Up!

Why yes, we are. We're less than twenty minutes away from Out The Door (trademarked).

But I expect this day to be a bit somber as well as - I don't recall a Nisei Festival falling so close to Hiroshima/Nagasaki's anniversaries. I think we'll stop for flowers for the Go for Broke memorial -

Not doing Nisei Festival today? There's a Fetish Flea Market going on in Boston today. Have at.

You can read the "rules of the road" on anime convention sites - but you really want to get in to the buzz-wordiness of a group that just has to keep it together in public, this site is for you - example?

Admission: $5. Free for members of SM/leather/fetish community organizations. Show your membership card at the door or wear your club colors! (Members of WMPE, BDS, TES, Black Rose, GMSMA, Female Trouble, Dreizhen, Riders M.C., and others need only show club ID or colors & pay this discounted fee at the door to enter.)

Wearing your colors. To a BDSM event. Hooookay. No problem, neh?!

No Live Animals. (We mean it!) No non-human pets!

Dying here.

No nudity. Please wear your fetish wear but abide by the laws regarding public exposure! (For women: no exposed nipples. For everyone: no pubic hair, no genitalia, and in the back, at least a one-inch wide strip between your butt cheeks. That's the law.)

It's the "between your butt cheeks" that got me. I mean, I know a number of folks into this stuff - nice, sane, level-headed - but as with any group, you got some nutjobs who just have to see where the boundaries are...*face palms/sighs*

Work security for this group? Oh dear ghads, they'd kill me...I'd die of laughter.

Getting dressed now. See-ya.

Up!

Why yes, we are. We're less than twenty minutes away from Out The Door (trademarked).

But I expect this day to be a bit somber as well as - I don't recall a Nisei Festival falling so close to Hiroshima/Nagasaki's anniversaries. I think we'll stop for flowers for the Go for Broke memorial -

Not doing Nisei Festival today? There's a Fetish Flea Market going on in Boston today. Have at.

You can read the "rules of the road" on anime convention sites - but you really want to get in to the buzz-wordiness of a group that just has to keep it together in public, this site is for you - example?

Admission: $5. Free for members of SM/leather/fetish community organizations. Show your membership card at the door or wear your club colors! (Members of WMPE, BDS, TES, Black Rose, GMSMA, Female Trouble, Dreizhen, Riders M.C., and others need only show club ID or colors & pay this discounted fee at the door to enter.)

Wearing your colors. To a BDSM event. Hooookay. No problem, neh?!

No Live Animals. (We mean it!) No non-human pets!

Dying here.

No nudity. Please wear your fetish wear but abide by the laws regarding public exposure! (For women: no exposed nipples. For everyone: no pubic hair, no genitalia, and in the back, at least a one-inch wide strip between your butt cheeks. That's the law.)

It's the "between your butt cheeks" that got me. I mean, I know a number of folks into this stuff - nice, sane, level-headed - but as with any group, you got some nutjobs who just have to see where the boundaries are...*face palms/sighs*

Work security for this group? Oh dear ghads, they'd kill me...I'd die of laughter.

Getting dressed now. See-ya.

Up!

Why yes, we are. We're less than twenty minutes away from Out The Door (trademarked).

But I expect this day to be a bit somber as well as - I don't recall a Nisei Festival falling so close to Hiroshima/Nagasaki's anniversaries. I think we'll stop for flowers for the Go for Broke memorial -

Not doing Nisei Festival today? There's a Fetish Flea Market going on in Boston today. Have at.

You can read the "rules of the road" on anime convention sites - but you really want to get in to the buzz-wordiness of a group that just has to keep it together in public, this site is for you - example?

Admission: $5. Free for members of SM/leather/fetish community organizations. Show your membership card at the door or wear your club colors! (Members of WMPE, BDS, TES, Black Rose, GMSMA, Female Trouble, Dreizhen, Riders M.C., and others need only show club ID or colors & pay this discounted fee at the door to enter.)

Wearing your colors. To a BDSM event. Hooookay. No problem, neh?!

No Live Animals. (We mean it!) No non-human pets!

Dying here.

