Tuesday, August 23, 2011


This morning a fucking midget pulled me over at 8am while I was on my way to work. He gave me a ticket for a broken tail light.

Cop: License and registration please.

Me: *stunned silence from behind sunglasses*

Cop: Have you sent in your check for your new registration?

Me: (In my head, "Of course I did you fucking asshole. Do I look like a homeless person to you? I see you're judging my Daewoo and all the dents and scratches it has but perhaps you should judge me by my fucking business outfit which I'm wearing because I HAVE A JOB!!!!”) Yep.

Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?

Me: (In my head: "Because your dick is small and you have a thing for little boys despite the fact that you're married and giving tickets to people while they're on their way to work makes you feel like you've gained some semblance of control over your tiny life?") No.

Cop: Your brake light is out.

Me: (In my head: "YOUR brake light is out.") What's a brake light?

Cop: Stay here.

Me: (In my head: "Obviously. Do you think I'm going to make the great escape by speeding off in the bumper to bumper traffic you fucking minion?")

Eventually he came back and gave me a ticket. Naturally, I immediately burst into tears and then pouted until he was done talking. Soooooooopper white girl of me but I was caught off guard and very frustrated.

Turns out I only pull out the big guns when I'm totally inebriated. When I was 18 yrs old, most of my outfits were accessorized with a tie-dyed cast. The cast was the result of a bottle of Jagermeister. The bottle of Jagermeister was the result of my friend Ryan dying. Ryan's death was the result of heroin. Needless to say, it had been a tough year and I was long overdue for a break that did not fall into the leg category. One night, I was casually driving home from a night of debauchery when I noticed cherries in my rear view mirror. I immediately pulled over so that the dutiful police officers could catch the outlaw they were after. Turns out the outlaw was me. I was a mere block away from my parents' house and eager to get home, yet I was inconveniently deterred. These cops were then faced with a drunken teenager with a broken leg and a trunk full of beer. A transcript:

Cop: Have you been drinking.

Me: Of course not, that's illegal.

Cop: Do you mind stepping out of the car?

Me: No problem.

Cop: What happened to your leg?

Me: I'm bad at walking.

Cop: Do you have any alcohol in your car?

Me: Unclear

Cop: Stay here.

(I always regretted not running at this point since I wasn't in handcuffs yet but I probably wouldn't have gotten very far seeing as I was wasted and one-legged.)

Cop: You have beer in your trunk.

Me: Weird.

(I also had a hit of acid in my purse so I sort of felt like I was getting off easy so far.)

Cop: Put your hands behind your back. You're under arrest.

Me: Whoa, whoa. Easy buddy. How about you just give me a warning? My house is literally a block away.

Cop: My wife and kids are driving on these roads.

Me: I assure you your wife and kids are not driving on this block right now. We'd be able to see them.

Cop: Hands behind your back.

Me: Ugh.

When we got to the police station, I was allowed one phone call. I had just turned 18 and was so excited that I didn't have to call my parents. Instead I called my drug dealer friend, Marc. The good news was that Marc was awake. The bad news is that he too had been arrested by these particular cops. My brilliance came when they asked me to take the breathalyzer. When you hang out with drug addicts and alcoholics, you get a lot of awesome advice. My friend Zac once told me never to take the breathalyzer because then they'll never have proof that you were drunk. I fucking nailed that shit. Ultimately, they could never charge me with a D.U.I. If you don't take the breathalyzer, you immediately lose your license for 6 months which was fine with me because that way I could guarantee that I wouldn't drive drunk. Problem. Solved.

When Marc dropped me off at my house that night, I slurked into bed only to be awoken mere hours later by Mimi knocking on my bedroom door.

Mimi: Alison, where's your car? (When she says "your" car she means "her" car because I never actually owned my own car until I moved to L.A.)

Me: I don't know but I think I got a D.U.I.

Mimi was not impressed. This is likely because we had had a very similar conversation a few weeks earlier.

Mimi: Alison, where's your car?

Me: I don't know but I think my leg is broken.

