The skies are charcoal gray

It's a dreary downtown day. Gold stars for the cool kids who know where that's from.

The rain in LA has gotten a little out of control, and I like the rain. I'm not one of these Angelinos that gets ferociously pissed when it rains, like God is spitting on me from the heavens and going "neener neener neener, you got wee-eet." And boy, do people get pissed. After all, this is a town not only filled with people who moved here because they are weather wimps who can no longer stand a bone-chilling breeze below 65 degrees, but it's also filled with the people who expect things to happen a certain way by a certain time or there's hell to pay. You know the ones. "What do you mean I can't get McGriddles after 10:30? Don't you know who I am? Get me a manager!"

So when it rains, and it's miserable, and they can't control it and they can't even fire their assistants over it... What can I say, the mere thought just makes me kind of happy. 'Cause I'm mean like that.

I like the rain. It's the only time this town smells a notch better than BO with a side of urine, pollution and ASS, and it's the only thing that can cut through the heavy brown cloud of pollution that lays over this city like stinky blanket.

Driving in the rain bites, however. The drivers suck and the roads are worse. My car was actually swallowed whole by a pothole this morning. I'm pretty sure I saw Jimmy Hoffa in the swirling abyss that was the puddle on 3rd Ave before it relinquished its watery grip and spit me back on the road, my poor tires much worse for the wear.

I don't have much else to add today. What can I say, the creative well has run dry. There's a little boy trapped at the bottom and Lassie traded in her heroism for heroin, and damn. That's just sad.

Speaking of heroin, I have discovered that I am extremely naive when it comes to drug use in Los Angeles. Case in point: I went to a party on Saturday night, hung out with some of my favorite people in this town, and made nice with other guests at the party. The next day I was chatting on the phone with one of my favorite people, breaking down the evening and dishing the dirt--"Did you hear?" "Well, I never!" (except more cunty)--I mentioned that I'd made friends with this guy. Let's call him Chewbacca.
Me: "Yeah, I was chatting with Chewbacca and he seemed pretty nice. We were thinking of getting together to play poker sometime."
Her: "Except that probably won't happen. He's a flake and a total fuckwit."
Me: "Really? But he seemed pretty nice."
Her: "Yeah. He's actually a dick and a cokehead. I make it a point not to hang out with him."
Me: "No shit."
Her: "Oh yeah. And the first time I ever met him, he threw up in his hands."
Me: "Ew!"

Sometimes I feel like I may as well have shown up to this town in a blue & white checkered dress with blonde pigtails and the belief that the greasy fat man at the bus station really did want to make me a star, for all the savvy I have. As long as it remains refreshing and not at all dumb and annoying, however, I think I'm fine to leave that savvy where it is. Plus, I didn't have to witness someone barfing into their hands to earn it and, baby, that is fine with me.