Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Today I had a strange and morbid thought.

Babies are usually bald and as they grow, so does their hair.  A person with long hair has been growing it out for a long time; you can tell how long by the length.

What if it worked in reverse?

What if you were born with a full head of hair and it grew inwards very slowly, and you could tell how long a person would live by the length of their hair?

"We don't care if it's a boy or girl, as long as it's got hair!" they'd joke.

If a baby were born with very long hair, everyone would congratulate the parents and pat them on the back, but if a baby was born with very short hair or none at all...

"Jim had a baby last week," one coworker would murmur to another by the water cooler, "Didn't have any hair."

"Oh, poor Jim," they'd say sympathetically.  "I'll have my wife bring them over a casserole... that must be so hard."

"Give his wife my condelences," says the first co-worker.

"Of course.  God, I can't even imagine.  All my children had hair down to their knees."

Weird, I know, but I felt like this was a cool idea.  Someone ought to make a flash animation or a short story about this.  (Not it!)

Day-to-Day in Sunny L.A.

Not updating your blog is a bit of a vicious cycle... you don't want to, but the longer you leave it, the more you have to say, and a more daunting task it is.

The way to break the cycle is through Resolve, which is a type of wine.

"I'M SO MOTIVATED!"

Happily, I can't say I have too too much to say. The last month has been a whole lot of just living in Los Angeles, a place where the air shimmers like fool's gold and smells like fried chicken. A place like that is easy to live in, as long as you don't take it too seriously. This is probably why everyone buys such tiny, ridiculous dogs.  Not that I should talk; we have a rabbit.

And there's a guy who shops at Ralph's who has a parrot named Taco.  Cause, you know, Los Angeles.

Undaunted by this city's eccentricities, I've been taking care of business lately; since my work insurance has taken effect, I've set up optometry, dentist, and ob/gyn appointments, which is probably more than you wanted to know. Today I got new glasses! 

"Please, no photography." 
Funny incidental story: Went to a bar, ordered food.  Accidentally took the delivery guy's pen.  Ran out of the bar to return it and was ushered back in by the bouncer, who I'd met earlier this evening.  Got asked by someone in line for the bar what I'd "been in."  In Los Angeles, it's more likely that you're famous than simply nice.

Fernando continues to be a bit of a prick. Truth be told I think he might have Intermittant Explosive Disorder, because he's a nice guy, generally, but when he gets mad, there's no real control; he's just really reactive, over every little thing. If the dog gets out, he goes berserk. Never mind that it was an accident; he's going to come over, yelling his head off, threatening us, et cetera. This puts us in a bad position: do we beat up a crazy old man with a heart condition or let him flail at us while we shrug comically to each other and wait for the laugh track to play? So far, I always manage to talk him down, and in a way, it's nice for me (the reactive one) to be challenged to be put in that position while Andrew (the pacifist) gets provoked. Still, we've discussed moving, because we shouldn't have to worry about being yelled at every month. There doesn't seem to be anything we can do to appease him and I think the real reason he dislikes us is for three factors we can't control: we're young, and we're white, and we have dogs. (He's a cat person.)

Never have an Otherkin neighbour... they hate it when you throw parties on weekends.

Other than Fernando, my commitment to a drama-free life is panning out well. Jenny has decided to butt out forever, and while I feel guilty that Andrew's lost a friend, I'm also aware that it was not my decision, or his, but hers. I haven't hung out with Brandon since he went Full Fernando on me, which is alright, as I've been socialising a lot at work and also have made a new friend, Ted. I met Ted online and he's 1) not a serial killer, 2) also recently relocated and looking for friends, 3) clever and quippy, and 4) strongly opinionated on comic books.

You might say he makes a lot of boners.

Aside from that I've been doing a fair share of socialising at home.

...by getting screamed at by Fernando.

Jack and I are doing well though I'm worried our relationship hasn't quite been repaired since our fight. This is exacerbated by the fact that Jack hangs out with Brandon a lot and I just can't respect Brandon anymore. He is not part of my new drama-free life. Andrew and I, however, are doing better than ever. Andrew's a great person to emulate if you're going for low drama because he's so good at being positive. Speaking of J&A, the twins' birthday was last month and I took them out to Medieval Times.

And for my birthday, Jack got me Whipped Lightning.

He couldn't resist doing a "Blue Steel" look for the camera.

So if you've never been to Medieval Times in Los Angeles, go, because their princess (“Catalina”) has an inexplicable valley girl accent so thick it could be cut like butter if butter weren't so super, like, awful for your butt. “Catalina” was matched only by the Black Knight, who was like, dude, totally not cool, man. 

