, but the bar isn't exactly packed; the downpour outside is torrential and the venue is difficult to find.

The wonderful Talia, the wonderful Ron, and me.

I chat with Joe for a while in between sets. I ask him if, as a drummer, he ever feels slighted when he doesn't get songwriting credit, even though he's added something unique to the song. He says yes, sometimes. I ask him what it's like to be a popular (I may have said "famous") musician in Los Angeles. He looks offended and confused. This, sadly, is where I leave Joe.

Since it's still early I say goodbye to Ron and Talia, and Chris and I head off to a loft party in downtown LA.

The party is in a renovated complex of old factory buildings, and like many buildings in LA you have to buzz at the front gate in order to enter the parking lot, which is surrounded by a huge fence. The party itself is calm. I find myself watching Fatty Arbuckle on TV for the second time in two days, which I can't properly explain.

Everybody I've met seems to be involved with the movie industry in some way, usually as script writers. It's entertaining that whenver you talk to someone about a movie plot they'll jump in and finish it for you in exactly the way the plot would be pitched to a producer. For example:

MUFFY: I was watching this kids show tonight called "The Fairly Odd Parents." Have you seen it?
TALIA: No.
MUFFY: It's about this kid whose parents are fairy godparents--
TALIA: ...and they fulfill wishes for him and try to solve his problems, with wacky and unexpected results?

Afterwards Chris takes me to Bar Sinister, one of LA's biggest goth nightclubs. It's gorgeous and yet not ntimidating or ostentatious. The usual bad attitude "more goth than thou" folks are here, but they're outnumbered by people who actually smile at you and say hello. The attitude is good. The go-go (or rather "goth-goth") dancers are kick ass, sometimes literally. I have never seen so many anime-inspired hair extensions in my life.

I'd love to stay...but it's getting late. What was previously a dim realization -- that I'd be leaving LA soon -- has become a nearby physical ache, felt especially as I say goodbye to Chris. She did more for me than just untangle my fishnets and give me spectacular hair. Sopping with rain and alcohol and regret I watch her drive away in her pickup truck.

It's still raining when I get back to my hotel. People are drunkenly weaving up and down Sunset, wet and silly. In my room, washing up, I regret leaving disgusting panstick stains on the white towels. But considering how they gouged me for the phone bill I don't feel THAT bad.

...rain at night.

March 17, 2003

We are a strange crew inside the LAX shuttle bus. Most gregarious is the band manager of AFI, who has had a night of wild adventures involving candles. He explains to me the joys of PS2, Burbank, and cheap Mexican food. We pull up to a house to pick up a middle-aged woman whose father is hugging her goodbye. The AFI guy says it looks like a postcard. Then the father tells the driver to "take care of my daughter...she's till a virgin!" and the tone of the postcard suddenly changes. "Candy wants to come with you" he says, holding out a tiny toy poodle, and I ponder the stort of life these regressed oddballs lead.

Things are not exactly jumping at the airport so, after spotting Kiefer Sutherland smoking a cigarette by the entrance, I strike up a converssation with a woman who is stuck in line with me: Connie, on her way to vacation in Paris. Both of us are control freaks but she has managed to tone it down through a masters degree in...Inner Spirituality. She's a very positive person, a blessing in a place where the staff is obviously in no hurry to process a gate full of people who have a plane to catch.

I don't know what sort of conditions these folks work under but I have yet to see an airport employee in a hurry. The woman who takes away my bags (to give them a good dusting) moves with a slow, syrupy stroll. The people who process our tickets have an incredible "just out here fishing and enjoying the weather" attitude, except they're totally disinterested in their surroundings. They hold long conversations about their lunch breaks while the line up of passengers stare fixedly at their watches. But the person who actually CHECKS my ticket has spirit: he barks at me that I should change my hair and cut my fingernails because I "look like a girl."

This time around the security check goes smoothly, as I'm savvy enough to remove my boots and foil-wrapped life savers before braving the scanner. Next thing I know I'm on the plane ignoring the movie -- "Keith of the North" -- and passing the time.

