Just My Luck!

Okay last week I had this wildly unique experience of being a part of an event that touched my heart. Director Julian Temple is making a documentary on Joe Strummer (who you may or may not know was very important to me). My gal pal was being interviewed for the piece and asked me to join her for a campfire chat/party. It was very special.

The “set” was peppered with Joe-style furniture; an oversized comfy-chair accented with cowboy pin striping, an eclectic collection of mod-meets-mexi thrift chairs, a ratskeller-esque couch and a few TVs with the fronts smashed out (I guess it’s punk and does not show the lighting).

Around this array of kitchi-kool hang-out furniture was Joe’s 1950’s Cadillac, a row of waving multi national flags, and a stunning shiny chrome Airstream camper. The centerpiece was a “roaring fire,” Hollywood style. That is, a propane gas fed psuedo campfire complete with faux woodlike logs set in a perfect circumfrence. where Joe’s family and friends laughed rememered and met for smile, as Temple taped and did selected one on one’s. This whole surreal serene spot was atop Griffith Park in a private heliport area (rentable to film crews) that overlooked the whole city of Los Angeles down to the ocean – a spectacular view I hadn’t even known existed.

This was a magical night. ‘Cept one snafu.

I am – and have always been - a sweet blooded buffet to the insects of the night. I’m the one you want in the group so the rest are safe from these parasites. As this was a protected area you could not drink, smoke or WEAR INSECT REPELENT. No eco-system finagling allowed. So, naturally I was being eaten alive once the sun set. And the sun had set itself fast, tucked in tight, and put a do-not-disturb sign across its dark horizon. I was getting miserable. I refused to give in to weeakness coming on from the depletion of vital fluids and sat trying to smile as if I had that extra quart-o blood still happily pumping through my chilled carcass. I was there for four hours…

So, shoot ahead a week…


I am at my new fancy Yoga class. It’s a non-schmoozy venue filled with really nice people – in other words…not the pseudo riche that speed through Yoga trying to suck in the peace and good karma like the class is a spiritual ATM and because they heard it’s very “in” to stretch and contort. Then post “ohms,” immediately reboot the cell phone, jump into the Hummer, and hook up the coffee IV. No. My place is truly relaxed, low key and not even a patchouli wearer in sight.

I wear big girl sweat pants and a Steven Segal sized tee. This paticular eve my hair was in my signature pre-shower Grinch twist and I skipped the mirror check en route to the front door figuring, “It’ll be the same middle-aged folks and me – I aint there to impress anyone.”

Now, my legs were bitten raw and welts had replaced mini-bites. The itching ceased, but my legs looked as if I had some sort of tropical rash or worse an S.T.D.. Getting the picture?

Naturally - what walks in the door of the place? A mansteak who looks as if he is some sort of experimental love child of Javier Bardem and Benicio del Toro from the Island of Dr. Moreau. And this slabo man heroin had the good sections of each. I immediately take notice. Then it, err, he speaks as expected – or wished for – in an Antonio Banderas-ish drawl. Oh no – the smit bug was hovering! This buck was the carbon-based definition of MY TYPE.

So I immediately ignore him and avoid eye contact of any kind while shuffling to the other side of the mat. These ploys are my signature way of showing I’m absolutely smitten.

He plops right next to me and says something like, "Hello" or "Hi," – I couldn’t hear through my heartbeat-in-the-brain that immediately started when he was within a foot of me.

I manage to some how seem semi-sane and get through the ordeal. But not before an embarrassment – topping the day my booby burst free exposing a breast LIVE at the 73rd Annual Oscars on the red carpet. I digress (cue cartoony memory waves and harp sounds)I bent over in my fancy schmancy gown, instantly broke the spaghetti string strap as one of the twins danced out doing a Jimmy Durante impersonation. Nervous PR reps wondered if I’d popped the boob out on purpose for publicity and began rushing their celebs from the paparazzo’s flashing frenzy. I didn’t, it was simply a bending in Gucci gone wrong.

Back to last week’s trauma and soon to be mental scarring.

I am feeling his eyes all over me. I was mixed with joy and shyness as the instructor asked us to, “Position 4,” our bodies. That is an ultra unflattering movement that involves hoisting your ass over your head and your legs up to the sky. As I do this, however, the big over size sweat pants I am sporting betray me and slide down toward my shins – uncovering my three-day-old mosquito welts. Welts that have aged to the point of puffy blistering syphilis-like craters. I just wanted to roll into position 12, “The Fetus,” and die.

By the end of the class some how the handsome chap had maneuvered to the front of the class, directly opposite of my area, and struck up a conversation with the mini-waisted big-breasted model with the cell phone clipped to her spandex. I couldn’t blame him.

“Why is god so cruel?” I begged silently towards the sky.

Then I heard it my answer – this man was asking the yogi master if he could LITERALLY sleep in the back as he was being evicted. Ah yes. Of course! This hunk was a Hoser. And I was saved and protected from myself by my guardian angel who has promised me NO MORE LOSERS - and looks like Nic Cage in my imagination. See, he was there because even though I know in my heart I always attract these creatins, and I obviously have not perfected my invention of sunglasses that probe into the inner-pre-scan-loser-spotting ray section of the brain, (aka The Dickhead Detectors - the prototype can be found in the BluntReview.com store), my clever the angel - who obviously has a sense of humor - chose a somewhat cruel, yet effective, turn of events to assure my safe escape from another doomed relationship, and provide a great Martini hour tale en route post experience. Brilliant actually.

I walked a little lighter towards my car. But just in case, still wary of my new found power-of-loser-resistance, I quickly switched the music in the car from a world beat mix to an anarchistic rebel yell of defiance via the “London Calling” cd.
This odd point was needed - beleive me. The seemingly unintentional musical switch was actually a proud salute to my Guardian Angel’s guiding protection, as I knew the wickedly handsome beau was right next to me – basically lurking – or perhaps perusing the alley for proper element coverage for the evening - and if he heard the world beat of the current musical selection he would have a perfect excuse to talk to me next week – I was not giving him that psychological edge. I am just not that strong…yet.

Self-sabotage or self-preservation?

Hmm.

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