With Apologies to Bill Maher...

(I'll probably be blacklisted for writing this one, but hey, I had to... )

Hollywood, despite the common myth, really isn't all that glamorous.

Look past the opulence, the great dining, the crazy nightlife, and all the beautiful people, and you will find a treasure trove of history, people-watching opportunities galore, and an energy that is simply indescribable. Lying even further beneath this, you will also find dirt, trash, poverty, and find yourself wading knee-deep in bullshit and insecurity.

There is a reason why this is the entertainment capitol of the world, why every day 40,000 men and women flock to this movie-mecca in pursuit of fame and fortune, and why every day 40,000 more leave to go back to wherever they came from, penniless and jaded, their spirits crushed. This place is almost alive, it keeps the balance. Everyone is acting. All the time. Even the people who don't call themselves actors.

Actors are funny people. As you know, Los Angeles is, according to moi, effin' weird. And the actors can, at times, have a pretty big hand in that.

A few weeks back I was asked to host the wrap-party for The Sarah Silverman Program, and by host I of course mean stand at the door and check people off the list. I gladly accepted, of course, because I knew this would be a wonderful opportunity to see these people, these "actors" and - dare I say it? - "celebrities" in their natural habitat interacting with one another. I was told to dress nice, and arrive at 6pm.

There's a song that says, "It never rains in Southern California." And that song is wrong. It was pouring that day. Seriously, like buckets. Cats and Dogs. Rain rain rain. Walking in the rain sucks to begin with, especially for us ladies - we have hair issues, okay? So I had to show up to this party and somehow not look like a drowned rat. And if anyone has ever tried to walk down Hollywood Boulevard in the rain, on those black tiles the Walk of Fame stars are embedded in, try doing it in a pair of 5-inch heels. Yeah, that's what I thought.

Well, thankfully, it had stopped raining, and was now just a little humid and misty and gray, which I quite liked, seeing as I had spent what felt like an eternity of summertime frying in an apartment with no A/C. And as an added bonus, I didn't end up slipping and falling on my ass and made it to the party early, which looked good for the sucking-up-to-my-boss factor.

Everyone was running around like chickens with their heads cut off, and I set out to light the candles that went on the tables for the dinner and screening, all the while looking around for any other way I could make myself useful. My boss handed me the guest list, and gave me the run down on what my task would be for the evening: stand at the door, check people off the list, and look cute.

Simple enough. And I was getting paid to do it. Sweet!

I was like a kid in at Christmas, looking over the list. Andy Samberg, Missi Pyle, Maria Bamford... and, of course, the guest of honor, Sarah Silverman herself... I was giddy with anticipation.

The night began slowly. Maybe because it was cold, maybe because it was dark and rainy and crappy outside. Eventually, guests began to trickle in - all very nice people. In that aloof, cautious, L.A. kind of way, but nice all the same.

I don't get starstruck, but I have to admit I do get a little kick from seeing actors I really respect and enjoy, Missi Pyle being one of them. Actually, I see her all the time. She comes in to the restaurant quite a lot; she's very relaxed, pretty quiet, and doesn't bring any bullshit with her. That's what a celebrity is, or should be. If you have the talent and conviction to do your job and do it well, and you are secure enough in yourself, then you don't need to be an obnoxious ass to announce your presence to the world. Which is why, when she walked in, and I reflexively asked for her last name, she gave it to me, even though she knew that I knew who she was.

Even Miss Silverman was gracious about it. Granted, I heard her before I even saw her - she has this laugh that carried down Hollywood Boulevard - and she came skipping in, all little and cute, and I said "Hi! I know who you are... welcome."

And she literally replied with, "Tee hee!" and scampered up the stairs.

The night was going so smooth, the cynic in me should have been at least the tiniest bit suspicious. I mean, things go well, but never that well. Never perfectly. Which is why, when he arrived with his girlfriend, Bill Maher made me feel about two inches tall, even though I tower over him.