From the Air (Again)

Unfortunately, due to some bad directions from a guard I go through security a second time in Chicago, which some people find amusing. I am getting very good at removing my footwear in a timely fashion. I have a few moments to relax so I settle in and watch the news.

CNN is really loving the world situation, they've got lots of nifty graphics for each segment of war coverage. They no doubt hope it will last forever. Their theme songs are stirring and scary.

The folks drinking their heads off in Wolfgang & Pucks are sober and sedate about the war. Nobody is spitting venom about anything, maybe because they're about to board a plane. I think back to war comments I've heard during my trip to America. One of the people at the DGA asked me "what's up in Canada, other than being morally smug about the war?" That was sort of ambiguous. A scriptwriter at the loft party last night greeted me and apologized for trying to destroy the world. At a bar somewhere -- it was either Parlour or Canter's -- there was a general agreement that George W. Bush is frightening. Carrie, on her way to Paris, hoped she wouldn't be treated badly for being an American. As much as I wish I was staying in LA longer, I'm happy I'm not going to be going through airport security two days from now.

Up here in the plane, in the dark, somewhere near the border, what I remember most vividly about my trip are the people. The awe at the size and diversity of LA, the beautiful scenery, the joy of putting on a good show...none of these things feel as immediate as the people who generously showed me around and became good companions. I went from knowing nobody to having these great people around me so quickly that it sort of feels like they're still here and that I'll be meeting them tonight for potato pancakes and coffee.

As for the city itself, I'm fortunate in not having seen a single bad thing, and I barely paid a dime for anything. My overwhelmingly positive impression must have somethng to do with that. I want to go back, I want to see these people again, I want to spend a leisurely time drinking it all in. Next time I'll get a more balanced impression of LA, and hopefully it won't lose its magic.

EPILOGUE

I haven't gone back again, partly because I don't want to impose again on these sweet people. But someday...

If you're wondering how all this came about, well, I used to post Bollywood film reviews at the rec-arts-movies-local-indian usenet group. David Chute was a frequent reader of the site, and he got me in contact with Asian Cult Cinema magazine, for which I wrote an article called "I Rejected Coronation Street." For reasons I forget ACC seemed to be giving me the runaround, and David passed the article to LA Weekly's film critic, Ron Stringer.

Next thing I knew, Ron called me from LA to buy the article for the paper (which is still online here along with a picture of me licking a D-cell battery), and to ask me to come down and perform at the "Kaante" gala showing. He'd heard from David that I impersonated Bollywood starlets, which wasn't really true. I gave him all sorts of reasons why they shouldn't foot the bill to bring me all the way down, but he convinced me. I can't believe I NEEDED convincing!

I didn't check my email until I returned home. I discovered that Bappa Lahiri had emailed me while I was down there, saying that his father -- Bappi Lahiri, one of the most famous Bollywood composers -- had read my article and wanted to meet me for coffee in LA. This was totally incredible, but I'd already come home and had to decline, which is probably good since I'd called him "obese and frog-like" in the article.

Now, why didn't I take more photographs? Because I was afraid of looking like a tourist. This didn't stop me from babbling about all the differences between Ontario and Los Angeles, though, and I kick myself for having no pictures from the DGA or Bar Sinister. But there was a film crew filming my performance, so maybe it will appear someday...

As for the wonderful people...

Joe Berardi doesn't show up in many Google searches at the moment. Double-Naught Spy Car is still performing, and holy cow, I've just discovered these pictures taken the night I saw The Cover Problem!

I saw an exhausted Ron Stringer in 2004 at the Toronto film festival; he was there to review the movies and we didn't get much of a chance to talk. He may be the Ron Stringer who takes photographs, his name doesn't show up in the LA Weekly reviews anymore. Must email him again...

While I was down there Chris D'Anda was planning a line of Gothique hair products...now you can buy them here! I can vouch for them...they're great (and have a bewitching smell). Or go down to her salon and get a fabulous hairdo. Chris and I still keep in touch, thank goodness!

