Hi. My name is Lijah. I just moved to Los Angeles from the East Coast, and I am looking for a two bedroom apartment and a person to live in the other bedroom. I am a writer/ns/responsible/clean/college grad/female. If this sounds like something you might be interested in, please take a look at the true/false exam below.
Roommate True or False Exam: Please mark true or false next to each of the statements below. Be honest; you are being actively judged.
1. I smoke.
2. I do drugs.
3. I never do my dishes. Generally I am a messy, messy person. It's gross.
4. I have never used a vacuum willingly.
5. Sometimes I don't feel like paying rent. I have bad credit.
6. I'm not very intelligent. You can tell because I leave the stove on all the time, and sometimes I forget to lock the door.
7. I can get upset easily. I like to ask people, "Are you mad at me?" even though they have no reason to be mad at me.
8. I can tell the difference between genuine Gucci and fake Gucci from a mile away. I care.
9. Music sucks.
10. Except for Enrique Iglesias.
11. Sometimes I like to have deafeningly loud sex parties. (And you will never be invited.)
12. I cannot take a joke.
13. Actually, I am no fun at all.
14. I will never talk to you ever. I am afraid of people.
15. Just kidding. I need to hang out ALL the time.
16. I think homophobia is awesome. Racism is pretty rad too. Recycling is for sissies.
17. I can correctly identify Iraq on a map of the United States.
18. My previous roommate thought I was cursed. May she rest in peace.
Congratulations. You are done with the exam. Please send your answers via email to hous-430139459@craigslist.org. Thanks!
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Cross Country, Day 3. "Spam"
8/25/07
And then Jil and I drive from Chicago, IL to Sioux Falls, SD. We dilly dally in Madison, Wisconsin, a great little college town with wonderful shops and coffee houses. It makes us nostalgic for college, as nearly everything does. F'ing Thai food and trees make me nostalgic for college, but this time the feeling is a little more reasonable. As this is just before school starts, Madison is bustling with new U of M freshmen and parents ready to dole out money as quickly as warm, longing hugs. More nostalgia. Jil buys some Wisconsin cheese, and we sit and eat it and happily observe the Wisconsin-y world around us.
Our next stop is Austin, Minnesota, where we visit the parking lot of the Spam Museum and take pictures (the museum is, alas, already closed for the night, which means we miss out on seeing the towering wall of spam and playing the interactive can-your-own-spam game). Because we are lame, we pass on the fried spam strips available at the adjacent diner and instead order a much safer mac n' cheese, veggie burger combo. Then we get back on the road. This is what we find: Minnesota is flat and rural. There are cows and corn fields. This might be your unverified preconception of Minnesota. You are right.
We get into Sioux Falls around midnight. We would have made better time, but Route 17 is undergoing construction and we have to find an alternate route to our hotel. This is complicated by the fact that when we call the hotel for assistance, the over-eager hotel clerk offers us the entire geological history of the area in lieu of actual, you know, directions. But we get there eventually.
Weighed down by bags and parcels, Jil and I awkwardly make our way to the check in desk and get our room key. We are tired and weary, disheveled, and half asleep. All we want is a bed. Maybe a shower. Perhaps we desire to put down our bags inside our hotel room. Perhaps. Instead, we encounter this same over-eager hotel clerk - a woman who is awe-inspiringly talkative, a sheer mountain of vocal strength and South Dakota knowledge. Or, at least, Sioux Falls knowledge. Or, at least, she has some ideas about how to get around town.
"Did you find it okay?" She asks us. Judy, according to her name tag.
"Yes, thanks," we say.
"Someone else wanted directions yesterday, but I wasn't here when he came in, so I don't know if I gave them correctly."
"Well, we got here fine. So... thanks. Is our room to the left or the right?"
"The truth is, you could have taken route 7 and gone around the construction the other way, you know, through the center of town, but I never know if it'll be a left or a right turn after that. Which is why I suggested taking 23. But you got here fine, so I guess it worked."
"Guess so."
"It's usually just a straight shoot off 1-90 down 17. With the construction it gets a little confusing. I got people calling for directions all the time. But I just never know, you know? Route 7 or 23. Of course there are all those back roads you could take. If you got off by Chucks Chickens and took a right heading you down to that hair place, and then see at that point I don't know if it's a left or a right again. And you know what?" she laughs, "There's that construction going on on the other side too."
We laugh too. Yes, yes. That is funny. Now let us go to bed.
