ahream

The scene: Saturday at the L.A. Marathon Expo – a convention center space the size of New Hampshire littered with vendors all but tackling the 20-some thousand runners and actually ripping their wallets out of their hands. I am intent on examining every new piece of athletic accoutrement. My husband is intent on getting the hell out of there before traffic gets any worse. I win.

Me: “Ohhh look! Super sweat-absorbing, SPF 709, aerodynamic, fatigue-reducing running socks!”

Him: “I think there are Scientologists over there.”

Me: (Without looking up from the socks) “Don’t be silly. Here have a Gatorade sample.”

Him: “I think they’re doing stuff to people. Don’t they call those things e-meters?”

Me: “I’m sure there aren’t any Scien...” (finally looking up long enough to follow his pointed finger) “Holy crap.”

Him: (breaks into a disturbingly large grin, clearly convinced his fortunes are looking up) “Go in the tent!”

Me: (as horrified as if he’d suggested I might like to slow dance with an ill-tempered hippopotamus) “YOU go in the tent.”

Him: “It’ll make a great blog.”

Me: (seriously re-thinking this man so willing to throw me to the wolves or worse Tom Cruise) “I don’t think it’s worth it.”

Him: “Awww...come on. Sometimes you have to suffer for your art.”

Scene: Yesterday, my phone rings. It’s my husband, out of town on business. He’s out of breath and more than a little panicky.

Him: “They tried to get me. I was surrounded.”

Me: “Who tried to get you?”

Him: “The Scientologists! They’re everywhere. I was walking back from the restaurant. They were on the sidewalk. She shoved a pamphlet in my hand. I took it. It was a reflex! I didn’t mean to!”

Me: “So throw it away.”

Him: “You don’t understand! It was a beacon! A GPS locator! It was the Bat Signal!”

Me: “Have you been drinking?”

Him: “They were stationed all along the street. They saw me with the pamphlet. It was horrible. They descended. They hunt in packs, I tell you! Packs! Like hyenas! I almost didn’t make it. They chased me down the street.”

Me: “Where are you now?”

Him: “On the floor of my hotel room. I’m afraid to turn on the lights.”

Me: “Sometimes you have to suffer for your art.”

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
:: JOURNAL HOME :: SUBSCRIBE TO THIS JOURNAL :: WWW.AHREAM.COM :: FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER :: PHOTOS :: MYSPACE :: EMAIL ::
Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (1) Most Recent Twitters: A 3-foot long alligator was found walking down the middle of the street in Venice Beach this morning. I love L.A. In case you were wondering, it is very difficult to get a hummingbird out of your house. They are irrational and prone to hysterics. L.A. Finds: The Nickel Diner on Main between 5th and 6th is a made-to-look-old, throwback of a place that melds into the old downtown and is, at the same time, part of the renaissance. They serve their burgers medium, their soda in bottles and offer all they can to locals in need. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks by Christopher Brookmyre What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2007-03-07 5:22 PM When Scientologists Attack The scene: Saturday at the L.A. Marathon Expo – a convention center space the size of New Hampshire littered with vendors all but tackling the 20-some thousand runners and actually ripping their wallets out of their hands. I am intent on examining every new piece of athletic accoutrement. My husband is intent on getting the hell out of there before traffic gets any worse. I win. Me: “Ohhh look! Super sweat-absorbing, SPF 709, aerodynamic, fatigue-reducing running socks!” Him: “I think there are Scientologists over there.” Me: (Without looking up from the socks) “Don’t be silly. Here have a Gatorade sample.” Him: “I think they’re doing stuff to people. Don’t they call those things e-meters?” Me: “I’m sure there aren’t any Scien...” (finally looking up long enough to follow his pointed finger) “Holy crap.” Him: (breaks into a disturbingly large grin, clearly convinced his fortunes are looking up) “Go in the tent!” Me: (as horrified as if he’d suggested I might like to slow dance with an ill-tempered hippopotamus) “YOU go in the tent.” Him: “It’ll make a great blog.” Me: (seriously re-thinking this man so willing to throw me to the wolves or worse Tom Cruise) “I don’t think it’s worth it.” Him: “Awww...come on. Sometimes you have to suffer for your art.” Scene: Yesterday, my phone rings. It’s my husband, out of town on business. He’s out of breath and more than a little panicky. Him: “They tried to get me. I was surrounded.” Me: “Who tried to get you?” Him: “The Scientologists! They’re everywhere. I was walking back from the restaurant. They were on the sidewalk. She shoved a pamphlet in my hand. I took it. It was a reflex! I didn’t mean to!” Me: “So throw it away.” Him: “You don’t understand! It was a beacon! A GPS locator! It was the Bat Signal!” Me: “Have you been drinking?” Him: “They were stationed all along the street. They saw me with the pamphlet. It was horrible. They descended. They hunt in packs, I tell you! Packs! Like hyenas! I almost didn’t make it. They chased me down the street.” Me: “Where are you now?” Him: “On the floor of my hotel room. I’m afraid to turn on the lights.” Me: “Sometimes you have to suffer for your art.” Read/Post Comments (1) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top