My Fabulous Los Angeles Vacation, Part Four

A trip to both the animal and the human zoo! Once again featuring never-before-seen photographs...and you wouldn't believe the stuff I found while looking for them. But more on that later.

This is merely part four of the tale. Click on the links to read parts one, two, and three.

The LA Zoo

Friday, like every day I've been here, starts out looking gloomy and ominous then quickly heats up to a gorgeous temperature. The actual numbers don't matter to me; I'm basking in it and loving it.

Morning off the Grafton patio.

I start the morning off by eating at fake "western" restaurant on Sunset Boulevard, where the staff members yell at the customers. It'as a form of non-Canadian fellowship that I recognize and I enjoy, but if the manager of a restaurant in Toronto asked me why I'd "left so much fuckin' food left on the plate" I'd expect some sort of fight to start. Here it means they like you.

While finishing my (enormous) meal, my waitress hears that a country music show in Nashville is sending a camera crew to film her because they think she'll make a great VJ. She freaks and I hear the giddy details of her Texas childhood. It's a wonderful moment and I hope she gets the show; she'll be perfect.

Eugene arrives and we take a scenic route to Griffith Park. Apparently he hasn't been to the zoo since he was eight. I hear that the zoo was horribly neglected at some point (and the polar bear STILL looks disgrunted), but now things are pretty much back in shape. We take our time strolling and exploring. We are skeptical that any koalas live in the darkened koala pavillion. We share a belief that monkeys are pretty horrible. At one of the many souvenir booths -- where you operate a machine to inject plastic into moulds of about 20 different animals -- a very strange man tells his son that "this is how God makes animals." "God injects the plastic," he says in all seriousness. Eugene and I don't believe this.

A Los Angeles gorilla, with bonus Eugene silhouette.

We're late to pick up Chris for a trip to Melrose, so we shortcut through the park, return to civilization, and the three of us have a typically heavy and slumber-inducing Indian meal. It turns out that Chris is a real zoo veteran and she chastises us for missing the most excciting predators. I off-handedly mention that two people I'd love to meet in LA are Johnette Napolitano and Andy Prieboy, and I am less shocked than I should be to learn that Johnette did a benefit show for Chris, and that Chris used to do Andy's hair at his apartment. This blurring of the line between celebrity and private life is surprising and odd. People see celebrities very differently here.

Sadly we are a bit rushed on Melrose, but I do manage to see some fabulous things. These are the first funky stores I've been to since I've arrived. Some of them are certainly generic and/or trashy, but Chris and Eugene are great guides and don't discourage impulse spending. Passing on the genuine leopard shoes (because I'm squeamish), I settle on a beautiful ostrich-feather fan.

Bricktops!

Since arriving I have been hearing the name "Vaginal Davis" from everybody's lips. In keeping with the synchronous theme of the weekend, three different groups of people independently suggest I visit "The Parlor Club" to see Vaginal's show, which apparently has a roaring '20s theme. I get ready at the Best Western (where I'm now staying) and while waiting for my clubbing companions I become intrigued by "Battle of the Sexes," a reality TV program that I can only assume is typical of the genre. I am convinced that the pressure of the camera spurs soap-opera behaviour. People keep going on "trash the cabana" sprees when they're upset, and beloved ex-members of the teams are repeatedly lionized by those remaining. People watch this under the impression that it's "reality" and start acting this way even without the cameras on them. It's depressing and engrossing at the same time.

Oh my goodness, the Bricktops show is fabulous. The crowd is mixed, some in full '20s gear and some more casually dressed. On the corner of the dancefloor a woman does a quirky and lovely tap routine in front of projections of inept retro porn. Faux-Irish lads get up on stage and sing heartfelt songs in faux-Irish accents. These folks can REALLY sing and they can REALLY play the piano, especially "Mr. Uncertainty" who mixes oblique political observations with goofy camp.