The three of us also went camping last weekend in Cooper's Canyon, just outside of Pasadena. Cooper's Canyon is a picturesque place of boulders, sands, soaring pines, and a sky so blue you wish you could drink it. 

I much prefer hanging out with just them (and sometimes Ted) than others. We went to a pool party last month, for example, with one of Jack's friends, Anita, and it was dreadful. All of them were strangely immature, even the 40-yr-old guy who was dressed like a pirate but also in a kilt (a Scottish pirate?) and thought it was okay to hang out with all of the kids in their shitty apartment where the main decoration on the walls were anime posters. It was... bafflingly. It was something of a reminder that Jack,while the same age as Andrew, is so much more immature than him and at a different (lower) level in this video game we call life. Personally I'm getting comfortable with being an adult and balancing my chequebook and going to bed early and figuring out what my mortgage will be when I buy a house, and I'm less and less willing to hang out with people who are not at that level.

"That Level" here refers to a bar in Los Angeles.

But seriously, example: 16-yr-olds. Andrew's cousin (Heather) and her best friend (Dylan) came and stayed with us last month, and while they were alright, I couldn't get over the idea that their mother had sent them across the country alone for a mini-vacation. They weren't particularly great guests: didn't offer to help with dishes, didn't offer to pay for dinner when we went out, left an ENORMOUS mess when they left.

The kind of mess normally only made when yuppie assholes who are texting while driving slam their SUVs into fire hydrants.  In Los Angeles, the nicer the car, the more of a danger the driver is.  This happened last month, about six blocks over.  This month, all the fire hydrants are okay, although someone got shot on my block two days ago and the crime scene investigation was phenomenally involved.  Lots of cops and yellow tape and all that, just like on telly!  The coroner was wearing brown slacks with a grey suit, indicting that he either dressed poorly because he works with dead people, or vice versa, or perhaps is actually super scared of death and constantly requires brown pants.  

 

Having people visiting was hard because of my social anxiety, compounded by the fact that after working a 10-hr. day I don't want to come home to entertain anyone or show them about a city I don't know well yet. Also Andrew's family in general makes me uneasy ever since his mother had a meltdown a few years ago and kicked me out of her house and has taken ever opportunity since to be really rude to me. The worst part, though, with having the kids around, was that I couldn't cut loose and do any of the things I normally do when I get home from work: take off my shirt and bra, uncork a bottle of wine, et cetera.

Speaking of drinks, we went to a bar last month and tried an Old Spanish, which combines tonic water and riesling with a few jumbo green olives. Shockingly... not terrible. Mind you, I don't want you to get the impression we do nothing but go to bars. We went to Ikea recently, which was alright but I was somewhat disappointed because everyone had set the bar so high.

Jack, for example, lost his shit over these coasters, which were made of 40% recycled material and 60% Swedish horse meat.

We got picture frames and hung up some pictures about the house, including Carlisle's “certificate of bravery,” which he got from his last surgery, and a series of 6 drawings Jack did of us three and the dogs hanging out together.

In closing news as temperatures continue to climb, we got Seamus got a haircut.

Before: The dog who loves unconditionally and drools uncontrollably.  He leaves drool-hearts frequently, which is endearingly gross.

After: The poster boy for shelter dogs everywhere.  "Consider adopting your new best friend TODAY!"  ^_^

(This is what prolonged living in California does to you... MAKE OVER!)

Working in an Animal Research Lab: My Perspective

Today I'd like to tell you a bit about my work, in part because I think I have a pretty unique perceptive on a hot-button issue, and also because I feel rather proud of myself for getting my career off the ground.  In an economy where everyone bitches constantly about unemployment, it only took me three months and ridiculous tenacity to get my dream job.

"HIRE ME, DAMMIT."

Mind you, I haven't updated in a while because I don't feel like I have much to say but I don't want to disappoint my adoring readership (which, based on my IP tracker, is a combination of my boyfriend and my overly nosey parents repeated reloading my page.) (Hi Mom.  Hi Dad.  Just a friendly reminder: Don't read this blog if you don't feel like getting upset, and let's face it, you're going to find reasons to get upset.  Please don't use my own words against me.)

So things are going exceptionally well here in California.  Andrew and I painted the mailbox (robin's egg blue with a white fleur-de-lis... pictures to come, I'm quiet proud of it) and planted a cactus garden, and went rock climbing last weekend at the Malibu State Creek.  We took Carlisle because why not; he and I went swimming down a canyon because I didn't trust him on the traverse (you have to climb a vertical ledge to get to the climbing site), but on the way back we just carried him in a backpack because he was tired.

