Shanti’s Dispatches

It rained again in Los Angeles. People freak out here when it rains. Including me. Because it never happens. This is the second or third time it has happened since I’ve been out here (4 months). From the news just now: “one of the firefighters called this rain ‘unprecedented’”. Jeez. Why is a firefighter commenting on the rain anyway, don’t they have other people to comment on the rain & determine whether or not it is “unprecedented”? Oh wait, I know why. Because drivers here are either 1) Stupid, or 2) Insane. Neither of which can drive in the rain. Then the firefighters have to come save them.

Note to LA drivers: yeah, news flash, that strange liquid falling from the sky is “water”, you know, two parts Hydrogen, one part Oxygen. It makes things “slippery”, i.e., remember Bon Jovi’s album, Slippery When Wet?

Back to LA drivers. I’ve now become one of them. Traffic is so bad that you need any edge you can get. If you get stuck behind the wrong person, you could be waiting at a light for an extra 5 minutes. That adds up here and there when your commute is 30+ minutes. So.. always gun it on yellows if you are the last car before the light. Chances are you’ll have three people follow you, two of them completely running the red light. Welcome to LA.

Now for a few thoughts on everyone’s favorite social software of the moment, Friendster. I had signed up a while ago but thought it was only an uber-geek thing. Then I met someone out here who was cool who actually admitted to using Friendster. The whole “dating” spin gives it a bad rap. No one wants to admit to using any kind of dating service. So I just tell people when I invite them to join, “Ignore the stupid dating crap, no one uses it for that anyway.” Which is true. It is much better for keeping track of random old friends, and “acquaintances” — you know, people who you’d probably never call but it’s still okay to email them once in a while. The perfect example is all those buddies in college you met that were friends of friends. You were never exactly their “friend” — you were just their friends’ friend. But still, on Friendster it’s probably okay to add them to your list & drop them a line every once in a while to see what they’re up to.

But anyway, here are two random thoughts on Friendster:
1. What if you’re dating someone, and you’re both on Friendster (and we’ll assume you’re connected to each other). Who is going to be the first one to put their status to “In a Relationship”. What if one person puts their status to that and the other doesn’t update it for months, even when they login every single day and update their profile for other things? Busted.

2. What happens to your Friendster profile when you die? I mean, I know nothing will happen to it, unless someone informs the “Friendster authorities”, but even still. I think if I die I’d want someone to log into my Friendster account for me and keep updating it, accept any Friend Requests, etc. Old long-lost friends could be looking for me on Friendster and not even realize I’m dead! Scary.

Speaking of Friendster, I have a new testimonial! Yay! If you want to add me, I’m 1) the only “Shanti Braford”, or 2) the email address: shantibraford (at) yahoo (dot) com will work too. Feel free to send a Friend request unless you fall into one of the following two categories: 1) you are psychopathic serial killer who stalks people met on Friendster, or 2) I have absolutely no idea who you are and I’ve never spoken/chatted/emailed you before in my life.

So, fellas, do you have the problem of going out to dinner with chicks (that make a lot less than you) and paying for most of their dinner? Sure, that’s not a problem if it’s a “date”, and you hook up later, kiss, or just really, really enjoy their company. But somehow I end up going out to dinner/lunch/whatever where it’s just a friend (but there’s always the possibility of being something more) and I feel bad because I know she’s just a teacher, administrative assistant, waitress, or something like that and here I am with a Computer Science degree and probably making a lot more then her (just a random fact of life, not like I’m bragging or anything). O’well. Ladies, if you’re in the same situation, throw a fella a bone here & there if he buys you dinner. It’ll keep the dinners flowing.

Oh yeah, and buying you drinks is no problem. Because you’ll probably end up drinking way too much and losing all your inhibitions, and a few of your items of clothing. That’s always a good thing. (disclaimer: I do not encourage such behavior but I will condone it when necessary)

What’s up with East Coast people? Why do they think they’re all that? Get over it. Really. Just about the only people who have room to talk are people born and/or raised in Manhattan. I’m not talking about you Brooklynites or Queensites. Don’t kid yourself. Being from Brooklyn or Queens isn’t anything to brag about or make you special. You gotta live in Manhattan-proper if you wanna come correct with that attitude of yours, papi.

Apparently Los Angeles does not have a “Los Angeles proper”. We’ve decided that the only people who say “Los Angeles proper” are people who are not from here and probably have no idea about the layout of the city. There really isn’t such a thing as “LA proper”, but rather just a sprawling, sprawling, sprawling (did I say sprawling yet?) mass of urban and suburban metropolis. I’ve heard it described as “one giant strip mall.” There are parts that resemble that description, and those parts make me want to vomit pepperoni pizza and ben & jerry’s chunky monkey ice cream both at the same time. (yeah, pretty bad, huh?) But there are other parts (where I actually frequent) in LA that are totally chill, laid back, and don’t resemble some ugly suburban strip mall. You might find a few pics of these decent hangouts on my moblog. Plus you can’t beat the quality of the “scenery” here, if you know what I mean. Especially that chick in front of me in Spinning class at LA Fitness in Marina del Rey today, wearing the blue tank top. If you happen to be reading this right now, drop me a line.

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