Meanwhile, in the back room, we've scored a couch and are drinking heavily. This is easy to do because the mixed drinks seem to be about 9/10'ths alcohol, about which few complain. I find myself discoursing about the things I find intriguing about LA, and people are patient with me and make fun of the way I say "about."

Me, Chris, Eugene, and nameless sweet girl in the Bricktops backroom.

Chris and I, apres booze.

Vaginal Davis -- Miss Bricktop -- appears. This lady's manner is simply beyond my experience, and I won't try very hard to describe it. She is very funny. Her "hootchie-kootchie dance" is a cross between a Disney cartoon and a Ken Russell film. She plays St. Patricks Day matchmaker in the crowd. Her method of announcing last call sounds a bit like a gibbering ghost in a washing machine.

She is not nearly so baffling in close quarters, however, and I get the chance to thank her for playing "Tom, Dick, or Harry." Music to an Ann Miller-lover's ears!

The night ends before it should, sadly. Eugene, Chris, and I retire to Canter's (fortunately not Oki-Dog) for the perfect post-drink experience: grease. Hash browns, actually. We talk bafflingly of politics, geography, and the other things you talk about when you've been drinking what tastes like rubbing alcohol all night.

Part five is on the way!

My Fabulous Los Angeles Vacation, Part Three

In which Muffy walks in LA, performs in LA, tries to say something positive about "Kaante," and gets her dance card filled. Click here to read part one, and here to read part two.

Walking in LA

Sunset Boulevard is not the only game in town here in West Hollywood. It has all the swanky bars and clubs and hotels, sure, but for someone like me who delights in the quirky things, it's a little antiseptic. Walking toward Hollywood proper (and, presumably, a distant sign on a hilltop), I get prime enjoyment looking to the left, above the gas stations and coffee shops, to the looming mountains and their precariously balanced hilltop houses...

Sunset Boulevard (where Muffy walks alone) and those precarious hilltop houses.

Distant, high above me, yet clear in the dry air, these buildings sit perched on every available cliff. The mountains rise, jumbles of sandy landslides and ground-hugging ferns, topped with these sky-hogging houses, often on stilts to gain a few extra feet above the neighbours. They're usually accompanied by two or three impossibly tall, spindly, fungoid palm trees. Like everything else I've seen so far in LA these residential areas look like an unplanned patchwork, a Doctor Seuss cartoon, a mess and a beauty all at the same time.

In the opposite direction -- to the right -- the streets drop sharply to Santa Monica, which I find more "human" than Sunset, possibly because the junk shops and bohemian touches remind me more of Toronto. Unlike Toronto, however, there are outdoor escalators and crosswalks that actually SPEAK to you, as do some of the pedestrians.

I am shocked to realize that I haven't seen a single unhappy old person here; all of them are chuckly folks who dotter along the street and smile at you when you pass. They delight in dogs and seem in no hurry to get where they're going. These are old folks that I can't picture sitting rigid in anonymous bingo halls, frantic to spend the last bit of their savings on a hopeless reach for a sudden windfall. These old people play bridge and go for leisurely walks. They congregate in parks. They sleep in when the mood strikes them and they never pee themselves, and if they do they have a sense of pride and decorum about it. Maybe they're like this because they're warm, or they're rich, or they're American.

There is definitely some unnatural substance in the air, you can see it and smell it. More than one person has described this to me as a "mix of haze and smog," which is curious because smog is already a "mix of smoke and fog." There may very well be days when LA is blanketed with hog, hoke, and shmazog.

The trip back uphill to Sunset Boulevard is a tough one -- it's on a 40-degree angle -- but I do survive, and I manage to find replacement eyelashes. In the hotel lobby I step in the wax of one of the cleaning zombies. He mutters in spanish as I pinwheel my arms and almost fall not once but twice. I'm seeing a fair number of the zombies already, they work in some fast-food joints and they do menial tasks in the large buildings. They are either victims of head trauma or they're just pretending. They mutter and treat you with outright disdain and disinterest. None of them respond in any way to kindness or pleasantries. I think of them as zombie bulldogs: sullen, stupid, and somehow resentful.