"You know what I did the other day? I went on the computer and I went onto msn.com. And then I looked up all the different highways, and you could see at that point if it was supposed to be a right or a left turn coming from all those different roads. So then if someone called in, I could just ask where they were coming from. But my boss took off the internet from this computer, so now all I have is these maps. Which of course don't show the construction, so that's why I just say take 23."
We shuffle our bags around in our arms and try to inch our way closer to the hallway. "But you got here fine?" Judy asks again.
"Yep."
"Once the construction's gone, you could probably take Joseph directly through to that intersection by the grocery store. That is, if 17's backed up. Then we're just a left and a right and another mile down the road."
"Okay."
Somehow, Judy goes on for another fifteen minutes. She has broken some record somewhere; I am sure of it. Or maybe it is just South Dakota. Maybe we have reached that part of our country that is actually a foreign land.
"That was amazing," says Jil, when we finally break free from the hotel lobby. Judy may have kept us from bed for a whole half hour, but she also just made our night.
---
Last week I was playing Trivial Pursuit when, wouldn't you know it, the following question was asked: "What US city considers itself the Spam Capitol of the world?" Not only did I get it right, I whipped it's ass. Boo yah, Austin, Minnesota. Boo Yah.
And then Jil and I drive from Chicago, IL to Sioux Falls, SD. We dilly dally in Madison, Wisconsin, a great little college town with wonderful shops and coffee houses. It makes us nostalgic for college, as nearly everything does. F'ing Thai food and trees make me nostalgic for college, but this time the feeling is a little more reasonable. As this is just before school starts, Madison is bustling with new U of M freshmen and parents ready to dole out money as quickly as warm, longing hugs. More nostalgia. Jil buys some Wisconsin cheese, and we sit and eat it and happily observe the Wisconsin-y world around us.
Our next stop is Austin, Minnesota, where we visit the parking lot of the Spam Museum and take pictures (the museum is, alas, already closed for the night, which means we miss out on seeing the towering wall of spam and playing the interactive can-your-own-spam game). Because we are lame, we pass on the fried spam strips available at the adjacent diner and instead order a much safer mac n' cheese, veggie burger combo. Then we get back on the road. This is what we find: Minnesota is flat and rural. There are cows and corn fields. This might be your unverified preconception of Minnesota. You are right.
We get into Sioux Falls around midnight. We would have made better time, but Route 17 is undergoing construction and we have to find an alternate route to our hotel. This is complicated by the fact that when we call the hotel for assistance, the over-eager hotel clerk offers us the entire geological history of the area in lieu of actual, you know, directions. But we get there eventually.
Weighed down by bags and parcels, Jil and I awkwardly make our way to the check in desk and get our room key. We are tired and weary, disheveled, and half asleep. All we want is a bed. Maybe a shower. Perhaps we desire to put down our bags inside our hotel room. Perhaps. Instead, we encounter this same over-eager hotel clerk - a woman who is awe-inspiringly talkative, a sheer mountain of vocal strength and South Dakota knowledge. Or, at least, Sioux Falls knowledge. Or, at least, she has some ideas about how to get around town.
"Did you find it okay?" She asks us. Judy, according to her name tag.
"Yes, thanks," we say.
"Someone else wanted directions yesterday, but I wasn't here when he came in, so I don't know if I gave them correctly."
"Well, we got here fine. So... thanks. Is our room to the left or the right?"
"The truth is, you could have taken route 7 and gone around the construction the other way, you know, through the center of town, but I never know if it'll be a left or a right turn after that. Which is why I suggested taking 23. But you got here fine, so I guess it worked."
"Guess so."
"It's usually just a straight shoot off 1-90 down 17. With the construction it gets a little confusing. I got people calling for directions all the time. But I just never know, you know? Route 7 or 23. Of course there are all those back roads you could take. If you got off by Chucks Chickens and took a right heading you down to that hair place, and then see at that point I don't know if it's a left or a right again. And you know what?" she laughs, "There's that construction going on on the other side too."
We laugh too. Yes, yes. That is funny. Now let us go to bed.
"You know what I did the other day? I went on the computer and I went onto msn.com. And then I looked up all the different highways, and you could see at that point if it was supposed to be a right or a left turn coming from all those different roads. So then if someone called in, I could just ask where they were coming from. But my boss took off the internet from this computer, so now all I have is these maps. Which of course don't show the construction, so that's why I just say take 23."