In my defense, before I tell you exactly how it went down, let me fill you in on a few details:

1) It was really effing dark in there. So dimly lit, in fact, that some of the older guests were adorable enough to ask me "how in the world are you able to read that, young lady? You must have some great eye-sight." And I do, but still, it was really effing dark in there.

2) I had a head cold, and I was high on DayQuil.

3) Put yourself in their shoes: if you were famous, and had people trying to stick their heads up your ass all day just because you're on t.v., and you want a little normalcy in your life but you can't because some stalker keeps trying to send you chocolates and roses and pictures of his genitals and really wants a lock of your hair to complete his shrine to the almighty greatness that you are, would you want some bitch at the door of the party you're attending to gush like a maniac at the sight of you? I wouldn't. But that's just me.

4) Oh yeah, and if you're bored, you can Google "Why is Bill Maher such a dick" and see what you find.

Taking all of that into consideration, it is not surprising that I didn't recognize him, or at least pretend like I was really impressed that he was standing there before me - I mean, he's really not all that aesthetically remarkable, and I probably wouldn't recognize him if I were standing next to him in line at the supermarket because, well, I'm just that way.

But I guess it was just his reaction that threw me off when I very sweetly said "Hi! How are you!" and, receiving no response, asked "What's the last name?"

He stood there, blinking, as though dumbfounded, and scoffed. "Maher," he said, with such arrogance that, if his words had eyes, they would have rolled them. And if looks could kill... ooohh boy...

And that was when I realized it was him, and felt a sinking feeling in my gut, and the "Oh Shit" alarm in my brain went off, and without any further adieu welcomed him to the party. With that, he sauntered up the stairs, girlfriend in tow.

Like I said before, I felt reduced to about the size of an ant. I spent the rest of the evening avoiding him. But as the night went on, and everyone got more and more drunk, I made it a point not to let it get to me. The people-watching opportunity was priceless, as I had expected.

And as for Mr. Maher, I will give him this: the guy is smart. He's successful. He is loved and un-loved the world over. And hell, I really don't have a leg to stand on, because let's face it, I'm nobody. I'm a statistic, 1 in 40,000. Sure, I've made it for the past couple years, I've survived, but I have yet to make a mark (and that's okay). Anyone who can really "make it" deserves respect, so I have to give him and everyone else at that party their much-deserved kudos. They worked their asses off to get what they wanted, and that might entitle them to be arrogant dicks. Or not. Who the hell knows.

But it made me think even more about the idea of the so-called "celebrity." I mean, they're just people. Just ordinary human beings, for the most part, like you and me. Sure, they have something different or unique about them that sets them apart from the rest of us and thus enables them to have that title, but why is it that we as a society put them on pedestals and worship the ground they walk on? I don't care if you are really good looking, or funny, or brilliant. If you're going to be a dick about it, then all of that may as well not even matter.

Even more recently, I was working the late night at the job, and a very pretty, polite, and familiar-looking girl came in with a small entourage - about 5 other people. It was really late (or really early, depending on how you look at it - about 5 AM) and I seated her at one of our best tables, right by the window, in a big cushy round booth, a coveted place for anyone who's trying to be someone, so that passersby can look in at them through the big plate-glass windows and say "Wow, they're so glamorous! They must have it all!"

Anyway... so I'm lookin' at this girl, and I know who she is, but I can't quite put my finger on it. And then it hits me: she happens to be a 90's R&B singer named after a popular alcoholic beverage that is often served in a snifter (If this isn't obvious enough for you, I really don't know what to tell you).

So they sit, and eat, and laugh and talk, and about an hour later they're finished and getting ready to leave. At the same time, one of my coworkers says he's gonna drive down the street right quick and buy himself some cigs. He walks out, dressed in full uniform (and, by the way, our uniforms are quite unique and covered in the company logo) and gets in his ginormous pickup truck parked across the street. The aforementioned pop-star is walking out the door right as he's flipping a u-turn, and I watch as she runs up to the car and pokes her head inside the window. Dialogue is exchanged; co-worker drives off, and R&B Singer whirls around looking distressed. Absolutely mortified, actually.