Performing

The Director's Guild of America (or "DGA" as everyone calls it) is a huge place with a big theatre, and with a lot of people walking around. The crowd is a curious mix of west and east. On arriving I finally meet David Chute, film critic and totally sweet guy, and we face the task of deciding on some sort of pre-show banter. Yes, they've given us microphones. Yes, we need to give an "oscar-style introduction" to the film. Yes, I'm nervous. Fortunately my mic matches my outfit.

Also matching my outfit is a gorgeously spikey, peacocky hairstyle courtesy of Chris from Je Jeune Salon. Chris manages to kill some of those Congo butterflies by being a very cool and friendly person...not to mention a person who understands my desire to see the LA Zoo. Ron gives her an invitation to the film, and she even drives me to the venue. Chris: approved! And she's getting herself a cadillac too, though for now we're in her pickup truck.

Before the show we hear that a rising talent in the Indian film industry is going to attend: Kashmira Shah, a starlet who was vacationing in the desert where water is apparently not the only thing it's difficult to come by. Her friend tells David Chute that his last name is a Hindi slang term for "vagina," which I expect will only serve to heighten the sales of his future treatise on cow humour (my bookshelf cries out for it!)

We are a mismatched pair on the stage, us faux vaginas, and we steer clear of Bad Academy Award Humour. David talks a bit about the film, a bit about Bollywood in general, and he praises my Indian cinema insight. I "aw shucks" him and try to look pretty.

"Kaante" is an interesting crossover film, shot in a yellow-tinted LA and somehow sandwiching Reservoir Dogs together with The Usual Suspects. There seemed to be more than the average number of imossible moments in the movie, partly due to this sandwich attempt...if these guys are ALREADY the usual suspects, arrested whenever there's a heist in LA, why do they think they'll "get away with it" and just return to their famiy responsibilities -- a sick wife, a mentally handicapped sister, a frustrated girlfriend, a child-custody case -- especially when they took off their masks BEFORE engaging in a gun battle with the police force? After killing numerous officers in a clear as (yellow) day shootout, their later rationale for kidnapping a police officer -- he'll be able to identify them -- is sort of funny. So is the reason for NOT killing him: fear of police retaliation. I mean, they'd already killed about six cops.

Still, though, it was fun and with a lot of high-tech action, and it looked gorgeous. It's almost a cliche to say it, but: Amitabh stole the show with his calm bluster and devoted love for his ill wife. While watching the movie I can't believe that Kashmira Shah is sitting in front of me.

After the film I commandeered Chris to help me change in the bathroom. She proves her stoic sweetness as I give her a pair of unwashed fishnets to untangle. My only performance fear is that the Bollywood fans in the audience will find my "Chin-Chin Chu" and "Baithe Hain Kya" routines offensive. I compensate by throwing everything into an energetic seven-minute set, and for an audience who hadn't much time to warm up to the act they are superb. Doing my Helen numbers for East Indians who are actually dancing, whooping, and singing along will be the highlight of my trip, I'm sure. I am gratified to see that one of the women knows the hand gestures better than I do!

The show ends and I learn the folly of ignoring my diabetes and then doing something strenuous: I find myself in the women's washroom both revelling in the joy of the moment and wanting to vomit up my liver before it shuts down in disgust. I haven't eaten or taken any insulin all afternoon, and my blood sugar is so high it's embarassing.

After shooting up I decide to "take the air," and it's on the front steops of the DGA that I -- still a bit muddled -- get to chat with the people from the show. I know I've done well when a fan of Helen's praises me for my article [in that week's LA Weekly] and the show. I get a few minutes to chat with Kashmira Shah who is friendly, gorgeous, and on her way back to the desert. I chat Bollywood politics with a lady from Pakistan and am particularly gratified when a large and somewhat daunting Indian patriarch smiles and tells me that he got some great pictures of my performance. I find this reception difficult to believe, especially since I've got rock candy running through my bloodstream and the actual performance is a total blur. But by all accounts the audience liked the show, and I liked the audience. What could be better?