No nudity. Please wear your fetish wear but abide by the laws regarding public exposure! (For women: no exposed nipples. For everyone: no pubic hair, no genitalia, and in the back, at least a one-inch wide strip between your butt cheeks. That's the law.)

It's the "between your butt cheeks" that got me. I mean, I know a number of folks into this stuff - nice, sane, level-headed - but as with any group, you got some nutjobs who just have to see where the boundaries are...*face palms/sighs*

Work security for this group? Oh dear ghads, they'd kill me...I'd die of laughter.

Getting dressed now. See-ya.

And so, the Nisei Week guy gets to live another day -

Nick's Cafe was scary from the outside. Broken and slightly askew cinderblock construction, completely fragged asphalt parking lot (teeny), bars on the windows, bars on the doors, everything hand-painted...enough to make my guests say "are you sure about this?"

Me in all my bravado - "We're up for an adventure!"

"Since when?" Jim pipes up.

"Since we got up this morning. If it's too awful, we'll go back to Little Tokyo and kill the Nisei Week guy who recommended it."

And we go inside.

One big counter. Horseshoe-shaped. The two tables against one wall are the waiting area if there's no room at the counter. Under the counter at the front of the horseshoe is one of the most ancient Coca-Cola chest coolers I've seen in ages. It even has bottle-openers on each side and could hide a small kindergarden inside. And it's still in service - outstanding. It's older than I am, and half again that much.

The three of us sit down at the counter, reach for the menus stored at the napkin holder, and begin reading.

It is a total pork fat thang. Looking up, I see pigs. Ceramic, glass, painted plaster - along with model police cars. Lo-jack novelties.

And my coffee arrives in a mug emblazoned with a bail-bond company's logo and phone number. There is one waitress and she is hopping. The place is nearly full. And the cook is a busy boy right now.

We order. We wait. I check out the place. Wood paneling like they used to do back in the early seventies. Tons of photographs of Los Angeles against the mountains during the winter, covered with snow - oooh. Memorials to a retired policeman who was a "friend to everyone at Nick's." Photographs of Nick's in the (I'd think) sixties, or earlier.

It's been here a long time. Next door is a warehouse store, doing a brisk business in things going elsewhere.

It's a truck stop, in other words. Next to Chinatown, speaking four languages and serving the best American chow in town. You can have applesauce instead of hash browns - "it's ready, but it's still real hot..." made fresh daily.

The busboy shows up, running faster than the waitress, who is a total hoot, BTW. The best kind. The busboy is wearing a t-shirt with another bail-bond company's logo on it. caitlin and I just grin and start laughing.

The food is excellent and plentiful. The homemade salsa is fantastic. And I am reminded of why I love Los Angeles so much. We have no majority here in places like this - there are whole families here early in the morning to eat, just like I'd see over at Spires. This is the city. And if you're with Nick - hey, you're okay!

The Nisei Week guy gets to live another day.

And so, the Nisei Week guy gets to live another day -

Nick's Cafe was scary from the outside. Broken and slightly askew cinderblock construction, completely fragged asphalt parking lot (teeny), bars on the windows, bars on the doors, everything hand-painted...enough to make my guests say "are you sure about this?"

Me in all my bravado - "We're up for an adventure!"

"Since when?" Jim pipes up.

"Since we got up this morning. If it's too awful, we'll go back to Little Tokyo and kill the Nisei Week guy who recommended it."

And we go inside.

One big counter. Horseshoe-shaped. The two tables against one wall are the waiting area if there's no room at the counter. Under the counter at the front of the horseshoe is one of the most ancient Coca-Cola chest coolers I've seen in ages. It even has bottle-openers on each side and could hide a small kindergarden inside. And it's still in service - outstanding. It's older than I am, and half again that much.

The three of us sit down at the counter, reach for the menus stored at the napkin holder, and begin reading.

It is a total pork fat thang. Looking up, I see pigs. Ceramic, glass, painted plaster - along with model police cars. Lo-jack novelties.

And my coffee arrives in a mug emblazoned with a bail-bond company's logo and phone number. There is one waitress and she is hopping. The place is nearly full. And the cook is a busy boy right now.

