ahream

People who don’t live in Los Angeles think that horrible things happen to you out here on a regular basis. On any given day, goes the common wisdom, you could expect to be car jacked, shot, inducted into a street gang and forced to get breast implants the size of volleyballs.

This is not true.

Well, okay, it’s sort of true. Those things happen every day, but with a population of four million people the odds of it happening to you are 10-1 at best.

But then some days, you get peed on. Yesterday was a pee day.

My friend Eric Stone (www.ericstone.com – yes, someday I will figure out how to make a link work) invited me to the Thai New Year street festival in Hollywood.

I like Thai things. I like streets. What could possibly go wrong?

This might be a good place to point out that Eric is not the one that peed on me. I would have difficulty maintaining our friendship if he had. That’s just not something you can overlook.

In fact, it’s difficult to overlook no matter who is doing the peeing – even, say, a small child who has wandered down the side street where you have taken refuge to drink your soda and step out of the crowd. A small child who will stand behind you and, seeing the obvious lack of port-a-potties, whip out Mr. Winkie and proceed to spray down the street and the back of your leg in the process. Yeah, aiming? Not so much at four-years-old.

Here’s the thing about getting peed on in a public place: There is absolutely nothing you can do about it. Nothing. You just have to live with it – WITH PEE DRYING ON YOUR LEG – until you can get home and shower. A very long shower. With bleach. And steel wool.

And you really shouldn’t expect a lot of sympathy from your husband on the way home either.

Him: “Meh, boys pee on themselves all the time. You get used to it.”

Me: “We are clear here that I did not pee on myself, right? Someone else peed on ME.”

Him: “You wanna do anything while we’re out here?”

Me: “I have pee on my leg.”

Him: “We could get dinner.”

Me: “PEE ON MY LEG! STRANGER PEE!”

Him: “WELL, DON’T TOUCH ME WITH IT!”

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.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (8) Most Recent Twitters: Reading Tony Broadbent's book, The Smoke. It's too good. I'm losing sleep. Nocturnal pattern shot to hell. Productivity declining. L.A. Finds: The Denver omelet at Pat's in Topanga is sublime in its simplicity. Exactly what you need and nothing else, much like the restaurant itself snuggled smack in the middle of an old hippie community where the peace signs and tie-dye still reign. 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: The Smoke by Tony Broadbent 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		2008-04-14 11:16 AM A stranger just peed on my leg (No, I am absolutely not kidding) People who don’t live in Los Angeles think that horrible things happen to you out here on a regular basis. On any given day, goes the common wisdom, you could expect to be car jacked, shot, inducted into a street gang and forced to get breast implants the size of volleyballs. This is not true. Well, okay, it’s sort of true. Those things happen every day, but with a population of four million people the odds of it happening to you are 10-1 at best. But then some days, you get peed on. Yesterday was a pee day. My friend Eric Stone (www.ericstone.com – yes, someday I will figure out how to make a link work) invited me to the Thai New Year street festival in Hollywood. I like Thai things. I like streets. What could possibly go wrong? This might be a good place to point out that Eric is not the one that peed on me. I would have difficulty maintaining our friendship if he had. That’s just not something you can overlook. In fact, it’s difficult to overlook no matter who is doing the peeing – even, say, a small child who has wandered down the side street where you have taken refuge to drink your soda and step out of the crowd. A small child who will stand behind you and, seeing the obvious lack of port-a-potties, whip out Mr. Winkie and proceed to spray down the street and the back of your leg in the process. Yeah, aiming? Not so much at four-years-old. Here’s the thing about getting peed on in a public place: There is absolutely nothing you can do about it. Nothing. You just have to live with it – WITH PEE DRYING ON YOUR LEG – until you can get home and shower. A very long shower. With bleach. And steel wool. And you really shouldn’t expect a lot of sympathy from your husband on the way home either. Him: “Meh, boys pee on themselves all the time. You get used to it.” Me: “We are clear here that I did not pee on myself, right? Someone else peed on ME.” Him: “You wanna do anything while we’re out here?” Me: “I have pee on my leg.” Him: “We could get dinner.” Me: “PEE ON MY LEG! STRANGER PEE!” Him: “WELL, DON’T TOUCH ME WITH IT!” Read/Post Comments (8) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top