The band for the evening is "Double-Naught Spy Car," and the drummer is Joe Barardi who, among other things, was a longtime member of Stan Ridgway's band. I'm a big fan and I finally get to meet "tripod Joe" after their set. His friend Talia begins filling out my social card for the weekend, and suddenly the lone tourist has got things to do and people to do them with! The long-anticipated trip to the zoo with Chris' friend Eugene, followed by shopping on Melrose with the two of them. A trip to a drag show with Talia, Joe, and Ron, and an invitation to see one of Joe's other bands perform. Offers of gigs and fun times should I ever come back to LA. What a night! I am much less alone in this enormous city.

So tell me, is this typical or am I just lucky? Is some backwards-talking dwarf with a karmic hand pushing me away from the bad and towards the good? Hey, thanks dwarf!

Get ready for part four!

My Fabulous Los Angeles Vacation, Part Two

This is part two, in which our protagonist hopes to live a Mulholland Drive fantasy. Plus the first of several exclusive, never-before-seen pictures! Click here to read part one.

In the Air, Part 2

Sitting in the terminal waiting for the next flight I slowly become aware of the cel phones. I have never seen so many of them in one place, everybody has them, and most of them are attached to ostentatious headsets. I'm a dishevelled mish-mash sitting in a room full of businessmen and one surfer dude, and even he has a cel phone. He says "later babe" into his phone and clicks it shut.

To pass the time I am determined to memorize the conversation that two men next to me are having, but it's so inane that I can't be bothered.

The people ON the plane, however, turn out to be so firiendly that I want to hug them, except for the extremely loud woman who spends the three hours getting drunker and spouting Oprah-inspired wisdom to whoever will listen. She calls the stewardesses her "girls" and claims that her husband, "like all Mexicans," treats women poorly. She takes credit for encouraging her younger sister to "educate herself"...by making her own lunch before she goes to school. Her philosophical highpoint -- said in the most lofty and explosive tone -- is this:

"WHY SHOULD I BE QUIET?!? Don't I deserve to get sloshed on a plane for once in my life? DON'T roll your eyes at me, girl. We're not alive for long. I heard this once, that we're only on earth for a little while, so we better make the most of it!"

Trooper said it more eloquently.

I am sitting beside a sweet old couple. When the drunk girl gets particularly loud the old man makes sock-puppet gestures with his hand. He also has a remarkable habit of explaining the stock market to his wife while she's sleeping, though most of us paid attention when he claimed to have seen "four huge, metal cylinders" in the middle of the desert.

This couple is a shocking "Mulholland Drive" parallel for me, except that I don't think they'll crawl giggling under my doorjam this evening. I can't resist trying out some dialog on them as we're departing, telling them to "watch for me on the television" and then saying "that'll be the day." They don't take the cue. The old man just asks how many months of snow we get in Canada each year.

Like many of the people I've met so far, I'll never run into these folks again. Ever.

A Tour of LA

After a morning that was essentially one long string of uncertainties and anxieties, the last thing I thought I needed on arrival was a whirlwind tour of Los Angeles. But somehow my host -- Ron Stringer -- knew the best cure of an enormous sense of displacement and fatigue: sight-seeing with a guy who really knows the place.

It was easy to make a list of "LA cliches" and check them off as they appeared. The first surfer dude had already been spotted, and you can't take a step outside LAX without seeing an enormous fern or a palm tree, and amazingly these palm trees come in several different varieties. Some of them are stunted, or maybe they're just young. Some have soft, kitteny fur on them. Apparently they are also the area's rat habitat, which I think LA should be prouder of.

(People here are of different opinions about the truth of this "rats in the palm trees" thing, but I see quite a few metal girdles around trees that go near apartment windows, so I'm pretty sure it's true).

