Hearing politics getting thrown around during this fire is tired. I’ve heard Rick Caruso, Patrick Soon-Chiang, Karen Bass, Gavin Newsom, Donald Trump all play the blame game. As irritating as it is, it’s not the thing that is pissing me off the most right now.
While we all know the answer to this question, I don’t hear this being voiced at all: WHY THE FUCK DO WE HAVE TO CROWDFUND SOMEONE’S RECOVERY? Between someone’s house being destroyed to someone needing medical help to, it’s a reflex to expect a crowdfunding request on social media. Shouldn’t the insurance that we pay into cover these things?
All of our institutions are failing us here in the United States. If anything bad happens to us that is out of the ordinary, we now have to resort to being beggars in order to survive. As much as you can play by the rules, these rules are just arbitrary and can change at will to ensure the haves get to get more.
I’ll be getting back into the office tomorrow, so it will be interesting to see how things look from Arcadia.
Well fuck man. That’s about all I can say after the last several days. Absorbing all the information, looking at fire maps, seeing the videos, hearing the stories, listening to the blame game. I’m numb.
We were told a life-threatening wind event was going to happen beginning Tuesday afternoon. I knew this, and I think a lot of folks knew the winds were going to be bad. We’ve all lived through bad wind events. Seeing the Palisades Fire sparking up that day at work was bad but wasn’t a surprise. But fuck man. We never expected it to be this bad.
By the time I got home Tuesday evening, the Eaton Fire had already started out in Altadena. But without the aerial visuals on the news due to helicopters being grounded because of the winds, I tuned out for most of the evening. When I caught up with the news as I was going to bed Tuesday night, I saw that the evacuation warning zone for the Eaton Fire stretched all the way out to Arcadia — my office was a mile away from it. Fuck. I get in contact with other accounting managers and decide that we will be working from home. It became a scramble to get a hold of everyone to let them know not to go into the office.
This is the closest I’ve ever had any wildfire come to affecting me, and really this was nothing compared to what others are suffering through. As I’m sitting here in my Downtown LA apartment, I keep thinking about just how bad this has been. Fast-spreading wildfires and Santa Ana winds are nothing new to the Southland. I remember 1993, 2007, 2008, 2011. They were awful, and I was riveted to the news coverage, but they didn’t freak me out like this.
Actually the only other fire that really freaked me out was the Thomas Fire in 2017. Just like the Eaton Fire, this fire didn’t just stay up in the hills of Ventura and Santa Barbara counties. The fire actually came down into the neighborhoods and burned houses. Not rich folks homes. Normal working class homes that were nowhere near brush or the hills. And seeing the homes torched in Altadena and Pasadena fucked me up.
Anyhow, those were some thoughts I had about these fires. The winds are supposed to pick up again in a couple of days, so let’s see what happens.
As I talked about in my thoughts after Berlin, I told myself I would get out of the house more often. Now is as good a time to start.
I wanted to see Queer before it left theaters and saw that it was playing in the former Laemmle Sunset 5 theaters on Sunset and Crescent Heights in West Hollywood. Fuck. The time and money I wasted at that fucking Virgin Megastore during the early 2000s was obscene. It is a wonder that they went out of business. The only tenant that has remained is the Crunch Fitness on the second floor which is where Madd and I ran into Renee Zellweger in the elevator all those years ago. And it was in those Laemmle theaters where I cussed out Drew Carey for talking too loudly during a movie — I believe it was during a sold-out screening for Bowling for Columbine. And running into Adam Duritz from Counting Crows in that Virgin Megastore and that Vietnamese dude that never aged from 21 Jumpstreet.
Buzz Coffee became a generic Starbucks; there is now an urgent care and a Trader Joes; the Laemmle is now a Landmark after being independent for a few years; and in the place of Virgin is now an AT&T and CB2 store. So yeah, it’s fair to say the vibe has changed.
As for the film, I don’t know how much I liked it. I think I have to re-read the book then re-watch it to make a final judgement. On the surface level I liked it, although there was something too romantic, too clingy with Bill Lee. Maybe it’s my projection of William Burroughs and his complete degeneracy, but I expected it to be more lurid and less linear. There was a gorgeous jungle scene with a choreographed moment of bodies melding into one another. I also appreciated that they used Nirvana songs anachronistically since Kurt and Burroughs did have a friendship.
