Archive for January, 2012|Monthly archive page

The Best Places for Homeless Sex in Los Angeles – Silver Lake edition

In Uncategorized on January 13, 2012 at 12:16 pm

Everywhere I go, the homeless are making love.

Sometimes I wonder if their sex lives are better than mine. While I don’t envy their constant day-to-day struggle for survival on the mean streets of L.A., I definitely resent their ability to eschew taboos about sex in public.

One thing that I’ve learned by observing and working with L.A.’s homeless population is that being without shelter doesn’t have to curb your sex life. I’ve observed more homeless sex acts than any former middle class white girl should. It got me thinking: where are the best places for homeless sex in Los Angeles?

L.A. is a big place with neighborhoods as diverse as the dildo selection at Hustler Hollywood. I decided to start by exploring the love dens of the shelterless in my own neighborhood: Silver Lake, aka Hipster Central.



This location is a proven hotspot. I’ve personally observed three separate sex acts in this parking lot myself. There’s a mattress next to the dumpster right behind Sun Lake Drugs that serves as a popular sleeping station/fuckpad. You may get interrupted by some of the hipsters coming out of the AA meeting at Café Tropical, but they’re totally cool and non-judgmental. Also, there are a variety of pillows and blankets available. It’s not romantic, but that doesn’t seem to bother anyone.


By day, the park is a popular humping ground for Silver Lake’s hippest hipster doggies. By night, it’s an untapped wonderland of coital pleasures. The park “closes” at 10PM –just in time to take advantage of the low lights and do some star gazing with a receptive lover. The only drawback: doggie poop “land mines” that could harsh on the afterglow when you’re on your way out.


The bridge from the Red Hot Chili Peppers song “Under the Bridge” (where Anthony Kiedis used to shoot up heroin) isn’t just for bleak but lyrically inspiring drug binges anymore. Now it’s the Bunny Ranch of the homeless Silver Lake community. If you park your car under there (cause you’re late for a gig at Silverlake Lounge), be prepared to hear some coital music emanating from the mattresses nearby. There’s nothing sexier than fucking like a rock star at a spot where rock was born—except fucking somewhere that totally doesn’t smell like pee at all.


When Laurel and Hardy’s historical landmark isn’t occupied with high school students smoking a bowl, it’s an optimal location for those willing to do a stand-and-bang. Plus, sometimes the high school students will share their bowl.


Most of the time, the parking lot of a fast food restaurant on a major L.A. boulevard would be a straight up no-no for a public screw, but the El Pollo Loco at Sunset and Sanborn has a cozy and secluded back parking lot with multiple dumpsters for privacy. I’ve only observed one homeless sex act at this location, but the convenience of the affordable meal right next door after a quickie is undeniable. Plus? That chicken is CRAZY man!


Slow going: a rewriter’s lament

In Uncategorized on January 9, 2012 at 5:54 pm

I love having a big project to work on piece by piece, day by day–except when I hate it.

I started rewriting the first draft of my novel about a week ago. I”ve turned 35 single-spaced first draft pages into 25 double-spaced second draft pages, which means I threw out a whole lot of stuff in my first 35. I guess that was to be expected. The beginning of my first draft is sort of like a Choose Your Own Adventure book. There are at least four alternate story lines going on, so I chucked the pages from the three I’m not using and a few more pages of mortifyingly cheesy dialogue between the main character and a character that totally doesn’t exist anymore.

The whole beginning of the book was feeling pretty sluggish to me. Besides this novel, the majority of my writing experience has come in the form of blog posts and sketch comedy–two places where you need to get your point across immediately or risk having your audience tune out. In the first draft of my novel, nothing happened for the first thirty pages. Now, in the second draft, I’m making the opening line of the whole book an explanation of the premise.

There are a lot of great classic novelists who took their sweet time getting to “the point” in their books, giving fifty pages of historical context and their characters’ personal genealogy before revealing a single piece of action to their readers.

I don’t think I want to do that. I think I want to try to suck people in right away. I guess that will make my piece more pop culture-y than classic novel-y, but I guess that’s okay. I just want it to be good and for people to like it.

PAGES LEFT TO REWRITE: 215 (Ouch. It hurts to even write that.)

I wrote a book. You can’t read it.

In Hello Giggles articles on January 6, 2012 at 2:56 pm

The warped pages stained with spilled coffee prove this novel is totes legit. You still can’t read it though.

I spent just over three years writing the first draft of my first novel ever: three hundred-ish pages of dark comedy, darker tragedy and real life experiences thinly veiled in fiction.