We're all watching this from inside the building, and seeing as we couldn't hear a word that was said, we're perplexed as hell. We run outside to see what the problem is.

Us: "What's wrong? Oh my God, are you alright?!"

Her: "Oh Lord... was he paparazzi?!?"

Us: (Silence...) "Uh... no. He works here."

Her: (Throwing hands toward the heavens) "Oh thank God! For a second I was like 'oh dear Lord!' I thought he was paparazzi! I thought I was going to have all kinds of cameras in here! (looking relieved) Thank you!"

And she walked away. Down the empty - I repeat - EMPTY street. Because it was 5 AM. And no one was out. And the 90's are over. And we were left standing there, going "Really?"

Yeah, I'm mean. I know. I'm a total bitch, in fact.

But seriously... I don't get it.

Only in Los Angeles, right?

Where are the %#^$ing cameras?!?!

Okay, so this is going to be a relatively quick post. But seriously, I really wish sometimes that I had a camera that followed me around and had footage of random bits of time within my weird life.

Like today, for instance. Not a particularly special day, by any means. It does happen to be payday, but that's beside the point. Anyway, so I wake up this morning, and decided I was going to try and get back into the swing of things and start taking better care of myself. I've been in a bit of a funk for a while now, not really taking time to focus on things I enjoy doing and instead filling my idle time with much drinking and being lazy. So I thought, Hey, you've been lazy for long enough. Time to get off your ass, get outside, and go for a run.

There's a park just a few blocks away from my place in North Hollywood that is prime territory for running. It's not paved, which is great because my knees can't handle high impact stuff, and there are always people there jogging, or with their kids, or just hanging out. The rec center is there too, and the library, and it's just a nice little green patch in an otherwise bustling metropolis.

I'm not crazy about running, by any means. In fact, I hate it with a passion. But I made myself a deal - I had to go once around the track, equating one mile. Seems fair enough, I told myself. It's like having a treadmill, but much more scenic. Oh yeah, and it's free.

So I go over there, stretch, and start plugging along; running, then walking, then running the rest of the way. Now that it's cooled off a little, it doesn't feel so bad, and I can feel the endorphin rush, that fantastic runner's high. And it feels good. There, I tell myself. That wasn't so bad, was it? And it wasn't. I felt great. I was a little sweaty, and red in the face, but I didn't feel like I was going to die, and that was good enough for me.

Feeling quite proud of myself for taking the initiative, I began the walk home. About halfway there, I could here the high-pitched yapping of some little dog behind me, muffled against the music being fed into my ears from my iPod. The street I was on is lined with about a billion houses, so a dog yapping at me is a very ordinary sound to hear, and naturally I didn't think much of it.

I was walking on the sidewalk, on the right side of the street, passing an apartment complex that has a wrought-iron fence around it. From the corner of my eye, I saw a small dog - a Rat Terrier or something - run alongside the inside of the fence, barking at me. I then watched in astonishment as it casually slipped under the fence, and then, to my horror, began chasing after me, nipping at my leg.

Keep in mind, this dog was only about as big as my shoe - which is still big, when you consider my shoe size, but I was about to put my shoe up this dog's ass if it didn't stop. So I'm kinda turning in circles, kicking at this damn dog, and it's snapping and barking at me, and it can probably smell my fear.

Why would I be afraid of such a minuscule mutt, you ask? Once, I had to break up a fight between a couple dogs I had. Like an idiot, I did the thing you should never, ever do in a dog fight - I put my hand in the middle of them. And I got bitten. Not badly, but I still have a nice scar on my fingertip where the canine tooth sank into my flesh. And that wound, though small, was obnoxiously painful and bled for days. Since then, my view of the canine species has been a little shaken. And though it would have been different had this been, say, a pitbull, there is still something about a strange animal with razor sharp fangs and a hankering for human flesh coming toward me that puts my nerves a little on the edge.