I did use public transit to get there. Part of the ride involved using the B line which is the subway. The last time I used the subway about a year ago, the car reeked of shit, piss and pot (and probably other fluids.) This time, it was mostly odor-free I am happy to report.
I took the opportunity to go to the In-N-Out in Hollywood since I don’t live anywhere near one here in Downtown. You can never go wrong with a double-double animal style with fries and a 7-Up.
And if that wasn’t enough, I decided to go all out and got French toast and bacon at Blu Jam Cafe this morning.
I had a thought of going to Grand Park for the NYE festivities. It was a passing thought, a moment of psychosis really. It wasn’t going to be particularly cold, and there was going to be no rain. And as opposed to being at the first one in 2016, I live a few blocks away rather than having to get in from San Pedro. But I got ahold of my senses pretty quickly.
The annoying thing about living at this point in the evolution of technology is that there is always a considerable delay when you rely on a streaming service for television. So there I am on my couch hearing people in the bars on my block hoot and holler and light fireworks while the fucking ball in Times Square hasn’t even fucking started its decent on my television. (I was stupid enough and missed it happening live at 9 pm here, so I had to watch the tape delay version. If I had watched the live version, I could have just ignored it, but I’m gay so I need to see descended balls.)
With the fireworks going off, my cats predictably got spooked and ran underneath my bed. So happy 2025.
I’m writing this in the morning, so I will soon be off to my uncle’s in San Pedro to get the obligatory 떡국. It will be nice to see the family since I was in Berlin for our Thanksgiving gathering.
We’re halfway through this decade, so let’s see how things go.
I wanted to move to Downtown LA so I could utilize public transit more often, but the day I moved to my apartment the city announced it would shut down for COVID the next day. And just like that, we were shut down. Although everything has gone back to normal, I continued to drive drive drive mostly because it took less time than public transit. So I’d drive to the various markets I go to.
One of the things I noticed while I was in Berlin was the myth that public transit there was faster than it is here in LA. While that marginally might be the case, it’s not necessarily significant. It would regularly take me 40 minutes to get to anywhere not including the walking that had to be done. I resolved to take more public transport here in LA despite its imperfections.
Yesterday I needed to go to Hannam Chain Market in Koreatown on Olympic and Berendo, so I took the 28 that picks up near my apartment on 6th and Spring. I had music in my ears and a book to read, so I really tuned out my surroundings. I looked up and realized oh shit, we’re already there. In just 15 minutes we were there!
There has been a lot of talk about how unsafe Metro is, but on a Saturday late morning, a bus from Downtown through the Pico-Union district to Koreatown was uneventful. The worst thing about it were the fucking dots on the window:
Is there anything worse than dots on a transit window? Fucking ads.
There were two other annoying things that I noted:
People who don’t use headphones – I don’t want to hear your shitty music, your shitty video, your shitty phone conversations. I really hope you lose your hearing.
People who smoke pot in public – I get it. Pot is legal in California. Hooray. But that doesn’t mean you must smoke your shitty ass skunk weed wherever you damn well please. I still have PTSD from the time this really stoned motherfucker came over, and I had the worst sex ever. Just one whiff of pot makes me relive this experience.
This is probably why I hate leaving the house. But, to be honest, the dots were the worst.
Regardless of these quibbles, it was a completely pleasant experience. I didn’t have to stress about dumb ass motherfuckers who don’t know how to drive in Downtown. I didn’t have to worry about drivers who for whatever reason refuse to even come close to driving the speed limit. I just sat my ass in a seat, wait 15 minutes, and voila!
When thinking back on this year, I totally forgot about the eclipse back in April. It’s amazing how even though time seems to accelerate as we get older, April seems like a lifetime ago. Then again, time is an illusion.
But I remember driving out to Poplar Bluff, MO to see the eclipse and luxuriating in the four minutes of totality. Seeing the eclipse in 2017 in Newport, OR was a bit of an appetizer in comparison since totality was less than a minute where we were at. As great as it was to see the eclipse again, planning was such a bitch because of forecasted storms and cloud cover. I originally was going to go to Dallas, but the threat of storms forced me to be very flexible.
I also got my rental car stuck in the mud when I parked for the eclipse. But that was such a minor thing compared to the thrill of seeing the eclipse.
I am also grateful to work at a place that not only pays me properly but also has a good vacation policy since I was able to take this trip and a nearly-three-week vacation to Berlin recently. Fuck Disney.
I didn’t read as many books as I wanted to, only nine this year. But I did finish Roberto Bolaño’s 2666. Hopefully I improve on that next year.
