Baraking and rolling still going strong
8 years ago right now, I had traveled to France for the wedding of a close friend. I was worried , sure , and shocked at the recent election outcome. Who is this George Bush guy? Is he just like his daddy? I mean, can he be THAT bad?
Well, I remember being in a manor in Quimiac France , outside on the lawn in a flower dress, celebrating the day one of my closest friends got marrie.
Could you explain why you voted for that man? We’re all so shocked! He’s already turned down many measures internationally to help the environment!
I swear, I swear I defeneded myself. More importantly, I swore it happened due to corruption and fluke.
I promis you, that man will not get re-elected.
Fast forward 4 years …. FUCK.
I remember my first trip to Toronto for work. A cabbie picked me up with a collegue after a night out at a bar. He was African, and when he learned we were American, he almost wanted to refuse to take us to our destination.
What is it about Bush that made foreigners seem to hate us or feel so puzzled by our decisions? Somehow I felt that despite my actions and my choices, I was somehow lumped in with a segment that felt the enviroment was 2nd par, God only mattered, and spreading “freedom” was the sole purpose of our Nation’s being.
Well now I can call it out. Finally, when I tell them I’m American, there’s someone to be proud of.
That’s right France, I’m coming back for you. Didn’t your president marry a model? Pshhh.
Molestation; Korean style
This past weekend was a treat. As I am graying with age, my gal pal and cohort Marie Lodi got me a treatment and day at the Olympic Korean Day Spa in K-town. Now, as you might have read before, I’ve been to a Japanese Onsen before in my trip to Tokyo last Spring. So here I thought I may have had a leg up on Marie, being experienced to seeing old naked Asian women before. But of course, I wasn’t.
We drove over to Korean town winding up Crenshaw and turning right to get to Olympic, and I figured this experience was going to make me relaxed. I was excited after we valeted the car and were greeted at the reception to frilly smelling products and cases of expensive lotions and shampoos. The hostess asked us if it was our first time, and since it was, decided to give us a brief tour.
“Here is your bracelet with your keys and your number. Don’t leave it behind, the number is important and I’ll explain why in a moment.”
… we walked past the double doors and get entranced with a humid scene of various women in green robes and white towls. Some topless, some more conservative, all with that look of “oh wow… toxins are so gross. I’m glad I come here and sweat it off unlike the common folk” all over their faces.
“This is your shoe locker, and you open it like this”
“You have separate lockers for shoes?”, I asked.
No humor, no laughter. Just a sad stare.
Past the Divinity of Soles, we migrate past the main hub of the spa, where women are all towel-headed turbin style, looking like they may have just puffed some opium the way their dazes wander.
“And here is your regular locker. Remember your number, we will call you by your number for your service, not your name.”
And alas, we get to the pools. One cool, one hot, and one magma level Mugwort pool.And a long line of faucets and plastic stools separated them. Each upon on them, one large or saggy old Korean lady, washing everything, including the oldest of petals amongst her treasures. Oh sweet victory, I was at least skinner than most of them.
“Remember, you have to memorize your number. That’s how you get called.”
And this is where I promised Marie I would not make a reference to Auschwitz on this blog, even though it’s SO obvious.
So we bathed in hot, we bathed in cool, we bathed in Mugworts tea that made me feel like my nipples were ripping off. Then finally, came the scrub and massage. The wonders of feeling like a baby newborn, sort of like the pampering you get between diapers, only more raw, more real, and more corrupted.
Skin came off of me like I was carrot getting prepped for a dinner party. God knows I was in a daze of relaxation. And as Marie swears, it was like the sin in our very bodies was getting washed away with the men of our past.
Needless to say, I feel like I’m younger. And if you ask Hong, the old Korean in black panties and a bra who man-handled me for 90 minutes, I’m very beautiful as well.
my other brother
There was a time when I tried to make this blog non-personal necessarily. I wanted this to be about life and culture, and when the two tend to collide and how it affects people. But the more I continue, the more I realize that that happens almost on a daily basis.
Last weekend I went to Seattle for my step-brother’s wedding. Bill is over 2 years younger than me. I remember going on trips to Lake Tahoe, back when he was”my mom’s boyfriend’s son” and putting him in headlocks making him chant Leyla’s good, Leyla’s great, ra-ra Leyla. Now I saw him in a 2 piece suit walking down an aisle and saying his vows to his bride.
It seems like fall 2008 will be the Leyla Pacific Northwest Tour. After this trip, I’ll be heading to Portland in October, and Vancouver in November. But this trip has been different. I got to meet the people from my step-brother’s life, those who live on Vashon Island, where he grew up. And I realize so much of me screams Los Angeles girl. Like the way I insisted on wearing platform open toed shoes on wet gravel and grass.
One things for sure, my hair is NOT suited for rain and humidity.
Congratulations to Bill and his beautiful Sarah. May you never get jaded like a 29 year Angelina with attachment issues to her dog.
fine wine
I turned 29 last week. And much like any year, it held a little bit of sadness, a lot of pride, and gallons of alcohol. This year, I asked my friends to join me at the Viceroy in Santa Monica. And as I took the time to look around and see the various people who somehow joined my life, I was thankful. Thankful for having awesome friends, family, and way more people than Nancy-What’s-her-hole who was taking up all the chaise furniture around our corner of the pool area.
Here is a recent conversation I had with a friend/client of mine discussion my new age of discovery.
That about sums it up , really.