Also, we've really managed to resolve things with our grumpy neighbour, Fernando.  Turns out that putting your enormous pet rabbit in a floral dress harness and walking her about the neighbourhood is a fantastic way to engage your neighbours in friendly conversation.  And, as far as Jenny goes, she's finally agreed to stop bugging us, which is nice, because getting bitchy letters in the mail every week was getting to be old.

I attribute most of the good things in my life right now to my gainful employment.  They say that money doesn't buy happiness, but what it does buy is security, and it's very difficult to be happy if you don't feel secure.  Also it's regulated my sleep cycle, my eating, and my drinking, which is doing wonders for my health, although my generous benefits package has probably contributed on that front as well.

"Nine out of ten doctors said, 'Who is this?  Why are you calling so late?'"

My job (and I hope maybe career?) is as an Animal Technician, which makes it sound like I manipulate tiny animal robots but is actually less interesting.

Could've put a clip of Flipsy from the Simpsons here, or Robopuppy from Futurama, but instead watch this ketchip robot.  I laugh every time at this.

My job has three major components: directly working with animals, cleaning their poo off of everything, and then doing some very light paperwork and communication.

An average day begins for me at 5:35 am, when I leave the house to get to work at 6.  Although I don't think of myself as a morning person, the truth is, I am.  Once I'm out of bed I enjoy getting up early, I enjoy putting on a cardigan and walking the dogs in the cool morning air, and I enjoy driving on an uncrowded freeway toward the Los Angeles skyline, lit up like a Christmas tree and crowned in a smog-blurred sunrise.  I also like the K-Earth 101 morning segment "Dude's Little Joke of the Day," which comes on a 5:40 am when the city is just to my left (right after the exit for the 60 to Pomona).

Announcer: It's time for Dude's little surfer joke of the day.
Dude: HEEELLLLOOOOO, everybody!
[prattling for 5 seconds]
Dude: What do you call a camel without a hump?
Announcer (sort of condescendingly): What do you call a camel without a hump?
Dude: ...HUMPFREY.
Announcer (groaning): Duuuude.
Dude (laughing): Ha-ha, dude.

...only in California.

Anyway, I get into work and punch in at 5:55 on the dot, and immediately change into scrubs and a bunch of protective gear.  Think shoe covers (blue), hair covers (white), a disposable gown (yellow), a respirator mask (blue but not the same as the shoe covers), and gloves (purple or tan).  The scrubs are red.  I hope that nightmare colour combos aren't distressing to animals because otherwise we have a serious confounding factor in all of the research.

...like, you know, whoa, man.

The facility ("vivarium") is in a secured basement, which you need a keycard to get into, and move around in.  It's a very nice clinical setting, rather like a high-tech Avengers movie where maybe they're developing something awesome.  Oh wait.  They totally are.  Like the artificial retina that can make blind people see.

Behind closed doors, each locked (you need a real key in addition to your keycard) are the animals.  Most rooms are just racks with self-contained units of mice or rats, up to 70 cages on each side of the rack.  Most of them aren't isolated; they like to have buddies in there with them.  And yes, they have toys; mice get little fluff squares to rip up and make nests with, and the rats have tubes and pipes to play in.  The racks are hooked up to air and water so the animals have controlled air flow, temperature, humidity, fresh water, et cetera.  They're like condominiums, in a way.  Aside from the racks, most rooms only have a hood, which you need to use if you're going to change cages or pull out mice to examine them.

In the mornings, I go to the rooms I'm responsible for and either change cages (hundreds and hundreds; mice get changed weekly and rats biweekly) or just check the mice to make sure they have food and are doing okay.  I have to report overcrowded cages, separate mice that have been fighting, report any sickness, injuries, new litters (baby mice look like meat jellybeans), and change flooded cages.  (If you ever change a rack, occasionally one or two water valves will leak.  Since the mice get checked at least every 24 hours, they won't drown, but they will be soggy and grumpy and sometimes we'll put them on a heater to fluff them out and make them feel better.)

I found this picture of a mouse on a floaty on a page titled "The Benefits of Astaxanthin for Endurance and Fat Loss."  Apparently flooding mouse cages are a big problem in other labs as well.

After checking on my mice (or rats; I have about 33 cages of rats) (we have all sorts of animals but currently I only work with rodents; the vast, vast, vast majority of our vivarium is rodents), I clean the rooms and fill out some paperwork.  How many were dead, injured, sick?  Is everyone okay?  Most days, everything is fine.  The most common injuries I see are dermatitis, usually caused my excessive barbering (when a dominant mouse or rat chews hair off the submissives).  I e-mail both vets and contact people to let them know if I found anything off or needed to move an animal.