Here are some songs I liked this year. I really don’t understand the appeal of pop music, so while everyone gagged over Charli XCX, Taylor Swift, Chappell Roan or whatever pop thing came out, I just ignored it. To be honest, I probably listened more to NIN more than anything else.
But all in all it was an okay year. Dull, sure. But hopefully I make changes to that in 25.
Today is Christmas. It’s weird because my family doesn’t gather for Christmas — we do Thanksgiving and New Years. And as an atheist, the day doesn’t hold anything significant for me. It’s a day off where most everything is closed, a more dull Saturday. And since I’m not a child, there are no presents. So yeah. Happy Christmas? Sure. Whatever.
So to close out my adventures in Berlin, one thing I am awful at is buying tchotchkes during my travels. I don’t really frequent touristy areas, and if I do it’s a quick hit-and-run just to say that I’ve been there. I have to make a very conscious decision to buy that refrigerator magnet or coffee mug or other useless space vulture. I guess my tattoos were one way I could get a memento of this Berlin trip. But I did want something more tangible, something I could use.
“Every fag needs to have a ‘fag’ tattoo,” my tattoo artist Hannes told me during our consultation. Truer words were never spoken.
Growing up I never really experienced overt gay bashing. During junior high school, I do remember people telling me that people were murmuring behind my back. But no one ever confronted me. It wasn’t until college in UCSB where one drunk asshole came up to me and called me a faggot. I kneed him in the chest and left him reeling on the ground. I never was a victim. I never appreciated the gay narrative out there that we were all victims, and I never appreciated it when the gay community embraced this narrative.
So that gives some insight as to why I wanted to get a “fag” tattoo.
Actually what ha-happened was…
Once I settled on coming to Berlin for my vacation, I knew I wanted to get a tattoo while I was there. As I looked for tattoo artists, I had a difficult time connecting to one whose art I would want on my body permanently. They were nice, but I wanted something with edge. And then I found Hannes on the studio’s website. Which, AKA Studios, was founded by a performance artist (RIP JJ). How fucking hot.
Then looking at Hanne’s Insta and website, I knew I found him. Seriously, scrolling through his flash sheet on his site, major fucking hardon.
While I originally intended for just one tattoo, I couldn’t make up my mind. So two tattoos it was.
We had a consultation two days after I landed in Berlin, still jetlagged as hell, but I knew I made the right decision when I saw his bookshelf:
Fuck me.
I decided for a black sun (Coil version) on my left forearm below my Z? tattoo and “fag” on right bicep. While yes, I do want to want to be confrontational, I still have to be a bit professional being an office worker. Although I did flirt with tattooing it on my hand, a rare bout of common sense prevailed. The next week after three hours, here are the final products:
And yes, I’m pinned on Hannes’s Insta page! (I would have just embedded that image, but it wouldn’t center and looked awful when I tried.)
So there it is. As you can tell, it’s still in the process of healing — moisturize, moisturize, moisturize. And my apologies to the Stayery Aparthotel in Friedrichschain where some of the black-inked plasma seeped out from the second skin onto the bedding. But I’m happy as all hell with it.
With this Berlin trip coming at the end of the year, it really came at a good time for self-reflection. Having made 45 revolutions around the sun, I’ve noticed the last ten or so have been really stagnant. Wake up, go to work, come back home, eat dinner, watch television, sleep, repeat. There might be some moments of disruption from this routine, but otherwise it’s the same mind-numbing thing.
One thing that I’ve known for a while but was made really clear while in Berlin was that I hate leaving the house. I’m not afraid of being outside and running into people – I would just rather not. Just let me sit and stare at the wall, I’m perfectly content to be empty.
Although I do like to think of myself of having been wild and fun in my 20s, I do remember moments of utter boredom and ennui. Instead of doing something about it, I just wallowed in it. Now it’s not about boredom or ennui – it just is a state of being.
It’s no wonder that one of my regrets was not moving to Berlin in my 20s – I’ve always been this way.
So this is something to work on.
I’m not saying that I just stayed indoors during the 2 ½ weeks in Berlin.
The first week I rented an apartment in Yorckstraße in Schöneberg and an aparthotel in Friedrichshain in the second week. While both places and neighborhoods were lovely, I really preferred being in Friedrichshain. Maybe because I was close to Lab.oratory and Berghain?