I was preening like a kitten when I finished it this fall. I even thought of a really great last scene – and the perfect closing line. It was a totally fulfilling, empowering experience. I had done it. It was only a matter of time before I’d be crowned America’s newest contemporary literary genius. Once published, my dark, comic tale of a fragile heroine ravaged by cruelty of life’s day-to-day grind would become an underground hit. Then Oprah would read it and immediately announce she was coming out of retirement for the sole purpose of reviving her Book Club just to share my genius. (YOU’RE getting a Pulitzer Prize and YOU’RE getting a Pulitzer Prize and YOU’RE getting a Pulitzer Prize!)

I felt like pretty hot stuff.

“I finished my NOOOOOOOOOO-VEL,” I’d tell friends when they asked what I’d been up to. I said it in a snotty, self-mocking tone  proving I knew how pretentious it sounded. Secretly though, I didn’t care if I seemed like a braggart.  I wrote a novel. I felt entitled to boast a little. I’d spent hundreds of hours staring out windows, crying over lack of inspiration, reading excerpts at my weekly writing group, staring out windows again and, of course, actually writing. And then, finally, it was done. It had seemed like an insurmountable task, but I had surmounted it.  I was an inspiration to aspiring novelists everywhere.

“That is SO AWESOME, Liz!” said my best friend. “I’m so proud of you! Can I read it?”

That shut me up pretty quick. You could almost hear the sound of my self-satisfied smirk melting away, like ice going soft and collapsing at the bottom of an old fountain soda cup. Flurp.

“No, you can’t read it,” I said, annoyed.

She looked confused.

“No one can read it,” I said. “It’s a first draft!”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s okay! I don’t care!”

“No!” I fumed. “It’s not… readable!”

It was the first time I’d even admitted it to myself. I wrote a book, but I couldn’t give it to anyone to read. It was a mess. There were dozens of pages of alternate story lines in there that I wasn’t using anymore. My main character had every job from psychiatrist to product tester when I was still figuring out who she was. There’s stuff I wrote in there three years ago that makes absolutely no sense with the brilliant ending that I wrote in September. If anyone opened up my “book” right now and started reading, they’d be seriously confused, and not in a cool ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ way. I’d rather eat all three-hundred pages of my book one by one than let my closest friend read it, let alone a legitimate editor or publisher. If Oprah and Gayle’s car broke down in front of my house right this second and the ladies asked me for something compelling to read while they waited for a tow truck, I couldn’t give them my moldy old orange binder half-filled with genius and half-filled with miserable junk.

Then I remembered that old adage: “Writing is rewriting.”


So, I guess I didn’t write a book after all–not yet. Once I finish this next draft, though, I’ll definitely have written a book – when I can give it to someone to read.

Back to staring out the window and crying for a couple more months. Times a-wastin’ and Oprah’s ill-fated Chevy Impala could be right around the corner.

Man,…Liz’s neighborhood is kind of sketch. Anyone got a Wally Lamb novel on hand?

Am I the worst person alive? That’s not nice!

In Uncategorized on January 5, 2012 at 7:33 pm

I know what you’re thinking. I couldn’t possible be the worst person alive, but sometimes I just don’t know.

I snapped at my husband when my car wouldn’t start. I screamed at some of the homeless people hanging out in front of my house yesterday to “get fucking lost you fucking losers!” and called the police on them. Granted-they WERE screaming and on crack–but still–it’s not nice. I used to be a social worker. I could have handled that better. The other day, I didn’t completely and totally pick up all of my dog’s poop.

I’m selfish–self-focused, attention grubbing, narcissistic and jerkish. And petty. And wasteful. And disorganized and messy. And I have a headache.

I’ve never killed anybody–but I’ve definitely wished that people were dead. I really have. It’s not nice.  It makes me feel like I’m the worst person alive.

I used to be SO NICE back in college. Of course, that was back when I wished that I was dead myself because I surrounded myself with users and assholes. But–I was definitely NICER than I am now. “Nice” doesn’t really count for much in Hollywood, but it still has power for me.

I think my mom might actually be Jesus. She’s SOOOOO nice–lives very modestly, has dedicated her life to helping impoverished children, always sees the absolute best in people, eschews materialism.

She always told me: “The most important thing in life is to be a nice person. You could work at a gas station your whole life and I’d still be proud of you, as long as you’re a nice person.”

So,…that should give you some idea of the emotional handicap I’m working with.

The Sweater

In Uncategorized on January 2, 2012 at 11:22 pm

My friend Jenny got me this sweater. Not only is it soft and sexy, but it’s a Medium and it doesn’t look like a fucking crop top on me–a rarity for “long-torsoed” folk like myself. I’m wearing it every day of 2012. Have you ever seen a better sweater? Fuck off. No you haven’t,…