The second half of my day is cleaning.  The facility's core is an elaborate assembly-line-type washroom.  Well, two rooms.  One is "dirty" and the other is "clean."  Cages go in one room, are loaded on a conveyor belt, and move to the other side, clean, where we put bedding and toys in and then autoclave them for good measure, then put them away for the next time we need them.  It seems like a little bit of a laugh that I needed a college degree to scrap poo off of cages, but hey, whatever.

"Thanks Penn State!"

Ultimately, though, I love my job.  The characters are great; my boss announces himself when he walks into a room via birdcalls, and gives out candy on Fridays.  Everyone is pleasant and kind and happy.  The work should be tedious but isn't; you fall into a lull and get a lot done and it passes in a happy time warp of looking at animals gambolling about in furry piles.  I like the hands-on type of work it is, combined with the science behind it.  Also there's the sense of importance, knowing you're having some small hand in helping cures diseases, that you have to take your work seriously and be careful because you're the first line of defense for both the comfort of the animals and the integrity of the research.

As someone who owns animals and hasn't eaten meat in 20 years, I think it's interesting to consider animal research.  I've always thought of it as a grey area, but having worked at this facility for the last five weeks or so, I can say my experience has been positive.  When asked about it, though, I think it's important to note that, if ANYONE is qualified to work with research animals, it should be animal lovers.  Animal lovers are the ones most likely to care about the comfort of the animals; these are the people you should be most willing to trust with the handling of your subjects.

One thing to consider is why test on animals.  The simple fact of the matter is that in vivo studies are far and away the best models we have to see how things work.  Experimental surgical procedures, for example, really have to be done on a living creature to know they work.  You can't test pharmaceuticals on a cadaver; no amount of cold medicine will make that guy feel better if he's already dead.  The "why" of animal testing is because it's the best and last resort for researchers, and the more we learn, the more that benefits all living creatures as a whole.  Most of our animals are used for drug testing, drugs that should work and we hope work, and most of them don't appear to suffer any real side effects at all.  Remember, most of these mice were bred with various conditions.  A mouse might be born with diabetes and we're the ones curing that diabetes.  That's a good thing.

It's also worth noting here that the president of PETA is a diabetic who takes insulin, and that that insulin injection research is a result of testing on dogs.  And all that allergy and asthma medication that I take to allow me to work with the animals?  Also a result of animal research.  You'd be amazed at what's come out of animal research. 

I don't want you to think I'm biased in any way toward or against this, though.  It's still a grey area for me.  I'm not trying to champion it or to change anyone's mind about it, but I do think that the public's general opinion is uninformed and very unfounded.  These are just my observations.  At the end of the day, animal research and testing isn't the same as it was twenty years ago (at least not in America and not at prestigious universities).  It's not like in the book "Plague Dogs," that's for sure.  In fact, I would definitely argue that the animals at our facility have better lives than the average "pet" mouse picked up at Petco by an eight-year-old's mother wanting to teach "responsibility."

You know how kids are.
When I was 7 and got a pet kitten I played "Kangaroo" by stuffing him down my pants and jumping down the stairs.  In the lab we would never do that.  Not enough funding, for one thing.

It's true that, on Thursdays, I euthanise animals, but even that is done respectfully and humanely.  (For example, when I go around the facility with a cart collecting the animals to be euthanised, I don't yell "BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!" or "DEAD MOUSE WALKING!" even though I just know it would be hilarious.)  (For those wondering how we do it, gassing, followed by a secondary method just to make absolutely sure they don't wake up.  The gassing is done in their cage with their buddies so they never really know what's happening; they just go peacefully to sleep. Secondary method is usually cervical dislocation, which I learned last summer at an internship working with injured owls who had to have their mice cut up for them.)  This is not even the worse part of my day; the worst part is the commute home on the 10, which takes about 20-35 minutes depending on traffic and is a reminder that some people would be better off without artificial retinas since they clearly aren't using them to watch the goddamn road anyways.

So that's a pretty solid run-down of my average experience in a day.  I get home from work by 4 at the very latest, affording me time with my home, dogs, and boyfriend, a nice evening meal, and a relaxing night of reading and sex.  I have full benefits and weekends off, and truth be told I'm not always sure what to do with myself.  I have had passing thoughts of joining a bowling league or getting a second part-time job just to sort of occupy my time.

Sorry for a moderately serious post, but you have to admit, this sort of perspective is rare.  Last summer Dan and I went to the National Animal Rights Conference and the stigma associated with animal research is, at least in my opinion, completely undeserved; I think this is one of the most humane treatment of animals I've seen and I'm really glad to be a part of it.  This combines perfectly my love of taking care of animals while contributing to a scientific endeavour; on Wednesdays we go to lectures in the afternoon and listen to topics like "Swine in Trauma Research" and "Clinical Signs in Rats."  It's just what I imagined my adult life to be like: working with animals and diseases, working with my hands and hauling heavy stuff but also being in a very clinical setting, being active but also intellectual, and all the while knowing that I'm helping to minimise suffering in the world, not just for the animals whose bodies we're using, by also for the people who might one day benefit from that research and testing.