I went to a performance of programmed pipe organs at the Kaiser Wilhem Memorial Church. The first performer sampled organs and other sounds which ended up sounding like something Coil or Whitehouse would make. The second performer was up at the pipe organ that was programmed which ended up sounding as if JS Bach made techno. It was very interesting.
The pipe organ at Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche
To satisfy my Michelin-starred restaurant itch, I ate at Tim Raue, a two-star restaurant right near Checkpoint Charlie. I spent way too much, but I was there for 3 ½ hours.
The tasting menu at Tim Raue.
I went to Warsaw for a night for one reason alone: to see the works of Frederic Chopin performed live. As a pianist I fucking love Chopin, but because most of his works were only for piano they don’t get performed in these grand philharmonic halls and palaces. It’s basically salon music. So I went to a salon and saw a performance. I intentionally went and saw one that included the Ballade No. 1 in G minor. Just to prove what a simpering faggot I am, there I was crying like a fool right before the coda. Well, I also cried during the Heroic Polonaise. Who am I kidding? I was basically crying the whole hour.
The piano at the Fryderyk Concert Hall in Warsaw.
This was the most cashless I have seen Berlin. The only time I needed cash was for my tattoo artist. I was shocked since Berlin has historically been paranoid about privacy for obvious reasons, so they stuck with cash all these years. But man, the pandemic sure did a number on the city.
People really like their furniture close to the ground here in Berlin. I don’t know if this is a worldwide trend, but I really felt my knees were too close to my face when sitting on the couches. And they don’t like arms on couches so reclining to the side was just a fucking pain.
If anything says Christmas in Berlin, it’s this outdoor display at the Dark Matter museum.
I had a great time. After a week of being back in Los Angeles and going through my normal routine, I do miss Berlin. Perhaps next time I should go when it’s actually warm out?
Yes, Berlin has a hold on me. I’m going to be spending 2 1/2 weeks in the city. Why so long, and why only Berlin?
One of my biggest regrets is I never moved there in my 20s. I feel like I’m past my so-called prime becoming an immigrant in my mid-40s. I’m a lot more inflexible in my needs and wants now than I was a couple of decades ago, so the thought of picking up and leaving where uncertainty teems doesn’t quite have the appeal now. But to give myself a taste of what could have been, I decided to rent an apartment for a couple of weeks to give me a sort of immersive experience. (Actually because of my indecision, I decided to rent a different apartment for each week and cap the last few days with a hotel stay.)
The less said about the flights in, the better. One of the irritating things about Berlin (of which there are many) is that there are no direct flights from the west coast of the US to this capital city. I opted again for Aer Lingus because it’s cheaper, their long-haul flights have 2-4-2 seating and it connects in Dublin which is one of the few airports that has US immigration in its airport. But unless you’re flying in business class or better, discomfort is the name of the game no matter which carrier you choose.
In the nine hours from LA to Dublin, I got almost no sleep. However, I did watch The Craft, Horrible Bosses and 2001: A Space Odyssey. On the flight to Berlin, I was blessed with no one in the middle seat – a free Euro-style business class for two hours! I knocked out for most of the flight, feeling more comfortable here than in the prior 9 hours.
When I landed in Berlin, the immigration agent asked me how many times I had been in Berlin. “Around three times,” I responded. She smiled. “Oh?” “I really do love Berlin.” I don’t know if I really love Berlin, but there is a magnetism I feel to this city. Maybe it’s knowing about everything created in this city from Christopher Isherwood to David Bowie to Iggy Pop, the mythology of a city that resurrects itself over and over again. Or knowing that a lot of artists from the late 90s to early 00s fled NY and LA for the cheaper living here in Berlin.
Sitting in the S9 going to my first apartment, I realized that being in Berlin allows me to be a different version of myself. I’m not in the familiar rut of life at home were I to have just taken 2 1/2 weeks of staycation. I’m interacting more with the world and trying to discover things. Whereas in LA, I’ve been there done that. New things might pop up in the city, but there are no real mysteries to the city. So I just stay in a constant state of dazed apathy hardly able to do anything above subsisting.
On the S-Bahn from the airport.
One thing that did greet me upon stepping inside the S-bahn train: a homeless guy passed out in the seats and the car reeking of stale alcohol. I’m glad to know that I can never fully escape the problems of LA. But I was never under the impression that Berlin was a pristine, glitzy nirvana, and I sure as hell to hope that I don’t give off that impression to people when I describe the city.
