After a Night Out in FABULOUS Los Feliz, California!

People disgust me.

More and more lately, I try to remind myself that I am one of them-- like, kindred, brethren, etc. But then I do something like drive to the Whole Foods on 3rd and Fairfax for some Wild Root Kombucha and Silk Vanillamazing Iced Soy Milk (you know, to make a Kombucha float, of course), and the whole thing forces me to recall just how disgusting people are. While I'm there, browsing the Kombucha, spinning all the bottles around to get a look at the ingredients, some lady runs her cart into me and asks, "Are you going to get any more of the gluten-free fire-pesto tortellini?" She's holding a tub of cream-free sour cream, shoving it at me, like this thing SHOULD be the gluten-free fire-pesto tortellini except that something has gone really wrong with it, and she's looking at me with a look that tells me she has not mistaken me for her friend or lover but in fact believes I am an employee of the Whole Foods market. It's the entitled look people develop after long periods of unchecked obsessive compulsive ingredient control. It's a look that prefers curry without turmeric.

"hhhh I don't work here," I tell her without apology, and I wonder what kind of idiot she must be to mistake ME for a Whole Foods employee. I mean, I'm wearing my hair in messy braids, a worn old print T, cut-off shorts, cowboy boots, sparkle lavender eyeshadow, and a floppy knit beret to top it off. Does that sound like the kind of thing a Whole Foods grocer would wear?! Where are we? Greenwich Village?! Are they giving away free love at the sample tables now?! Are we all moistening up with essential oil of avocado nuts?! Do I look like I scrub my face with reconstituted hemp soil? NO THANK YOU. I use triple-milled rice husks, for your information, like a decent human being!

Oh, silly me. And we're not even to Los Feliz, yet.

But now we are. We are at Tiger Lily, on a Monday, for a free night of comedy, with free parking oh my god can you fucking believe it. And everyone there is gorgeous. Even the ugly people have perfect skin, probably buffed with avocado nuts, and wear stylish clothing, by which I mean beat up old crap with tight jeans and bulky hardware and Ferragamos to boot. Everyone is healthy and smooth like children who have never worried about consolidation or fertility. Everyone drinks some kind of vodka that is probably not technically vodka, or they drink Pabst, or some beer nobody's heard of. They're all keeping an ear out for their next MySpace motto.

The comics hit and miss. The first one calls me on stage for something that's supposed to be funny and I am accidentally just a teeny bit funnier than her bit. There are too many of these comic folk, and I am trapped at a table up front in the spotlight for two hours. There are shit-talky jokes about fat, black, female, rape, etc., and I suspect these could elicit a titter only here, only here in fabulous Los Feliz, only in the young fashionable mostly white not quite working class, where everyone understands the superlative importance of probiotic strains and protein to carb ratios.

And as for sweet little old me, I sat there sipping my Tiger beer, wearing a modest vintage geometric print sweater and some victorian-future red boots, yawning at the unfunny, and musing about my next blog entry, like a perfectly decent human being.