I Am Leslie Lange

Nothing Is Ever Just 99 Cents

The other day, my housekeeper, asked me to buy myself some hangers. "It will be easier, you know, to hang up your clothes."
So, as I was roaming Desperate Hot Springs, running to the bank, avoiding off-leash pit bulls with my car, etc... I happened to see a sign for a new local 99-cent store. Juana is going to be so proud of me, I thought. I didn't waste money on expensive hangers from Walgreen's.

It takes courage to enter any 99-cent store, because, you know, there's no such thing as a free lunch, freedom isn't free, and nothing is ever just 99 cents. The last time I went, there was a fight at the cashier's station--a fight that lasted a long long time. Hence, the discount was offset by the time wasted, and by that I mean the years taken off my life at the stress of being exposed to a large blotchy-faced white guy (the customer) yelling at a petite, clear-complexioned black woman (the cashier) who told him, "Get out my face you dumb m$#%&." (She was clearly worried about catching his blotchiness.) There was also the time the price of cheap goods was a wait behind this guy whose elbow had a tennis ball-sized open sore, complete with stench and small insects. Would I have paid a few cents more not to have had my face all up in that? Actually, I'd have paid a hell of a lot more--and I work in a hospital.

But all these things were forgotten as I plunged into this new 99-cent establishment. This was going to be different because I was in D-Town. Everything is so crappy in D-Town, I figured the 99-cent store would be actually upscale. So I went in and it was true. The aisles were clean, organized, the shoppers respectful and free of sores. The cashier spoke naught but Spanish, but, hey, that's OK. I'm a proud multilingual (can offend in any tongue). I was so happy to get my three sets of 5 maroon hangers for $2.97 plus the tiny bit of tax.

Then I exited the store.
And there she was.
There she was, pushing what looked to be a baby stroller from K-mart.

She was grubby and there may have been a baby in the stroller, but the stroller was draped in blankets. What kind of blankets? Grubby blankets. There may have been nothing underneath those blankets but a grubby stuffed baboon. Still, the implication was: a baby out in 100-degree weather. She asked me for some change, mumbling something about being out of gas. I gave her several dollars, enough dollars to buy 15 hangers from Bed, Bath & Beyond.

Then I got in the car. Did I think, Gee, I'm glad I was able to help another human being? No, instead, I thought this: Once again, I have not saved money at the 99-cent store. In fact, I spent more money and received lesser quality items.

Once home, I complained about this to Juana. She said, "Oh, but you didn't lose that money because God was watching, and you will be rewarded for this, you know, because He sees everything." This made me feel better, not because I think God is watching me and keeping records, but because Juana is watching..and now maybe she'll forgive me for that big dildo I left in the dishwasher last week. Or maybe she was reminding me, in her own subtle way, that God saw the dildo too.

Trouble at the B-Bar-H Ranch

One thing that really pisses me off about my neighborhood: is the frequent dumping of unwanted animals. We have a no-kill shelter nearby (Save-A-Pet), and because it is "no-kill" it gets expensive to take care of all these dogs, so they charge a fee when you turn one in. A by-product of this is the frickin' assembly-line of unforgivable slime who like to come and dump their dogs not at the shelter, but near the shelter. They think the kindly shelter staff will come out and take them in. But here's what usually happens: They starve or die of dehydration or get hit by a car. Nice.

This morning, my neighbor found these two pups on the corner, aimless and just waiting to get run over by morning rush-hour traffic. They are cute and sweet and helpless. No collars. No love. No chance--except my neighbor is a crazy softy who has already taken in god knows how many of these creatures.

If you would like to (or know anyone who would like to) adopt a lovely big-eared boy shepherd pup or a darling boy pit mix (with stripes)--drop me a line at leslie@leslielange.com

They show no aggression, only befuddlement.

Beautiful Wildflowers of Desperate Hot Springs

Who says Desperate Hot Springs ain't got no wildflowers?

(We say Desperate Hot Springs ain't got no wildflowers!)

Tail of a Lizard

Lying in bed with Pontifica this morning, I receive a call from Brian on my cell. He sounds frantic, but that isn't necessarily unusual. "There's a lizard outside our window," he says. "And I think it's dead...at least it isn't moving."
"A big lizard?" I say.
"Yeah, pretty big...looks like it's almost a foot long."
"Do you want to maybe put it in a box?"
"Well...."
"That's OK, Brian. I'm on my way home and I'm not squeamish at all about these things. I'll dispose of the dead lizard. Maybe I'll even give it a funeral."
"Thank you."

So, I get home and I stride over to the window where Brian said the lizard would be. I stride because I'm all full of myself that I can deal with this lizard situation when my housemate, a grown man, an actual handyman cannot. I'm expecting a small green-grey thing, a foot long from head to end of tail, but I don't see anything. Guess it wasn't dead, I muse. And then I see this:

and this, as you can see, is just its freakin' tail.