You know how good it's been?  I baked a cake.  Yeah.  Me.  A cake.  Devil's food with cream cheese frosting that I put on before it was cooled so that it melted into an ooey-gooey moist mess of incredible confectionary wonder.  If that doesn't spell out hopeful for you, I don't know what does.

Huzzah science.  

The Best and Worst Speakeasies in Los Angeles

Before I continue with today's regularly scheduled post, I would like to take a moment to talk about yesterday's nightmarish experience.

It started when I came home to find our front door wide open. Our experience with Jonathan was a real wake-up call, and Andrew and I agreed to begin locking the door. (We never bothered to previously because of the dog, but since the dog knows Jonathan and not much about betrayal, we decided it was time to trust in something more... inanimate.)

Puzzled, I stuck my head in and called out, “Andrew?”

That's when I noticed the dogs weren't there. He must have taken them on a walk, I reasoned. But no—there were their leads, hung over the hook on the back of the door.
 

Also the hook looked like this so I knew something was up.

Suddenly chilled, I realised Andrew wouldn't be home at this time (about 3 pm). Being blonde and having lots of horror films, and having already broken the cardinal rule about entering a seemingly abandoned house after calling out “hello,” I decided I needed to nut up. Grabbing the baseball bat next to the shoe rack, I began a circuit of the house: dining room, living room, kitchen, utility room, bathroom, and finally bedroom. 

Like all blonde girls exploring haunted/invaded houses with baseball bats, 

I first stripped down to my underwear.

When I opened the bedroom I was immediately attacked... by Seamus.

Pictured here being too cool to guard the goddamn house.

Relief flooded through me, followed my confusion.

The dogs hadn't escaped because they'd been locked in the bedroom, but the front door was wide open. What the hell?

I checked to make sure our valuables were accounted for, and they were. Even more flabbergast, I called Andrew and told him to come over because I was pretty sure someone had entered our house.

He arrived remarkably quickly, confirmed that he'd left the door unlocked like an idiot but had most certainly not locked the dogs into the bedroom, and went through the circuit again with me.

We found one single thing different than we'd left it, other than the doors:

The toilet was clogged.

I was going to put a funny caption here, but I don't think I need to.  What the hell is she smiling about?  I bet this is the same psycho bitch who came into my house and clogged my john.

That's right. Leaving our front door unlocked in South Central, we had a vagrant wander into the house, casually put the dogs into the bedroom (presumably so they wouldn't bother him/her), and use the toilet.

So. Creeped. Out.

We considered calling the police, but since nothing was taken, we opted out. Our current top theories are:

1. Some sort of service technician (a Comcast guy, maybe) came over, used the toilet, looked around for the telly, realised he was in the wrong house, and left in a panicked hurry.
2. A drug user, older person with dementia, child, or other person of compromised mental health came in to use the toilet and forgot to close the door when they left.
3. A person stopping by another person's house, perhaps answering a Craigslist ad, came over, waited, and when they realised they had the wrong address, bailed.
4. Andrew forgot to let the dogs out of the bedroom and to lock the door. The wind blew the door open, no one entered, and it was happy coincidence that the dogs didn't escape. This doesn't explain the clogged toilet, though it should be noticed that our toilet is so shitty that it clogs if you even mention burritos to it.

In any case, it was frightening, and we're EXCEPTIONALLY lucky that nothing was stolen and the dogs are okay. I hope it was also a wake-up call for Andrew. (I said, not bluffing, if anything like this ever happens again, I am moving out. I can't live in a home that's unsafe for me or the pooches.)

Also I think this is a typical weird Los Angeles story. (Stoner Takes Dump and Nothing Else.) (Hobos Find House Wide Open, Give a Shit.) (Crap Not Worth Taking, But Crap Taken.)  

(I could just keep going, but I won't.) 

Los Angeles is a pretty weird city in a lot of ways. For example, neighbourhoods merge into each other in a weird tapestry of interwoven socioeconomic levels. It's not uncommon to take a wrong turn and end up on the set of Game of Thrones, or a meth lab, or both. You have to take the 10 to get just about anywhere, and everyone calls it The Ten instead of I-10, and it's one of the few real divides in the city; below the 10 is clearly poorer than north of it. Getting on a bus you see divas and druggies, hipstas and gangstas, and getting off it you are almost guaranteed to trip over a chihuahua in a sweater, unless their owner is holding him in a BabyBjorn.