We shuffle our bags around in our arms and try to inch our way closer to the hallway. "But you got here fine?" Judy asks again.
"Yep."
"Once the construction's gone, you could probably take Joseph directly through to that intersection by the grocery store. That is, if 17's backed up. Then we're just a left and a right and another mile down the road."
"Okay."
Somehow, Judy goes on for another fifteen minutes. She has broken some record somewhere; I am sure of it. Or maybe it is just South Dakota. Maybe we have reached that part of our country that is actually a foreign land.
"That was amazing," says Jil, when we finally break free from the hotel lobby. Judy may have kept us from bed for a whole half hour, but she also just made our night.
---
Last week I was playing Trivial Pursuit when, wouldn't you know it, the following question was asked: "What US city considers itself the Spam Capitol of the world?" Not only did I get it right, I whipped it's ass. Boo yah, Austin, Minnesota. Boo Yah.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Cross Country, Day 2. "Two thoughts from Chicago that have nothing to do with Chicago"
1. This Dog.
I took very few pictures in Chicago. Seventy-five percent of them were of this dog.
This dog is the ultimate people-watcher, but he has the best cover ever because he is a dog.
2. My Thesis.
Jil and I were at this wannabe German pub slash sports bar in downtown Chicago, and I was talking to some random friend of a friend’s friend, and the kid actually asked me about my thesis. How we got into a thesis discussion in the middle of a somewhat terrible, fratty bar, I have no idea, except to say that I swear I didn’t start it. In fact, I hesitated to impart the title of my thesis because, frankly, the title alone tells you a great deal more about me than I sometimes care to share within the first five minutes of meeting someone. It’s kind of like saying, “Hey, my name’s Lijah. I’m going to insult your taste in movies and PC your ass all over the pavement.” It’s not my intention, but I guess it’s the effect.
I told him anyway. “Interesting,” he responded. “So, could you unpackage that a little?”
If you’ve ever completed a thesis you know that, like me, your heart’s greatest desire is that someone will actually read the damn thing, besides your advisors, readers, and the department head, who are all mandated to do so. But since it’s not socially “acceptable” or “cool” to carry around your 115 page manifesto and then make people read it, the next best thing is that someone will voluntarily bring it up, and then ask you all sorts of questions about it, and then reinforce your mother’s proclamations that you are an extraordinary genius and generally speaking a gift from God. Your thesis is, after all, the pinnacle of your academic existence, a paper that took not just one whole year, but a lifetime’s worth of maturity, preparation, sweat, blood, and caffeine to complete.
The cool thing about my thesis (that’s right, I said “cool” and “thesis” in the same sentence) is that it’s completely accessible. If you’ve ever seen Wedding Crashers or heard of Will Ferrell, you can pretty much get it. I remember attending my brother’s thesis presentation, which was entitled “New Photochemical Source of Dichlorocarben,” and latching onto the occasional conjunctions and articles – and, but, or, the – as if my life depended on it. These were truly the only words I understood for about fifty inferiority-complex-creating minutes. My thesis (here comes the cool part) isn't like that. Nevertheless, I do accept the 99% full-proof Unwritten Law of the Thesis, which states: Everyone thinks his/her own thesis is brilliant and dynamic and absolutely intriguing, but to everybody else on the planet, it’s… not. (Half because everybody else doesn't get it, and half because it's... not.)
Anyway, this kid asked me lots of wonderful questions, and I reveled in the thrill of it all, until the time came to return the favor. You see, Unwritten Law #2 of the Thesis states: If someone asks you about your thesis, you must act in kind and ask him/her about his/her thesis. While I like to believe my topic's accessibility makes it a fairly decent discussion piece, Random Kid’s English major thesis might as well have been called “New Photochemical Source of Dichlorocarben.” At least then I would have felt better about not understanding anything but the definite articles.
As it was, Random Kid's paper dealt with a certain archaic novel by a certain incomprehensible author. I’m sure that had I known the work/author/context, it would have been quite interesting or at least not completely off-putting when he ultimately concluded, "You see, everything is really death!!!"
Of course, not everyone should write about something everyone else can get. In truth, I applaud his thesis, it's just not something I'd like to TALK about. I mean, if I ever become an author with, like, a book, instead of a silly blog, I think the highest honor would be to discover that some college kid has wasted away his entire senior year trying to figure out why I'd named Jenny Crossfire "Jenny Crossfire," and why I put three doves in the fifth chapter instead of six, and how it all symbolizes the re-emergence of life and the disenchantment of the East with the West, when in reality I'd forgotten there were any doves in chapter five at all.