I think I'm being punished for the D.U.I. I maneuvered my way out of 13 years ago. I have been getting a full-on dick up the ass from the L.A.P.D. ever since I moved to Los Angeles. I have a flare for the dramatic and every time I'm faced with anything I find to be unjust, I can't help but wonder...why me? What did I do to deserve this? I work hard. I pay my taxes. I send barrels of water to Ecuador. Why do I keep getting my ass handed to me by Los Angeles' finest? Perhaps it's because I spent my adolescence bitch slapping police officers. I once got pulled over by a Chicago cop who merely stopped me to tell me he'd literally never seen a worse driver in his life. I spent a lot of time drunkenly bumper carring side-mirrors off every car parked on the side streets. I often called the Chicago police in the mornings because I thought my car was stolen, only to find out I had gotten wasted and left it somewhere (at least I wasn't driving drunk!). At the end of the day, I'd say I've had this coming for a while. But your time is almost up L.A.P.D. I'd say my karma circle has just about been completed. I've got my eye on you L.A.P.D. Watch your back. If you cross me again, we both know what will happen...I will silently cry behind sunglasses and then move on with my day. Ugh...I should start drinking again. I was way more macho.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

A Conversation With My Father

Dad: I’m racist now.

Me: Excuse me?

D: Yep. I hate how black people are treated differently.

M: Dad, that’s basically the opposite of racism.

D: No, no, no. I’m telling you. I’m super racist.

M: Ok, give me an example of your racism.

D: I just think everyone should be seen as equal.

M: Right. Not racist.

D: You listen to me! I! Am racist!

M: Dad, I’ve literally never heard you say anything racist.

D: I totally do. Like the other day I heard a black guy yelling at his daughter in public and I told him to stop it.

M: Not racist.

D: But then he told me to mind my own business.

M: Not racist.

D: I think he thought I was racist.

M: But you just said that you are.

D: Exactly.

Saturday, August 6, 2011


You’re probably all thinking that I haven’t posted an entry lately because I don’t know how to use a computer (totally accurate) but it’s also due to the fact that I’m suffering from a serious depression. If you’ve never experienced such a thing, you’re a robot. Either that or you’re totally happy with your life and its surroundings in which case, shame on you. Typically my downward spiral into a deep depression is totally ridiculous and unwarranted. My friend Lauren and I call this state, “Fake Depressed” because at the end of the day, nothing is wrong. It’s typically the result of a heap of white person problems that ultimately overwhelm my pea sized brain.

My most recent depression was precipitated by a dress not fitting. This seems like a fairly quick fix, i.e. stop eating hot dogs for breakfast, however, for me, this plight seemed incredibly overwhelming. I’m a solution oriented person so I chose to check in with a few of my friends about my supposed problem. I then received a hoard of information that I found to be totally useless. If you’re ever talking to a “fake depressed” person, do not remind them about the children in Africa. Do not point out how lucky they are to have legs. Steer clear of helpful suggestions like, “just be glad you have a job right now.”

When in the midst of my fake depressions, I become incredibly unreasonable. There is nothing you could possibly say to make me feel better. I will have a quick rebuttal for all the things you believe I should be grateful for. A few examples:

Children in Africa-“Chances are, they’d fit into this dress. Fuck them.”

My Legs-“If I didn’t have legs, I wouldn’t be forced to drive in soul-crushing traffic everyday. Where do I sign up?”

My Job-“Stop it. I’d give just about anything to not have to enter that God damn torture chamber ever again.”

When in a more reasonable state of mind, I can see how, perhaps, these responses are ill-conceived. As I said, these depressions lead to erratic behaviors that, at the time, seem totally sensible. My solutions to said depressions seem sensible as well, however, much like all my ideas, they only cause more damage.

Solutions for Depression:

Eat Chinese food until you pass out

Immediately sleep with the first person you see

Openly cry while driving on the freeway

Tell your boss what you really think of him

Drink copious amounts of alcohol

Try on pants

After 30 years in the business of trying to fix my life, you’d think I would have realized that my ideas are terrible. Unfortunately, each time I’m faced with a problem, I begin to think I have the perfect fix. One of my friends from high school and I used to get wasted and poke each other with a cattle prod. In retrospect, I think we were really onto something. Sometimes I just need a swift kick in the ass to bring me back to reality. So, in summation, the cure for depression? A cattle prod. You’re welcome. My ideas work.