But perhaps one of the strangest things (for me) is the ridiculous accessibility of liquour.

Now, maybe I'm biased, having spent the last six years in the middle of Pennsylvania.

But here, you can get booze at liquour stores, grocery stores, markets, convenience stores, book stores, gas stations, barbershops, thrift stores, and probably Toys R Us for all I know. And it's not like they don't have bars; Los Angeles is practically swimming in them, pun intended.

One of the big “themes” around here is the speakeasy. A lot of bars are themed like 1920s speakeasies, complete with a douchey bartender in a waistcoat and cummerbund on his arm. Personally I sort of like the vibe, but after four months I have found that some bars more than others pull it off.

And so, for your consideration, here are some noteworthy speakeasies, both famous and infamous:

The Speakeasies of Los Angeles

Best Speakeasy: 

R Bar

Overall Rating: 5 Stars

The R Bar is a corner bar situated in Korea Town, and so far I have never been disappointed. You need a password to get in and once inside you'll find the atmosphere to be perfect. There are nooks with comfortable couches, low lighting, and curious decorations that have a geek chic sort of feel without being too overbearing. The food and drinks are all reasonably priced and fantastic. Sometimes the music is too loud, but the areas in the back are quieter and very comfortable. This bar is never empty but rarely packed. Last time we went, “The Big Lebowski” was playing on the television. Drink specials change daily and always have inexplicably nautical names like “Siren's Call” and “Jolly Roger.” Their bartenders are really down-to-earth. Ask for Dan; he makes a pizza shot with basil vodka that literally tastes like pizza. There is no parking. This is probably one of the only cons.

Most Historically Accurate Speakeasy: 

Varnish 

Overall Rating: 4 Stars

Varnish is a bar downtown located in the back of a restaurant called Cole's, which also has a bar. Varnish is a tiny one-room bar entered through an unmarked door that strives to be accurate in its appearance as a 1920s speakeasy. The bartenders are in costume and there's usually someone playing a jaunty tune on the piano. Their drinks are limited and take forever to craft, but are very well done. They're expensive but worth trying. Seating is very hard to come by and it's often crowded. There's also usually at least one jerk wearing a fedora in the crowd. Parking is on the street, but not hard to find. If you have time and money and don't mind waiting and standing for a table (or waiting for your drink), I would actually recommend this place. I think it says a lot that the atmosphere is so cool I was willing to wait for $13 drinks. Also, despite being expensive, you get your money's worth: the drinks are LOADED and taste great.

Least Historically Accurate Speakeasy, but Great Hole-in-the-Wall Dive Bar: 

The Living Room

 Pictured: The exact opposite of what it's actually like.

Overall rating: 2 ½ Stars

I'm not even sure if the Living Room is a speakeasy. Located on Crenshaw Blvd. below the 10, The Living Room is a small dive bar. You need to buzz in to get in and it's easy to miss. Once inside, it's often crowded (but rarely packed). There is always live music, mostly jazz and blues. The people are fun and friendly. My bartender's name was Summer and she was the nicest person I ever met. I went back and she was there hanging out, but not working, and she actually made me a drink when I had trouble ordering. The bartenders are just super accommodating like that and will make just about anything. Everything is good and affordable, and more than anything, the bartenders here are outstanding. If you're on a budget but want a place with music and atmosphere, this is probably your best bet.

Worst Speakeasy: 

Villains

Over-all rating: 1 ½ Stars

(Because Ernie the bouncer was nice. He was the coolest guy we met all evening.)