And that's Chicago.
To be continued....
I took very few pictures in Chicago. Seventy-five percent of them were of this dog.
This dog is the ultimate people-watcher, but he has the best cover ever because he is a dog.
2. My Thesis.
Jil and I were at this wannabe German pub slash sports bar in downtown Chicago, and I was talking to some random friend of a friend’s friend, and the kid actually asked me about my thesis. How we got into a thesis discussion in the middle of a somewhat terrible, fratty bar, I have no idea, except to say that I swear I didn’t start it. In fact, I hesitated to impart the title of my thesis because, frankly, the title alone tells you a great deal more about me than I sometimes care to share within the first five minutes of meeting someone. It’s kind of like saying, “Hey, my name’s Lijah. I’m going to insult your taste in movies and PC your ass all over the pavement.” It’s not my intention, but I guess it’s the effect.
I told him anyway. “Interesting,” he responded. “So, could you unpackage that a little?”
If you’ve ever completed a thesis you know that, like me, your heart’s greatest desire is that someone will actually read the damn thing, besides your advisors, readers, and the department head, who are all mandated to do so. But since it’s not socially “acceptable” or “cool” to carry around your 115 page manifesto and then make people read it, the next best thing is that someone will voluntarily bring it up, and then ask you all sorts of questions about it, and then reinforce your mother’s proclamations that you are an extraordinary genius and generally speaking a gift from God. Your thesis is, after all, the pinnacle of your academic existence, a paper that took not just one whole year, but a lifetime’s worth of maturity, preparation, sweat, blood, and caffeine to complete.
The cool thing about my thesis (that’s right, I said “cool” and “thesis” in the same sentence) is that it’s completely accessible. If you’ve ever seen Wedding Crashers or heard of Will Ferrell, you can pretty much get it. I remember attending my brother’s thesis presentation, which was entitled “New Photochemical Source of Dichlorocarben,” and latching onto the occasional conjunctions and articles – and, but, or, the – as if my life depended on it. These were truly the only words I understood for about fifty inferiority-complex-creating minutes. My thesis (here comes the cool part) isn't like that. Nevertheless, I do accept the 99% full-proof Unwritten Law of the Thesis, which states: Everyone thinks his/her own thesis is brilliant and dynamic and absolutely intriguing, but to everybody else on the planet, it’s… not. (Half because everybody else doesn't get it, and half because it's... not.)
Anyway, this kid asked me lots of wonderful questions, and I reveled in the thrill of it all, until the time came to return the favor. You see, Unwritten Law #2 of the Thesis states: If someone asks you about your thesis, you must act in kind and ask him/her about his/her thesis. While I like to believe my topic's accessibility makes it a fairly decent discussion piece, Random Kid’s English major thesis might as well have been called “New Photochemical Source of Dichlorocarben.” At least then I would have felt better about not understanding anything but the definite articles.
As it was, Random Kid's paper dealt with a certain archaic novel by a certain incomprehensible author. I’m sure that had I known the work/author/context, it would have been quite interesting or at least not completely off-putting when he ultimately concluded, "You see, everything is really death!!!"
Of course, not everyone should write about something everyone else can get. In truth, I applaud his thesis, it's just not something I'd like to TALK about. I mean, if I ever become an author with, like, a book, instead of a silly blog, I think the highest honor would be to discover that some college kid has wasted away his entire senior year trying to figure out why I'd named Jenny Crossfire "Jenny Crossfire," and why I put three doves in the fifth chapter instead of six, and how it all symbolizes the re-emergence of life and the disenchantment of the East with the West, when in reality I'd forgotten there were any doves in chapter five at all.
And that's Chicago.
To be continued....
Monday, September 3, 2007
Cross Country, Day 1. "Traffic"
8/23/07. Today's goal: Connecticut to New York to Cleveland, OH. Before leaving, I must check the air in my tires, buy a pressure gauge, check my email fourteen times, and buy a cooler.
I have some trouble checking the air pressure. We won't discuss the details, but to summarize, it was embarrassing. My father may have been called in a state of panic and quite possibly I accused my mother's pen-shaped pressure gauge of insolence instead of admitting my own incompetency. It was, what one might call, an "episode."