I kept kicking at it, and trying to evade the impending attack, all while looking for the neglectful owner so I could punch him or her in the face for letting this vicious animal loose, but the little bugger was relentless and kept on nipping at my heels. So, I ran.

This was, I think, the stupidest possible thing I could have done at this juncture. The little bastard was fast. Really fast. And though I may not be the fastest runner I know, when the adrenaline is pumping I can still cover a considerable distance. Plus I had the added incentive of the thought of those little white razor-blade teeth sinking into my leg, and the resulting lawsuit that would surely follow, to keep me moving. But the dog was always right there, hot on my trail.

Just as I turned around to meet my fate, wincing in anticipation of the pain that was sure to be coming my way, he stopped, hearing his owner (finally) calling for him. I felt as though I was a mile away from the woman calling her precious Fifi back home for a savory meal, and grew angry not at the fact that it took her so long to get her ass out of the house to get that stupid dog, but the fact that here I was, nearly six feet tall, running and screaming like a child from a five-pound Rat Terrier.

I think I yelled something back at her, like "What the fuck lady" and "I'm gonna get some mace for that damn thing next time" but in the heat of my embarrassment I really can't remember what was said, I only remember thinking that I have never in my life been so glad I don't work for the United States Postal Service.

In closing, if you happened to be having a lousy day, or if you're feeling bad, or you just need to laugh, then close your eyes, and picture me, Heidi Charisse Miller, five feet ten inches tall, running for her life from a dog the size of her shoe. I'm laughing now.

Missed Connections

Yeah, this is a true story. As hard as it is for me to admit, it's true. But it is, in fact, testament to the weirdness that is my life.

So... last week I was going to work. As I may have mentioned before, often times I will take the subway to Hollywood from my place in NoHo - partly because it's better for the environment, partly because I need the exercise, but mostly because I am cheap and I don't believe in paying $5 for parking, which is irrelevant to this story, so anyway...

So I go through the motions: I board the train, jamming out to my iPod as we travel the 6 miles underground through the hills from the Valley. I arrive at my stop, step onto the platform, and prepare myself for what is most likely going to be another BS day at the J-O-B. And, seeing as it was a Monday, we would be opening an extra 30 minutes later, which meant I could take my sweet-ass time and actually enjoy my morning.

At this point, I think I should mention that I had brilliantly stepped on and successfully broken my sunglasses the night before, so I was traveling without them which, as my fellow Angelenos may know, is potentially dangerous by allowing people (i.e., weirdos) to look you directly into your eyes and use that as leverage in their quest to harass and otherwise annoy the shit out of you because, well... I guess because they don't have anything better to do and it gets them off to see you all weirded-out like that. But I digress...

Anyway, so I get on the elevator, and begin my journey to the surface, and I didn't have my sunglasses, which at first was a concern to me, but then turned out to be a blessing, because - drumroll, please - I saw the CUTEST boy EVER. And he saw ME TOO.

(At this point, I would like to thank any male audience members for reading this far; yes, this is actually what I am writing about today. No kidding. But it'll get better, I swear.)

Really, he was that cute. And we kinda did that thing where you see someone, and you make eye-contact, and then you think to yourself, "oh no, I just looked at him, what if he's creepy?" But then you kinda second-guess it, and your curiosity gets the better of you, so you do it AGAIN, and then you look away really fast, until you keep looking and looking until all those little glances become one continuous gaze, and you realize how freakin' gorgeous this guy is, but it's a damn shame because you happen to be going up the escalator to go to work, and he happens to be going down the escalator to wherever it is he goes at 9:30 on a Monday, and you will probably never see him again, let alone get the chance to talk to him for five minutes.

Seriously. It was A-MAZING. And just as we were at the end of our field of view of one another, he waved at me. I laughed like a schoolgirl, and I think I even started blushing. In fact, I'm blushing right now as I'm writing about this. God, I'm so pathetic, I can't even handle it.