So I went to Villains earlier in the week and here was my experience. First let me state the pros: they have a parking lot. Now let me state the cons: everything. The atmosphere is great if you can get past all the hipsters. This bar is struggling very, very hard to be cool. The front is just open and everyone's smoking, which I hated. When I went to order, I asked for a couple standard drinks (like a Bloody Mary, Dirty Martini, et cetera) and was told they didn't have any of them. They said they didn't make liqueur drinks. (You might notice that a Bloody Mary is a vodka drink.) When I asked for a suggestion, I was handed a menu of 6 mixed drinks, ranging in price for $13-20. I asked for one and was told they didn't have the right ingredient for it. (The drink was a peach something or other and they didn't have the peaches.) Look, assholes, if you're only going to have SIX drinks, you could at the very least ensure you are stocked with the right ingredients. We were told the prices were expensive because all the ingredients were high-quality and natural. Apparently, the reason my peach drink couldn't be made was the orchard hadn't been planted yet. That's how fresh their over-priced crap is. Did I mention they serve it in Mason jars? For $20, I expect anything other than a fucking jar. That's not “hip.” That's tacky. So I asked about wine and found that their least expensive wine was $18. You know the difference between an $18 bottle of wine and a $5 bottle of wine? $13. A fucking PBR was like five dollars. This place was so insanely expensive and the bartenders were adamant about refusing to make recommendations, offer suggestions, or deviate even slightly from their 6-item (de facto 5-item) menu. When I finally ordered a different drink, the bartender mixed it and then tried it with a straw. Listen, asshole, you're not a mixologist if you can only do five drinks. And if you can only mix five drinks then you damn well better be able to mix it without tasting it. You should be able to get into a car accident and have irreversible brain damage and still mix a weak drink in a Mason jar if you have only 5 choices and make hundreds of them a night. I had two drinks, both of which were disappointing, and a side of chick peas, which were decent. Our bill was $50. There was no music, but it was loud because of the hipsters playing Jenga and Connect Four, which Villains has enormous novelty versions of so that you can be even more of a dickhead there. This bar is clearly meant for upper middle-class university twats who recently turned 21, are spending their parents' money, and are studying liberal arts.

 Pictured: Tries too hard.

The Pros of Being Conned

So remember how I've mentioned, in passing, the couchsurfer who was staying with us?

I believe I mentioned there was absolutely no way in which it could go wrong.

Well, hold on to your cowboy hats, because he will steal them if you don't. Seriously. Because apparently he's a con artist and attempted to rip us off in a manner that makes him eligible for one of those Dumbest Criminal stories you hear on the radio sometimes.

Let me back up and remind you that Jonathan stayed with us for a total of four weeks (yes, a month), which you might recognise as a length of time much greater than a weekend. But he was unobtrusive and most of his shittier traits were forgivable ones. In fact, there were really only three downsides to his personality: he was a braggart, he didn't brush his teeth, and he loved insulting people but refused to take insults.  (You know the type.  They're really crass and in-your-face but get butthurt if you try to exchange teasing.  They're the kid in elementary school who was sort of chubby and a total tattletale.)

The first one was really, really noticeable, by the way: among other things, he was rich, he did sound editing for the Walking Dead and Game of Thrones, he was one of the founders of Woot.com, he does charity work in Africa, he was in the British special forces, his uncle was the comedian Jim Jeffries, he's close personal friends with Dane Cook, he holds a Guinness World Record, et cetera. 

He lives vicariously... through himself.  On every continent in the world, there is a sandwich named after him. His hands feel like rich brown suede.  And so on.  And so forth.

 The thing is, though his claims were far-fetched, we still trusted that he was a decent guy. I mean, if you're in a bar and someone ends a story with “...and the the prostitute paid me!” you don't call them out on it even though you know it's bull. You cheer them and give them a high-five because that's how some stories are, and it seemed to me like Jonathan was a sad, down-on-his-luck sort of guy who spent weeks with strangers because he didn't seem to have friends or anywhere to go or do. So we just chalked his tall tales up to low self-esteem and a misguided way to try to impress us and connect with us, and we let it go.

And I guess at the end of the day I always try to give people the benefit of the doubt, at least in my words and actions, even if I think they're full of shit.

Now we get to the crazy part.

Remember, hats.  Hold on to them.

So a week before he left, Andrew tactfully told him we'd like him to stay “one more week,” meaning we expected him to leave on Monday. Well, Jonathan agreed, and Andrew and I were surprised to discover that we were feeling intense relief—Jonathan had overstayed his welcome and we hadn't noticed, but now that we had a date of departure, we were pretty excited.

Monday rolled around and we asked Jonathan if he needed a ride anywhere, to which he replied that he wasn't leaving until Tuesday. Figuring one more day wouldn't matter, we shrugged and gritted our teeth and said okay.

Tuesday rolled around and Jonathan said he couldn't leave until Wednesday. This time, it was not okay. For one thing, we had another surfer coming on Wednesday and I wanted at least 24 hours to get the house in order. So we compromised and said Jonathan could stay on Jack's couch. Jack lives a short ways south of us in a five-bedroom home occupied by a bunch of college-aged tools.

Jonathan departed, and Andrew and I went out to celebrate at a bar. We didn't want to admit it because it made us sound like jerks, but we were so glad to get rid of him, because there's only so many “light-hearted” insults you can take, coupled with increasingly bizarre bragging.

When we got home, however...

"Boy, am I glad to see you guys.  We're out of toilet paper."

...Jonathan was lying in the bed.

He explained that Jack's house was far too busy with people coming and going, and he couldn't sleep, and he would leave Wednesday. Since it was after midnight, we were too tired to care and went to bed. The next morning I woke up, looked out the door, and saw my car parked on the wrong side of the street.