For the first time in my life I see the Pacific Ocean; it winks at me over a hill in Venice. We take a trip through Bel Air, or rather "around" Bel Air because car's like Ron's "make the security guards very nervous." We see a jogger and a ridiculously rich private girl's school, "the sort of place you can bring your dog to class with you," apparently.

Strangely enough, Ron agrees to reinforce my obsession by taking me over a stretch of Mulholland Drive, and I get a chance to see LA from the ubiquitous mountains. We drive around treacherous, eroded hairpin turns, marvelling that we're actually looking DOWN on the tops of skycrapers. I don't want to spoil the first 8 seconds of "Mulholland Drive" for you, but Ron points out that the thought of a person wearing high-heels climbing down the mountain is totally ridiculous. Seeing the mountainsides I have to agree.

Yes, the driving is bad, extremely aggressive, though apparently the freeway shooting fad is over. I notice that nobody EVER jaywalks, in fear for their lives, and that strangers on Sunset Boulevard have few qualms about talking to you as you're passing by. I also notice an absence of variety stores, though there are plenty of gas stations.

My hotel for the first two days is "The Grafton," a place far more comfortable than my apartment. It even comes with a "Grafton frog," a sort of gel-filled rubber duckie, and the furnishings are gorgeous.

The view from my hotel room.

Diet Coke, phonebook, bible, Grafton frog, and Floyd the Radio Lion.

The decorations and furnishings have a sort of funky tastefulness to them that has given me a new appreciation for lime green, and the rooms and halls are loaded with black and white tributes to classic movie stars, mostly Marilyn Monroe but with a smattering of Ella Fitzgerald, Humphry Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Frank Sinatra, and James Dean. I cannot escape James Dean. His ghost, entwined with his crash site, is as much a part of my trip as anxiety and bottled water. Too bad I don't like him.

While unpacking I discover that one of my bags has been searched, the box with my cosmetics broken into, and my false eyelashes missing. Right now they're probably lying on runway 15 in Chicago, or being worn by one of the many floor-sweeping zombies I always see in America.

I go to sleep just before 10am and I sleep like a Grafton frog on a log.

Day two in Los Angeles coming soon!

My Fabulous Los Angeles Vacation, Part One

In March 2003, the LA Weekly newspaper sent me to Los Angeles so I could perform at the gala opening of "Kaante," a truly awful Indian film. I've never had so much fun in my life. It was the first time I'd been in a plane. My first trip south of New England. And the first time people had invested a lot of money to watch me do a pseudo-impersonation of a popular Indian starlet from the '60s. The last time too, incidentally.

While I was there I kept a journal, which I've barely glanced through since. Just thinking about the trip was enough to make my heart feel like it was going to melt. Now that sufficient time has passed -- and my ache for LA has subsided to a dull sob -- I have an urge to post it online. Maybe because my life right now is so boring, and it's the one truly spontaneous and exciting thing I've done in my life. Or maybe because I can't think of anything to say at the moment.

So here's part one: My Fabulous Los Angeles Vacation. Let the wide-eyed naivete be revealed!

March 12, 7:00am

The airport employees are about as pleasant as anyone paid to hunt terrorists at 6am. The custom official may have actually said "get your ass in," but I was too busy being nervous to be sure. To any future first-time travellers my advice is: know where to find your pen. And telling a frustrated woman with a buzzing metal prod that this is your "first time" doesn't cut any ice.

Even through my gummy eyes I can tell that the Toronto terminal is big. The Orlando flight has removed most of the children, but two manic, half-human monsters delight in crawling underneath me as their father takes pictures. I can't tell whether the parents are patient or stupid, and my drag queen intuition tells me they're patient. But drag queen intuition is often wrong.

The mysterious, rapid-fire lyrics of "Mera Naam Chin-Chin Chu" fight for recognition in my brain. I have butterflies about performing, the kind of butterflies that suck your face off in the Congo. Three hours of sleep has left me looking like I have tuberculosis.