But really, I was tickled pink. I couldn't stop thinking about it all day. I wanted so badly to tell someone about the amazing fleeting-moment experience of meeting someone for a split-second who could potentially be your knight-in-shining-armor, but whom you will most likely never see again, I thought I would burst. I ended up gushing about it to a male coworker of mine, who suggested - albeit jokingly, I'm sure - that I write a Missed Connection about it.

Now, for those of you who don't have the pleasure of knowing what a Missed Connection is, click here. That's right, in addition to iPods, furniture, and Nigerian Wire Scams, Craigslist.org also boasts a slough of Personals and Dating ads. You can look for anything and anyone through these online public forums, from platonic companionship to casual sex. There's even a little section up there called "Missed Connections" in which millions of losers around the globe post charming little vignettes about actual people they have come in contact with, felt some sort of attraction toward, but didn't have the opportunity (or the huevos) to ask them out. Every once in a while, these two people in question actually find one another through this awkward and grade-schoolish means of communication, fall in love, and then get married, which makes for really interesting and awkward conversation when people ask, "so, how did you two meet?" Kinda like those eHarmony commercials... only, it's Craigslist.org...

And this is the sad part. I know, the coworker who suggested this was probably joking, and if you are in fact, through some cruel twist of fate, reading this, please do not judge. But yeah. I did it. I posted a Missed Connection. And I quote:

October 5, 2009
"Love On An Escalator" - w4m - 22 (Hollywood Vine Metro Station)

I really can't believe I'm doing this... but you made me smile and laugh like a schoolgirl :-)

I was coming up to the surface from the Hollywood/Vine Metro Station. I saw you on the escalator, making your descent into the station, off to wherever it is you go at 9:30 on Monday morning, and we made brief eye-contact... again and again and again. You had such a strong gaze, I couldn't help but look back at you. There was just something about you, I can't even describe it.

You probably will never see this, but hey, a girl can dream. So on the off chance you do read this, drop me a line... and so I know it's you, tell me three things:

1) What I was wearing,
2) What you were wearing, and
3) The last thing you did as we were both looking at each other from the escalator... before I ran off blushing and giggling, anyway...

Hope you are having a good night, wherever you are. Maybe we'll talk soon.

Now, if that isn't poetry, I don't know what is! In fact, after reading that, I'm sure my audience either quadrupled, or is now completely non-existent. Either way, it still doesn't change the fact that, yes, I am now one of the aforementioned losers.

But on a more serious side, there is actually an art and even a method to posting these things properly. First of all, the nice thing is they don't post your actual email for the whole wide freakin' world to see, so that cuts down on a lot of the psycho and spam mail you may or may not get from posting in the first place. Secondly, as you can see, I left absolutely no indication of who I am in the post, again to help reduce psycho-spam and narrow the odds of actually finding this guy. So I ask specific questions, because dammit, I wanna make sure I have the right boy. I'm a busy woman, I don't have time to be dealing with all these pathetic wanna-be posers. Good thing I'm smart enough not to put a picture up there... just sayin'...

Now, I didn't expect to actually get a response. Like, a real one. Sure, I thought there might be a chance that I'd get the occasional spam email offering me ways to make money by filling out online surveys, or maybe even a harebrained sob-story from a priest in Kenya asking me to give him my bank account number (which really wouldn't help him at all, as there is nothing in said bank account anyway), but those really don't count, as far as I'm concerned. So a couple days went by, and nothing happened. But then one day, I checked my email, and found this:

Hi,

I am not the guy on the escalator, but I AM a producer on a very high profile television show. We would love to use your Craigslist ad in an upcoming segment. Basically, we would be creating a music video based on your story.

I promise that the final product will be funny and it may even help you reunite with the dreamy guy on the escalator!

Please reply ASAP, as we are talking to a lot of people about this project.

Thanks,

Jim Wise

Seriously. Wait... seriously? For real?