Brian, the freakin' tail is longer than a foot, OK?

Desert Hot Springs: I Love You

I’ve realized that in the interest of what I thought was humor, I was perhaps a bit unfair to my own beloved town of Desert Hot Springs. And as a sort of New Year’s apology, I would like to offer this short paean:

Ah, Desert Hot Springs!
Home of a hundred great white herons,
sailing incongruously above stretches
of scrubby bush and cactus!
Ah, Desert Hot Springs!
Home of a thousand great white windmills,
spinning against the rust-sky of sunset!
Ah, Desert Hot Springs!
Home of a wide black night,
holding meteor shower parties amid
jaw-dropping star-scapes!
Ah, Desert Hot Springs!
Home to lots of spayed and neutered doggies,
behaving well and hence unnoticed
as they trot by on leashes, their fat rumps bouncing

Christmas Eve in D-town

Christmas Eve: Pontifica is in Portland, Oregon, visiting her family, while--due to the fact that old people never stop getting out of the hospital around the holidays--I am stuck delivering care to them by way of a hot pink health care delivery truck. then heading home to my beautiful shar pei/pit bull mixes in D-Town. Ah, Desperate Hot Springs! Official Safe Haven City to paroled sex offenders, male dogs with testicles intact, and mulleted folk in monster trucks with decals of the little peeing boy kneeling low before The Cross. (Thank God, someone reined in that little bastard and he now loves The Lord!)

Ah, Desperate Hot Springs! On windy days, the poor folk chase their garbage cans down the street. When I say "poor," I don't mean "impoverished," but as in I feel sorry for that poor #$%... as in, "That poor #$%'s stuck living in Desperate Hot Springs" or " That poor #$%'s chasing her garbage can down the street again."

Whatever.

Oh, yeah! My hood's turning gay!

Two gay guys are moving into the house right next door to me. I’m jealous of them because, for my hedge, I could only afford to put in these short little cherry shrubs, and only every three feet, while they went all-out with six-foot ficus trees every six inches. Their pool is lined with multicolored tile and the concrete edge is stained chocolate-brown. My pool is a photo, cut out of a magazine and pasted on a yellow piece of poster board--plebianly deemed a “dream board.” (Also on the dream board: A guy smoking a cigar, holding a typewriter—symbolizing a book deal. A picture of lettuce—symbolizing my need to eat more leafy greens this year. A cherry-red “womb chair” from Knoll—symbolizing my need for this identical piece of furniture in my living room. And other things.) They need the ficus trees, one of them told me, "Because we plan on running around naked a lot." And I said, “Whatever! You could do it now and it wouldn’t bother me.”

(Yes, I’m kissing their asses in hopes of being invited to use the chocolate concrete pool. Anyway, who knows if the pool on my dream board isn’t that very one?! if the universe did not conspire to bring these gay boys to me, ME SPECIFICALLY, because I set my intentions on a pool?)

Their lawn is long, lush, and green. Mine is short, scrubby, and has yellow patches. Their two majestic date palms—one in each corner of the yard--were hoisted in by crane. My two minimalist barrel cacti were toddled in by wheelbarrow. They also have a phallic rock sculpture with a scrotal bench at the base…it’s actually a fountain! I have a couple of big rocks to sit on—who knows where they came from!

I’m so glad these guys are moving in next door. Gay neighbors sooo always make one’s property value go up. I feel guilty, too, because I want to be responsible for soaring property values too. Perhaps I can contribute by starting a local homeowner’s association…I could spearhead a movement to get a certain household to stop letting their German shepherd run wild in the street, or to get you-know-who to re-seed their lawn every winter, or to tackle the widespread problem of  garbage cans blowing down the street. Yeah! The garbage can thing would be a great place to start! Who can’t relate to that? I'm thinking: a great big net at the end of all the blocks...we'll call it...we'll call it...the can catcher.

Deep Fried Mac & Cheese: my new favorite food

Pontifica & I went to a hip diner for breakfast this weekend, and these dykes were eating what looked like fried breaded ping-pong balls--turned out they were mac & cheese (with a touch of chili relleno stirred in), a specialty of the house. They insisted we try them, so I did what I've been instucted by Tiffany's Etiquette Guide never to do--plunged my fingers into a stranger's food--and popped one into my mouth. Delectable. Well worth the breach of manners.

The D is for Dramatic Skies

It's a cool morning in D-town. The sky is textured with feathery clouds. A distinctively Dezzert sound outside my window: filthy old newspapers and other wind-herded debris-sheep rattling against the twigs of their tumbleweed cages. Nothing beats it. Why ever visit Palm Springs?

I, of course, am leaving for Palm Springs right now to earn my cash at the glorified massage parlor--but only for that, mind you. Only for that.