We order. We wait. I check out the place. Wood paneling like they used to do back in the early seventies. Tons of photographs of Los Angeles against the mountains during the winter, covered with snow - oooh. Memorials to a retired policeman who was a "friend to everyone at Nick's." Photographs of Nick's in the (I'd think) sixties, or earlier.

It's been here a long time. Next door is a warehouse store, doing a brisk business in things going elsewhere.

It's a truck stop, in other words. Next to Chinatown, speaking four languages and serving the best American chow in town. You can have applesauce instead of hash browns - "it's ready, but it's still real hot..." made fresh daily.

The busboy shows up, running faster than the waitress, who is a total hoot, BTW. The best kind. The busboy is wearing a t-shirt with another bail-bond company's logo on it. caitlin and I just grin and start laughing.

The food is excellent and plentiful. The homemade salsa is fantastic. And I am reminded of why I love Los Angeles so much. We have no majority here in places like this - there are whole families here early in the morning to eat, just like I'd see over at Spires. This is the city. And if you're with Nick - hey, you're okay!

The Nisei Week guy gets to live another day.

And so, the Nisei Week guy gets to live another day -

Nick's Cafe was scary from the outside. Broken and slightly askew cinderblock construction, completely fragged asphalt parking lot (teeny), bars on the windows, bars on the doors, everything hand-painted...enough to make my guests say "are you sure about this?"

Me in all my bravado - "We're up for an adventure!"

"Since when?" Jim pipes up.

"Since we got up this morning. If it's too awful, we'll go back to Little Tokyo and kill the Nisei Week guy who recommended it."

And we go inside.

One big counter. Horseshoe-shaped. The two tables against one wall are the waiting area if there's no room at the counter. Under the counter at the front of the horseshoe is one of the most ancient Coca-Cola chest coolers I've seen in ages. It even has bottle-openers on each side and could hide a small kindergarden inside. And it's still in service - outstanding. It's older than I am, and half again that much.

The three of us sit down at the counter, reach for the menus stored at the napkin holder, and begin reading.

It is a total pork fat thang. Looking up, I see pigs. Ceramic, glass, painted plaster - along with model police cars. Lo-jack novelties.

And my coffee arrives in a mug emblazoned with a bail-bond company's logo and phone number. There is one waitress and she is hopping. The place is nearly full. And the cook is a busy boy right now.

We order. We wait. I check out the place. Wood paneling like they used to do back in the early seventies. Tons of photographs of Los Angeles against the mountains during the winter, covered with snow - oooh. Memorials to a retired policeman who was a "friend to everyone at Nick's." Photographs of Nick's in the (I'd think) sixties, or earlier.

It's been here a long time. Next door is a warehouse store, doing a brisk business in things going elsewhere.

It's a truck stop, in other words. Next to Chinatown, speaking four languages and serving the best American chow in town. You can have applesauce instead of hash browns - "it's ready, but it's still real hot..." made fresh daily.

The busboy shows up, running faster than the waitress, who is a total hoot, BTW. The best kind. The busboy is wearing a t-shirt with another bail-bond company's logo on it. caitlin and I just grin and start laughing.

The food is excellent and plentiful. The homemade salsa is fantastic. And I am reminded of why I love Los Angeles so much. We have no majority here in places like this - there are whole families here early in the morning to eat, just like I'd see over at Spires. This is the city. And if you're with Nick - hey, you're okay!

The Nisei Week guy gets to live another day.

Well, I did it.

I just went through the friends list and checked to see when the last post was.

In a lot of cases, journals who had even added me back didn't have a single entry. *sighs*

Delete, delete, delete.

Sometimes, you have to treat people like wild animals. No, not to capture them and put them in cages, but to respect their right to behave just as they feel the need to.

I could take it personally. They could take it personally. In the end, what a waste.

Nobody ever meant me harm. Believe me, I'd know. It takes more effort.

You have to earn the trust of a wild animal. And in some cases, you won't ever make it.

Delete, delete, delete.

Yes, I've trimmed the list. Of folks who have closed me off, or stopped journalling - I'll never know for sure, and if they wanted to shut me out - it's their right. Without actually confronting me, sure. It's their right.

