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by bev steel

aka @miserableoldhagaf

I'm an artist, performer, actor, event planner, and most importantly a hair salon receptionist. Below you can read all about my adventures pursuing entertainment and living life in Los Angeles. This blog is for people who finished Daisy Jones and The Six and are looking for something to do with their time.

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Updated: Jan 25

I want to BLOG about music and the scene, and I can't decide where to begin. I've always thought Charlie was a staple of this weird LA music world, so let's start there.

Charlie is tall with a boyish charm, occasionally being followed by a gaggle of starry- eyed early twenty-somethings in pink cowboy hats. He has a tendency to find perhaps the most chaotic women in Los Angeles and become totally entranced by their manic pixie, potentially drug-fueled, mystique.

Charlie is kind of friend that will be one of the handful of people to show up to your (my) play in day event and play the role of an idiot party-animal named Chaz with his whole chest. Last week he offered to pick me up from LAX at 5:00pm on a whim... and if that's not real I don't know what is.

Last June, we hosted a midsummer party at the Chiquita Street house. We had a bunch of friends come over and play. It was a truly magical summer night. It was warm, drinks were flowing, we were all dancing and drawing with sidewalk chalk by the light of the candelabras.

Charlie sat in the bar on my grandpa's old brown leather couch chatting to my mom for a good chunk of the evening. I came into the bar to grab yet another glass of whatever and probably smoke a cigarette with Isaac. I had noticed Charlie throughout the night sitting in corners or by the stage playing my guitar along with the performers, and he sounded good. Upon entering the bar and seeing my Mom appear genuinely interested in what a guy in a Big Lebowski-esque sweater had to say, I was intrigued. Barboo said something like, "Charlie wants to play, he has a great voice!" Drunkenly and having a fabulous time, I put him on this list.

Charlie played... and we all danced a little harder. His music is fun, soulful, and folky. I've watched him shamelessly cry while serenading our friends. As an actor, I'm always suspect of a single tear rolling down a cheek, but Charlie has always come across completely earnest in his art and in our friendship.

Oh, and he's playing the viper room lounge on January 19th at 8pm following our buddy Sandalwood's album release at 7pm on the main stage. You can buy tix for Charlie's show here:

That's all for now.



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I woke up feeling really good today.

Yes, I am aware of all of (a fraction of) the horrific stuff going on in the world. I'll be sure to post an infographic later. I have a cold; yesterday was my peak feeling-like-shit day. Today I woke up and inhaled through BOTH of my nostrils. Isaac made me some very strong coffee and drove me back to my place where I got ready for work. Now here I am, in my silly little outfit at the front desk of the salon. The slight improvement in my health is reminding me to count my blessings.

side note: so far, my new years resolution to dress like helena bonham carter as much as possible is going swimmingly. side side note: perhaps I should change my resolution to dress like MYSELF as much as possible because I fear that's really what's going on here.

On my way to work I drove past the billboard on the corner of Ventura and Woodman. Two billboards ago was Shanola Hampton (V from Shameless) starring in some crime drama, the last one was the blonde chick with the high voice from Big Bang Theory doing a game show. The new one is Law and Order SVU - a giant Mariska Hargitay surrounded by a gold light over a black background. Lately, I've been thinking about fame and billboards and things of this nature. Last night Isaac and I watched Xmen, the one with J-Law (not that I've seen any of the other ones).

Often when I watch big blockbuster movies I feel entirely discouraged about my future as an actor. Of course coming from me, a midsized white blonde girl, maybe it sounds a bit stupid that I feel underrepresented. Still, I look at those girls and think - I'll NEVER look like that. They'll NEVER put ME in the PICTURES! When I tell this to my therapist she says things like, "everybody looks different..." "Not all of those women are twigs..." "Hard work is more important." Yeah, thanks.... Sigh.

After this part of the cycle I move into phase two, considering that if I work hard enough and give the most shits of all then that's what will propel me towards my dreams.

Then I consider scientology.

Finally, I say fuck it and just try to appreciate the fact I can breathe through both nostrils.

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Sometime in May 2023, we had about a month left on our lease at the house in North Hollywood. AND GOOD RIDDANCE considering it was essentially a tiny home - with no heat. One of our roommates had decided to get her own place, so Sam and I were on an apartment search. We saw a few cute spots; one on Los Feliz Boulevard that was on the market a little too early for our moving sched, and another that was perfect except for the fact that it had a white lady landlord with dreads named Ursula. She seemed alright, but to be a white lady landlord with dreads named Ursula is a red-flag in itself. 
Barboo, my mom, had been staying in the Hollywood Hills with an old friend and was looking for a place. She had told us, “if I see something perfect for the three of us, I’ll call you and tell you to come meet me ASAP… but don’t get your hopes up.” 
One night, I pulled some cards from my favorite tarot deck. It was a gift from my Gramps, a deck called The Witches’ Tarot by Ellen Cannon Reed. The images are these 1980s style cartoons, with silver pentagrams on a black backdrop on the other side. Despite having completely different meanings than the traditional Rider Waite deck, they’re the only tarot cards I have that are always right. One of the cards I pulled that night, the ten of wands, depicts a person holding up an image of a home with the actual home in the background. The other card I pulled showed a blonde kid and a redheaded kid running on a lawn in front of a large house. 
The next day, we got a call from Barboo to come see a house she was touring… ASAP. I forget where I was, work or something, but I didn’t go to the initial walkthrough. Sam called me and told me the home was fabulous. They took it on the spot. 
The home on Chiquita Street was magical. It looked very similar to the house on the tarot card I had pulled the night before PLUS I’m blonde and Sam’s a redhead. The big backyard sealed the deal for me, I knew I’d have the boys back there building a stage in no time. The house was timeless, it looked like it hadn’t been updated since it was originally purchased in 1949. Of course, the developer had the interior poorly spray painted white and the floors had been replaced but never stained. There was rust in the showers and only one burner on the stovetop worked. It was flawed, but it was special.
After a few ghostly run-ins, (my Mom heard a wolf-whistle while wallpapering the upstairs bar and my phone flew across the room on its own - twice) I paid $1.27 on some website to find out who the original owners were. We learned that the house had previously been owned by Gene Cipriano and his family. Upon further research, we discovered that Gene was the most recorded jazz session musician in history. This was music to Barboo’s ears, as she’s the ultimate jazz lover (she’s released two jazz albums). Barboo was floored when she accidentally opened some mail meant for Gene, a package that included a list of all of his work and features, everything from Some Like it Hot to Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga. That was the start of a long, incredible summer in LA.

That’s all I got at the moment. 
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