Well, after I recovered from a crippling and uncontrollable bout of laughter that I was for some reason suffering, I decided to do a little recon work and find out if I was being set up. Thank God for IMDB, that's all I'm sayin'. Yeah, there's a guy named Jim Wise, who works for NBC, but still, the whole thing seemed rather fishy. But the ball was in my court, so I went searching for more information, and asked him for a telephone number. I thought for sure I would come up empty-handed, but to my surprise, I ended up with not one, but two telephone numbers.

Wow, I thought. Either this guy's for real, or he's really desperate. But, what the hell, I'll give him a call. Well, ol' Jimmy and I had ourselves a real nice talk. It turns out he not only produces, but writes for, the Jay Leno Show, and it was at that point, dear reader, I knew I would never, ever, EVER live this one down.

So he pitches to me: they're looking to create a segment, along with The Dan Band (look 'em up here), that satirizes and reenacts posts from Missed Connections, which in the end would be hilarious, because (as he told me), "have you seen some of the stuff people post up there? It's sad." They would interview me, and put me on the show, on national freakin' television, and tell my tale of a failed Craigslist romance.

Well, as you can imagine, I had no idea how to feel about any of this. Frankly, I couldn't believe it was happening, and apart from being both thrilled and horrified, I was now thoroughly confused. Was this how one made it in Hollywood? Seriously? Immediately I began backpedaling, saying things like, "Well, actually, it was all a big joke" and "I was drunk." (Okay, I didn't say that last part. But I denied the seriousness of the matter completely.) And even though he probably didn't believe a damn word I was saying, he did extend an offer to me to stop by and meet him at his "office," which actually turned out to be a Starbucks in Toluca Lake.

And I might have done it. Maybe. But I didn't, because I had to work.

I know I would've chickened out, and just gone to the Starbucks to meet him, and tell him thanks, but no thanks, because the way I saw it, I didn't want to be known for that. I instantly had visions of William Hung, that wacked-out Asian guy from American Idol who was so disillusioned about his own capabilities as an artist that he cut himself a record deal and got his 15 minutes. Just because he acted like a total dumbass, and acted that way all the way to the bank with a big fat check in his pocket. Or like the "Leave Britney Alone" Kid, in his eyeliner and girl-pants that are 18 sizes too small. I mean, sure, I might have attracted some bigshot producers, and landed myself future work, and retired in the blink of an eye. Or, I could've just been laughed off the streets of Hollywood, mercilessly ridiculed by a city of 6 million people. But I don't want that. Maybe I don't want fame, and I sure as hell don't want to be a joke. But I know what I do want: respect.

I want respect, dammit. And I don't want just 15 minutes. I know that's what they say, that everyone gets their 15 minutes, but if that is in fact all we get, I'd like mine to be issued in small amounts rather than just one lump sum, thanks. I wanna savor it.

But no matter where I end up, no matter what I do, no matter how rich and famous and snobby I may turn out to be, I will always maintain the plain and simple fact that my life is really, really, really strange. And I love it.

I Fought the Law

Yeah, yeah, yeah... I know I said I'd write something everyday. I know I said it was a healthy habit. And I know I said it was going to be different this time, that I was actually gonna do it. And I have. But just a little. Every day. And always several different posts. Soon, I'll get around to actually posting these things; there are a few.

I've just been busy, okay?! Seriously, I've been trying to ensure that my life gets together once and for all. I've been focusing mainly on redecorating (which implies that I had decorated once in the first place, which is a blatant lie... so then, decorating?) my apartment, which up until recently had no furniture. I now have a couch, a tv stand, and this totally amazing, incredible, best-sleep-I've-ever-had mattress.

Seriously. It's that amazing. Everyone should have one of these things. Go here.