PICS from the Viceroy…
continents and years
The past few weeks have once again barely spared me any time to write. Well, that’s a lie. I could probably have taken some time to do so, but the brain activity in my few moments of alone time was so low, I thought I wouldn’t bother with forwarded some dumb links and pictures like I normally do when I’m lazy.
Between my one week of SIGGRAPH insanity, and later having a visitor for over a week stay at my place, I think Oliver only saw one version of me - the exhausted one.
And now my life is somewhat back to normal I suppose. But that’s not to say that things won’t get hectic again.
And now, a very short pictoral retrospect of my last month.
SIGGRAPH 2008 - Los Angeles
Houdini Dinner
Drinking on the job (well, at night of course)
Anne-Laure visiting from Paris
definitions
Stupid is:
Taking that last shot, the one Vinny the bartender decided to give us after the 4th round of drinks.
Idiotic is:
Not bothering to eat any of the bread at the table all night long.
Friendship is:
Holding your hand while you wabble to the bathroom.
True Friendship is:
Forcing your wrist down your throat to make the toxins leave “peacefully”.
THANK YOU
touristes moches
And I thought I was the ugly American tourists, turns out the berets and nasal accents are what turn off most people.
According to a recent international survey, the French are now considered the most obnoxious tourists from European nations, behind only Indians and the last-place Chinese as the worst among countries worldwide. And it’s not just the rest of the world that has a gripe with the Gallic attitude: the French also finished second to last among nations ranking the popularity of their own tourists who vacation at home.
And in bigger French news… my good friend Anne-Laure will be visiting me next month!!! She hasn’t been to the States in over 10 years, and recently returned from another work trip to Afghanistan.
Many a broken language conversations will be had. Mostly, I’ll just laugh at her accent and pretend like I remember French. Trips are in order, and taking a break after my week of work at SIGGRAPH this year sounds perfect. In the mode right now to organize a few fun trips to SF, Vegas and hopefully some big trees up north.
[… , the poll finds that the French and Americans are similar in being perceived as critical and rude when they travel — though for different reasons. The same attractions that make France the world’s top destination for 92 million foreign visitors each year, says de Roux, also explain why more than 85% of French citizens vacation in-country — and wind up spoiled by it when they leave. “When they go abroad, French travelers demand the same quality they’d get at home,” de Roux says. “Americans, by contrast, demand the same exceptional service they are used to at home, which is why they rank as the loudest, most inclined to complain and among the least polite.” ]
See AL, we really ARE the same 
the man who texted shark attack
It’s been a rough week, there’s been a lot to do at work. In fact, so much to do that I managed to get a little too into having fun with one of our developers on Thursday night and managed to be a tad hungover all of Friday while we had some client visits.
Friday was a rough day and I still needed to head down south to Redondo Beach to visit the family, and lately I’ve noticed a surge of strange texts in my inbox from my stepdad, Bob.
Friday night at around 8:oo pm:
Leyla
Your Mom and I love. You so much Because you weren,t a juvinual delinquintwhen you were a teen. I hope we were good role models for you. Just forget about the times that we smoked and drank in front of you. were glad you didn’t become a crack Baby.
Love, Bob and Mom
I was hung over, and I came in wanting to just relax on Saturday and hang with my dog and my folks. Then I noticed I had some other texts, this time from my mother.
Leyla,
Bob had a terible accident this morning! A shark attack of all things can you imagine? Anyway he’s @ little co. of Mary room 348 (ICU). Bye the way dinner is off and will reschedule. please don’t call because we’re all at the hospital!!!!
Luv, Mom
I can’t believe that A) Bob managed to purchase my mother and iPhone, yet another thing I will have to endlessly provide tech support for throughout my life and that B) they’ve decided that texting is now the newer, better, more tech savy way of harrassing me.
Let me remind you dear mother and father … you have 200 texts a month only on your plan. Is this really the best way to serve that ? Think about it. What if Bob really did get attacked by a shark? He’ll always be the man who texted shark attack to me.
waiting on parts
Oh man, you have no idea how much I had to think about this post in advance before deciding to commit writing it. You see, I’m worried. I’m worried that somehow, the things I’m about to write will come out looking like some sort of quasi-Sex in the City chick jibber that will scare people off. And the thing is , after all, I don’t mind those type of blogs. In fact, I secretly obsess reading them. But for here, for the context of this space, I need to confine these thoughts to some sort of cultural baring.
Ok, here goes…
My robot heart is broken, but don’t worry, I sent out for a new one. I just broke up. Well, we broke up, you can’t really do it alone. And while I normally NEVER like talking about these types of personal topics on here, I have to mention this for the reason that some of my friends gave me freakishly parallel advice in its outcome.
“Don’t date American, you need someone more like you.”
I hate this idea. I hate the idea that I can’t be a counterpart to any breed, culture, or color. But why is it that I have this sense that there might be some truth to this.
So my French friend told me to date only French or British, my Hispanic friend simply used the term “brown boys”, my mother insisted that I should lean more torwards Europeans or other Middle Easteners, and one of my brothers suggested straight Iranian.
I don’t think we can really judge what our type is. I really got along fantastically with the last boyfriend, and I know he did with me. But things come to an end as life moves forward. However, I do notice I connect on different levels with people of similar heritage.
The irony of course, is that I really can’t stand other Iranians from LA. Note that I said “from LA”, real Iranians are fine. And don’t get me wrong, I do know a few great LA Iranians too, it’s just that the majority of the crowd doesn’t suit my style.
Ok, I’m going to stop over analyzing. I think I just need to date another robot.
PS: Thanks to the incredible group of family and friends I have. You’re so awesomely nurturing, I almost start to think I date to entertain you.