By 12:00 pm I am technically ready to depart. I procrastinate by taking pictures of things like our garden in the backyard and my mother standing on the porch. I don't want to forget that the backyard can look so resplendent or that my mother sometimes stands on the porch. There are only so many things to photograph, however, so eventually, I get into Eloise.
<---(Eloise)
I stock Eloise's side pockets with packets of gum, my cell phone, and anti-bacterial goo. I reset my odometer to zero. Considering I am saying goodbye to everyone and everything I have ever known for some indefinite, but assuredly long, period of time, I am in relatively high spirits; after all, there are snacks, my new cooler is blue and has one sleek silver stripe, and my ipod has been outfitted with a new playlist (that morning, I'd hastilly downloaded a bunch of songs with "California" and "Los Angeles" in the title, including Bob Marley's cover of "Hotel California," Arlo Guthrie at Woodstock, and the theme from The O.C. It is an odd mix.) All in all, life is good. Stereo off, I sing my way to New York City to pick up Jil, my travel companion, because once she is in tow, singing really loudly a cappella will no longer be allowed - unless I wish to be both mortified and cruel. (I don't.)
Someone in a red Subaru cuts me off, then decides to drive window to window watching me rock out to my own original off-key tunes. He is a douche. He points me out to the passengers in his back seat. Awesome.
After successfully crossing the NY-CT border, I confuse I-278 with I-287. New York highways are not kind to dyslexic folks, nor those who have dyslexic moments, nor those who can't read. It's no biggie, however; I still manage to get to East Harlem at the appointed time of 2:30 pm. Jil and I are in the car and officially off an hour later. One hour after that, we have officially moved two miles. I consider this practice for LA. I also consider it a huge pain in the ass. Finally, we are in the clear and driving at a comfortably illegal pace. Then we stop to pee.
Around 2 am, after 5 or 6 pee stops and 2 tanks of gas, we arrive in Cleveland, OH. We are tired. Cleveland has beds, and a nice girl named Tessa who takes us in and feeds us muffins in the morning. We like Cleveland.
To be continued...
I have some trouble checking the air pressure. We won't discuss the details, but to summarize, it was embarrassing. My father may have been called in a state of panic and quite possibly I accused my mother's pen-shaped pressure gauge of insolence instead of admitting my own incompetency. It was, what one might call, an "episode."
By 12:00 pm I am technically ready to depart. I procrastinate by taking pictures of things like our garden in the backyard and my mother standing on the porch. I don't want to forget that the backyard can look so resplendent or that my mother sometimes stands on the porch. There are only so many things to photograph, however, so eventually, I get into Eloise.
<---(Eloise)
I stock Eloise's side pockets with packets of gum, my cell phone, and anti-bacterial goo. I reset my odometer to zero. Considering I am saying goodbye to everyone and everything I have ever known for some indefinite, but assuredly long, period of time, I am in relatively high spirits; after all, there are snacks, my new cooler is blue and has one sleek silver stripe, and my ipod has been outfitted with a new playlist (that morning, I'd hastilly downloaded a bunch of songs with "California" and "Los Angeles" in the title, including Bob Marley's cover of "Hotel California," Arlo Guthrie at Woodstock, and the theme from The O.C. It is an odd mix.) All in all, life is good. Stereo off, I sing my way to New York City to pick up Jil, my travel companion, because once she is in tow, singing really loudly a cappella will no longer be allowed - unless I wish to be both mortified and cruel. (I don't.)
Someone in a red Subaru cuts me off, then decides to drive window to window watching me rock out to my own original off-key tunes. He is a douche. He points me out to the passengers in his back seat. Awesome.
After successfully crossing the NY-CT border, I confuse I-278 with I-287. New York highways are not kind to dyslexic folks, nor those who have dyslexic moments, nor those who can't read. It's no biggie, however; I still manage to get to East Harlem at the appointed time of 2:30 pm. Jil and I are in the car and officially off an hour later. One hour after that, we have officially moved two miles. I consider this practice for LA. I also consider it a huge pain in the ass. Finally, we are in the clear and driving at a comfortably illegal pace. Then we stop to pee.
Around 2 am, after 5 or 6 pee stops and 2 tanks of gas, we arrive in Cleveland, OH. We are tired. Cleveland has beds, and a nice girl named Tessa who takes us in and feeds us muffins in the morning. We like Cleveland.
To be continued...
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