I have also declared war on the roaches in my apartment. Yeah, you read that right. Roaches. In my apartment. In my kitchen, actually, which I am kind of afraid to admit, because I can't decide if it makes me sound filthy or like a redneck or worse, like a filthy redneck. But you have to understand, this is Los Angeles. And we got us some roaches, okay? Like Hawaii. A lot of people wouldn't think so, seeing as it's Hawaii and the only thing they're supposed to have is dolphins and an infestation of white silver-spooner trust-fund-baby college kids and tourists. But they've got roaches. Big ones.

The guy at CVS who was standing in line behind me yesterday as I was purchasing my roach-eliminating WMD's (Raid and a pack of roach motels) was kind enough to note my purchase and very audibly comment about it. "She's gonna go home and declare war on those motherf*ckers," he said to his friend as he stood there with a 12-pack of Bud Light slung awkwardly over his shoulder. At that point in the day, I had neither slept nor eaten much, and I had spent the majority of the day preparing for a visit from my mother, so needless to say I was a little punch drunk. I gathered every last ounce of enthusiasm and sarcasm (enthusiasm's obnoxious kid sister) I could muster and said, "Oh yeah, dude. It's on."

The hilarity continued with his incessant questioning that most likely stemmed from the teenage crush he had developed on me in the 2.7 minutes we were standing in the checkout line, as well as the fact that he was a degenerate-creep-loser who had no confidence or care in his general appearance and/or hygiene and had consequently made a career of trolling for booty with his equally creepy little friend. "It's this heat wave too, it just made them come outta nowhere."

"Well, yeah," I said, and in venting some well-justified frustration about the whole ordeal, continued, "but these guys came with my refrigerator."

"Oh, you got a used fridge, did you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, that's why you go to Home Depot and spend the $300 on a brand new one," he said. That self-righteous dirty-hippie sonofabitch.

"Hey man," I retorted, "I don't have that kinda scratch. I work for a living (you bastard, I thought to myself)."

Clearly realizing his mistake, in an effort to gain back the points he thought he lost but in actuality never had to begin with, he began to backpedal, saying things like "oh yeah, I know what you mean... many a trip I have taken to Joe's Midnight Refrigerator emporium... blah blah blah..." And I was never so grateful as I was when the cashier finally called me up to the counter to ring up my purchase and let me get on with the rest of my day so I could go home and kill some bugs.

Anyway...

The title of this post, in other news, actually stems from a conversation I had with an friend of mine at work. We were talking about something, I don't even recall what it was, and she mentioned a weird law that applied to the state of New York. Apparently, in NYC, it is legal for a woman to walk down the street topless, in broad daylight, unless she is smoking a cigarette, in which case it becomes phallic and sexual and is then cause for arrest.

Really? This seems absurd to me. I decided to do a little research. It seems that the truth in such statements, especially as ridiculous and impossible as this one sounds, is garbled and lost in translation as though being repeated over and over through a monstrous game of Telephone. But there is some truth to it: "Women may go topless in public, providing it is not being used as a business." Okay, fine. That's still dumb. I'm not saying it's impractical; it's just kinda silly. Other such totally inane New York laws include such classics as "It is illegal to throw a ball at someone's head for fun," and "The penalty for jumping off a building is death." Just think about that last one. Just for a second.

But New York isn't the only place that has weird and/or totally irrelevant laws that somehow are still in the books, yet cannot possibly be enforced. Colorado, for example, has a law in the city of Aspen which states that "Catapults may not be fired at buildings." In Boulder, it is illegal to "permit one's llama from grazing on city property" - actually, that one might still be enforced. Just sayin'. Oh, and in Sterling, "cats may not run loose without having been fit with a taillight."

Naturally, if such things are set in stone in other parts of the country, I grew curious as to what I could or could not get away with in my own fair city. The bizarre laws in the state of California are innumerable, of course, but one exists in my own backyard that just takes the cake. And I quote:

"In Hollywood, it is illegal to drive more than two-thousand sheep down Hollywood Boulevard at one time."

What. The. Hell.

** Bored? Look for more weird laws in your town at http://www.dumblaws.com. Thanks for reading!