Flakiness. (A rant.)

Some days, I really get annoyed at LA.

Flakiness, so widely accepted and doled out in heaping portions, is abominable. It seems to wreak havoc with no end in sight, and, is no less infuriating, frustrating, and disrespectful than its first infraction upon my initial migration into Angeleno territory.

I have no patience for flakiness. I’ve dropped a lot of the all-talk-and-no-action poseurs in the past couple years; perhaps you flip a switch when you’re leaving your 20s behind and the games that go with it. I’m past it. Time is precious; you can’t let it pass with unleashed abandon by the vultures of malleable loyalties that feast and run before honoring a commitment – if making any, at all.

Perhaps it is so inherently irksome because it stems from selfishness: not sticking to your word, never making a full commitment to anything; something else better may come along so it’s best to keep your options open and do what’s best for you.  When did it become so acceptable? I see flakiness as a reflection of character. What do actions and inactions amount to but an extension of one’s personality?

I take networking with a coarse grain of sea salt – the parties with its Hollywood minglings – everyone at the soiree is checking over your shoulder for who ELSE is at the party that they should be talking to in order to further their career.

I hate breaking plans.  I hate it when meetings and dinners get rescheduled for the 3rd time – it makes you question why we’re trying so hard anyway when the other parties involved may not be so motivated. I passionately attest that people will make time for the people and the things in life that are most important to them, no matter what. Alternatively, I love making plans.  There is a beauty in delicious anticipation, the weeks leading up to my dinner reservation at Starry Kitchen Nights, or the agonizing wait for the tickets I booked for Aziz Ansari’s show at the Orpheum.

To echo the words of a certain downtown LA pastor, I wish people would value “what you know” instead of “who you know” in this town. “Who you know” doesn’t tell me about who you are, the challenges that you’ve faced in life, the lessons you’ve learned, your values, character, and sense of self. Neither does a person’s job title.

Time is the most valuable thing anyone can give me.  And, the most valuable thing I could give to anyone else. If you can’t even give me your time, then, ughhh. Be gone, you.

The only good flakiness there is rests upon the crusts of confections found at a patisserie that I shouldn’t be eating but probably will, anyway.  At the very least, to comfort my frustration from the flakiness of people around me.  Maybe flaky people should just have pastries on them – and hand them out as peace offerings to their victims in advance of forthcoming offenses.

Christmas Day. In Italian.

I was adamant about attending church on Christmas Day – no, not that I’m a C+E churchgoer or anything, it’s just that traveling in foreign countries present more obstacles.

So here we were, in the small town of Palermo, on the island of Sicily.  Small town – meaning, few expats and nonexistent church services in English.  Most of the town is Catholic, so it seemed; a few inquiries later, we ended up in a small Catholic church near our hotel.

‘Adeste fideles’ – this I recognized, from a certain 9th grade choral concert.  Who knew, that this would come in handy years later?  The only other phrase I recognized, from my related Spanish, was “salvador al mondo.”  We had arrived five minutes after the service had started, and we were in the back – it was standing room only.

Now – I’m not Catholic.  My most recent religious ties would be Baptist, but more accurately I’m Presbyterian.  I had never attended a Catholic service before – but, as media exposure would have it, the incense, the altar boys, and the hymns were somewhat anticipated.

A young boy, maybe about 11 years old, whispers to his friend, another boy about the same age.  He looks a bit like Diego Luna – except Italian, and just a boy.  I recognize a woman who must be his mother, hissing at him to hush up, as he and his friend snicker to each other during the service.

The experience took an unexpected turn when my friend witnessed an old man sneaking in close to sniff a certain woman’s hair.  The dirty cad had sidled up from behind us in the crowd, pushing in closer and closer on us, until, finally, he was standing right behind me.  I shifted, mistakenly thinking that the church was filling up with more attendees.  My Aussie friend gave him a good look to let him know she had her eye on him.  He leaned in to do some hair sniffing.  When the majority of the service was winding down, I turned to look over at my friend, now about three people to the side (not sure when or how we got separated in the crowd), and signaled for our egress.  Once we were outside, she explained the dirty-old-man (DOM) deeds she had witnessed.

Come on, people!  On Christmas Day.  In a house of God.  Really?!