It's worth mentioning here that Jonathan had become increasingly entitled the longer he stayed, and especially the last week was inclined to help himself to pretty much anything in the house.

Jonathan had taken my car, sans permission, to enter our home, uninvited, after leaving late to begin with after we'd made it clear we needed him to leave.

And he'd parked it on the wrong side of the street.

In a panic, I called Andrew to get my car keys, since the car didn't appear to be ticketed yet. Then I realised Jonathan was the one who would have the keys. I woke him and he told me he'd already moved the car.

Looking out the window, though, the car was parked on the wrong side of the street. “Are you sure?” I asked doubtfully.

“No, I'm not sure, I must've moved some other car!” he sneered sarcastically. “Yeah, I moved the damn car, what kind of stupid question is that?”

I drove him to Union Station, feeling miffed but also relieved. When I got home and reached into the glove box to get the parking pass, however, I found...

...Jesus, whom I promptly accepted as my personal Lord and Saviour.

...a parking ticket.

Flabbergast, I checked the date and time. It was from that day. That morning. Jonathan had gotten a parking ticket, hid it, and lied to me about it. More than any other thing, he'd bragged about his unflagging honesty, and he had lied right to my face, and been rude about it.

Furious, I told Andrew and Jack my story, to which Jack replied, “I can't believe that! Jonathan was so generous! I mean, remember how he took my computer to the repair shop and offered to pay—oh my God, he stole my computer!”

See, right before he left, he took a computer that Jack's mother had sent him which vague promises of getting it an upgrade. Jack had taken ill when Jonathan had taken his property, so he never really protested much, assuming it would be returned or accounted for before Jonathan's departure.

Now it gets even better: a day or two later we discovered Andrew's account had been overdrawn because Jonathan had not only taken the computer but Andrew's chequebook, and he'd written out several fake, personal checks for hundreds of dollars, signing them with Andrew's signature.

“But wait, Julie,” protests the reader. “How is Jonathan the dumb one here? Sounds to me like you and Andrew got conned.”

Ah-ha. It does initially sound that way, doesn't it? I suppose it was “stupid” of us to trust someone who had been living with us for four weeks. Honestly, after you open your home to someone, you don't expect that sort of shit, particularly after he'd gotten to know us, particularly considering how generous we'd been. But alright, I can see your point. Perhaps we were stupid. So why do I accuse Jonathan of being the stupid one?

But let's see what happened:

The cheques, obviously forged, were refunded to us, along with the overage charges. So we lost no money. However, we now have print evidence of Jonathan's crime. Cheque forgery is a felony unless I'm mistaken, and the bozo left a paper trail of what he did. Strike one.

The computer was easily located. Unable to turn off either his incessant bragging or his pathological lying, Jonathan loved to talk about being a big Mac user, and he told us about all his great connections and all the Mac stores he liked. So we called one of the stores he'd mentioned, read them the serial number of the computer he'd taken, and retrieved it at no cost to us. It is worth noting here that he sold the computer for less than $300, and allowed them to take a fingerprint, which is standard procedure for many pawn and computer resale stores. Yes, that's right: he used his real name and allowed them to take a fingerprint. Strike two.

And now, ladies and gentleman, you see that Jack, Andrew, and I (to say nothing of the owner of the Mac store, who got ripped off of a couple hundred bucks) all got to file police reports, complete with evidence, fingerprints, photographs, and even the guy's real name.

Protip: If you're going to be a con artist, for crying out loud, be better at it.

The only thing we really lost was the $73 from the parking ticket, which we paid without any problem. We went out on a nice date that night, bought a pizza with truffles, and fucked like weasels when we came home. 

 Not so cute now, are they?  Little perverts.

Meanwhile, somewhere out there, Jonathan, a fat, balding 30-something-yr-old with the most horrific breath imaginable is sleeping on couches, struggling to buy cereal, and willing to go to federal prison for a couple hundred dollars. So you see now why I think he's sort of sad. As Andrew put it, our feelings at this point are “a mixture of pity and disgust.” Who wants to live their life like that: without honour, friends, or even a damn place to hang their hat?

See how I brought it all back to hats again?

In case you are wondering, our second couchsurfer stayed only the weekend, was gracious and fun, super polite, and we missed her when she went. She was a breath of fresh air after Jonathan, in some ways literally. But we agreed we're going on a couchsurfing hiatus for the forseeable future.

In other news I've worked my job all week and had loads of fun, and I get my first paycheck this Wednesday. Another thing Jonathan will never appreciate: the value of hard work and the luxury of consistent income.

Coming next post: The Best and Worst Speakeasies in Los Angeles, and more updates from work!