I am not everyone's slice of apple pie.

And while I am okay with that - really, it's best I am, I don't have a choice - there is a part that wonders just what it was, if it was something...or nothing?

With these deletions, it's nothing. Dead air. I have no idea and likely never will know.

Once, a person spoke to me, and I wanted to listen. I listened long after the story was told - and yeah, I feel a little foolish.

Such is my life. *grins a bit* Always late to the party, that's me.

And always asking for it, too. There's a part of me that always wants to befriend, to listen, to understand. My own headspace is too narrow, too confining - and I've said as much. A room full of people just like me is boring - and at times, scary. That's the writer, the journalist - always curious, always nosing about for a good story.

And right now, a little lonely too. A life is a life is a life - in a number of journals, the book has now been closed and put on shelf. *slaps self* Aw, get over it.

Timid wild animals. Why not think of them that way....

Well, I did it.

I just went through the friends list and checked to see when the last post was.

In a lot of cases, journals who had even added me back didn't have a single entry. *sighs*

Delete, delete, delete.

Sometimes, you have to treat people like wild animals. No, not to capture them and put them in cages, but to respect their right to behave just as they feel the need to.

I could take it personally. They could take it personally. In the end, what a waste.

Nobody ever meant me harm. Believe me, I'd know. It takes more effort.

You have to earn the trust of a wild animal. And in some cases, you won't ever make it.

Delete, delete, delete.

Yes, I've trimmed the list. Of folks who have closed me off, or stopped journalling - I'll never know for sure, and if they wanted to shut me out - it's their right. Without actually confronting me, sure. It's their right.

I am not everyone's slice of apple pie.

And while I am okay with that - really, it's best I am, I don't have a choice - there is a part that wonders just what it was, if it was something...or nothing?

With these deletions, it's nothing. Dead air. I have no idea and likely never will know.

Once, a person spoke to me, and I wanted to listen. I listened long after the story was told - and yeah, I feel a little foolish.

Such is my life. *grins a bit* Always late to the party, that's me.

And always asking for it, too. There's a part of me that always wants to befriend, to listen, to understand. My own headspace is too narrow, too confining - and I've said as much. A room full of people just like me is boring - and at times, scary. That's the writer, the journalist - always curious, always nosing about for a good story.

And right now, a little lonely too. A life is a life is a life - in a number of journals, the book has now been closed and put on shelf. *slaps self* Aw, get over it.

Timid wild animals. Why not think of them that way....

Well, I did it.

I just went through the friends list and checked to see when the last post was.

In a lot of cases, journals who had even added me back didn't have a single entry. *sighs*

Delete, delete, delete.

Sometimes, you have to treat people like wild animals. No, not to capture them and put them in cages, but to respect their right to behave just as they feel the need to.

I could take it personally. They could take it personally. In the end, what a waste.

Nobody ever meant me harm. Believe me, I'd know. It takes more effort.

You have to earn the trust of a wild animal. And in some cases, you won't ever make it.

Delete, delete, delete.

Yes, I've trimmed the list. Of folks who have closed me off, or stopped journalling - I'll never know for sure, and if they wanted to shut me out - it's their right. Without actually confronting me, sure. It's their right.

I am not everyone's slice of apple pie.

And while I am okay with that - really, it's best I am, I don't have a choice - there is a part that wonders just what it was, if it was something...or nothing?

With these deletions, it's nothing. Dead air. I have no idea and likely never will know.

Once, a person spoke to me, and I wanted to listen. I listened long after the story was told - and yeah, I feel a little foolish.

Such is my life. *grins a bit* Always late to the party, that's me.

And always asking for it, too. There's a part of me that always wants to befriend, to listen, to understand. My own headspace is too narrow, too confining - and I've said as much. A room full of people just like me is boring - and at times, scary. That's the writer, the journalist - always curious, always nosing about for a good story.

And right now, a little lonely too. A life is a life is a life - in a number of journals, the book has now been closed and put on shelf. *slaps self* Aw, get over it.

Timid wild animals. Why not think of them that way....