There is a momentary tussle outside the gate. There is some question as to the identity of the pilots, who have boarded without giving their names. The women who don't have bobbed hair all have ponytails.

More than anything else I am looking forward to sleep. Sleep seems almost possible, given the right sort of seat without a child under it. Not for the last time I think of the joys of home: a purring cat, a quiet room, a controlled and calming bubble that appeals to my neurotic "never been on a plane" personality. But fun, excitement, and opportunity are not things that come often in a bubble. I feel like a fresh-water fish dropped into the Pacific ocean, but determined not to explode, or whatever fish do in the wrong type of water. I can't ask my own fish about it because he's at home with some sort of parasite on his gills.

Two antagonistic sisters engage me in a brief and vitriolic debate about smoking. One tells a story about standing in an LA bathroom and listening to several women discussing their augmented breasts. Being hicks, we all find this an apalling cliche that shouldn't happen in real life. I hope to see this for myself after having a long sleep.

No matter what I am prepared. I have gum.

On the Plane

The pilot speaks as though ice was invented in Toronto. This is not true, as the Inuit dealt with it first. We just put it on planes. Giant mechanical dinosaurs with spotlight eyes spray something on our wings, to frighten the children.

I have a lot of time to think before takeoff. When we first stated moving I got excited, but by now we've navigated most of the area around Toronto in a convoluted labyrinthian path. It's a larger version of the lineup at customs, without the velvet ropes, and it seems like the end of the line is moving away faster than we can approach. I'm convinced the pilot is driving around like this because he's bored. After an extended period of just rolling around, the announcement that we have 13 minutes left is greeted with groans, but gives me time to...find my gum!

The plane itself is, judging by the interacting oscillations of the fans and engines, a Brian Eno model. Eno would have even thrown in the yelling children, though he probably would have added echo.

The instructional video has an amusing shot of a cheerful businessmen puffing on the tubes of his life-vest like a gratified stoner, no doubt about to drop head-first into the middle of the ocean. I have oceans on the brain and I'm not even flying over one.

In the Air

Well, "whoosh" pretty much describes it, and the somewhat unreal image of the world has disappeared. We're all alone up here in "the friendly skies," except for the other passengers who are -- so far -- friendly At least nobody is hitting anybody. It's my hope that I can spend the entire trip without seeing anybody fight, which is why I'm not watching the news.

Being at 28,000 (?) feet isn't nearly as disturbing as being in a ferris wheel. I'm absolutely terrified of heights, but only if I can imagine falling from them, or, more specifically, hanging above them off some unstable precipice. But hanging off the wing of this airplane is just not feasible. I can't imagine it. I doubt it's going to happen.

I'm reminded of all the pop songs about airplanes, and -- thanks to Laurie Anderson -- the avant-garde ones as well. In deference to her I make sure my tray table is in its upright "locked" position.

Dash

We arrive at Chicago O'Hare and people are moving. Due to the uncredited Inuit invention of ice our plane is almost an hour late. Some of the passengers have certainly missed their next flight, but a few of us -- including myself and a woman I'll call "Misty" -- have exactly 8 minutes to run from one end of the airport to the other. O'Hare is a big place. I have no idea what the consequences will be for missing this plane. We run.

Misty is a sensible, professional businesswoman in her late 30s, and she's also very funny. She claims that she has missed more connecting flights than che can count, and even takes a sort of karmic blame for our late arrival.

As we dodge slowpokes who "stand on the left" and spend absolutely no time enjoying the neon borealis leading from our terminal, it's obvious that even though Misty's got spunk she's a bit of a liability. She has short legs and her rolling suitcase is holding us back. But I can't ditch her because she knows more about airports than I do, and her sense of direction is impeccable. After she darts off to her own gate I really turn on the jets, getting a sense of the size of airports, this one in particular. People laugh at me as I run. The man at Gate 15 laughs at me too, and says "Oh, it already left."

Gasp! What happened next? Stay tuned...