Don't Mind Me, I Just Live Here

Awkward

2012-01-27T17:31:00.000-08:00

First of all, I'm at work. Just now this girl came by our little quartet of facing cubes to say goodbye because today was her last day. There were several pregnant pauses where it seemed she was waiting for someone to stand up and give her a hug, but no one did. Finally, she walked toward one of the other guys and initiated the hug. At this time, I rose up out of my chair to be prepared when my turn came. She moved to the next guy, fine. Then she skipped me, walked right past me. Like I wasn't standing at all! I remained on my feet, either to play it off like I needed to stretch or to hammer home the fact that, hey lady, I stood up for you.

I'm not insulted by this. It's actually not surprising at all and quite representative of our dynamic in my 2.5 months on the job. We'd always attempt to exchange good humored small talk whenever our paths crossed, in the kitchen or for business reasons in an office. More often than not, I walked away feeling like she thought I was an idiot. Which is not an altogether pleasant feeling. There was no professional motivation for her not to like me. Our paths didn't cross enough for me to even be in a position to affect her job in any way. It was always just puzzling or just interesting the awkward, opposite chemistry between two strangers.

And now, we have the perfect punctuation. No hug, no deal!

Everything, Everywhere, at the Same Time

2012-01-23T15:51:00.000-08:00

You know me and my rainy days. I was going to write a poem about my feelings on this gloriously rainy morning, but I lost the patience for composition and decided to just explain it directly.

I am paralyzed and terrorized by choices. I get one rainy day and yet I want to spend it six ways from Sunday. To live in sweats for the day, to read, listen to thoughtful music, and to stare out the window or close your eyes and imagine every place you've ever heard the rain pattering. To run in it, splash in it, taste it as it runs off your lips. To laugh when you realize it's just in that moment that it's soaked through the last dry stitch. To keep walking in it anyway. To put on something fancy and show off that dapper new umbrella by walking the downtown streets taking black and white photographs, stopping in for soup and a beer. To drive up the coast, to see it peppering the ocean waves, turning the sand dark. I want to do it all. Yet there is only one choice that can be made, of course. Sometimes that simple truth is hard to accept and the satisfaction of living one of them is lost for not living all of them. Then there's mornings like this one where there is no choice at all, where I sit in a line to exit the freeway for work while the coast-bound traffic whooshes by, calling to me to swerve from obligation.

In other news...

We cashed in my birthday present yesterday, up close and personal seats to the play "Our Town," by Thornton Wilder, starring Helen Hunt. I say up close and personal rather than front row, because of the unique setup of this show. There was no stage. The play was performed on the floor of the theatre, with bleachers for seating behind us lucky folks sitting in chairs lining the performance area, inches from the actors and the action. At one point early on, Helen Hunt was standing directly behind me, over me you might say, addressing the audience. Yes, my heart fluttered. The house lights barely dimmed. This was in-your-face theater, literally. The intimacy was not just a gimmick. This was "Our Town," this was about Us, so there we were, seeing ourselves and the play, seeing the play in ourselves. Can you tell yet that I was a bit floored? It's over twenty-four hours later and I am still feeling affected by it. The third act, about death, was nothing short of profound. (Spoiler alert: If you plan to see (or read) the play, read no further)

It opens in a cemetery, with the dead speaking from their graves, welcoming the newest arrival, Emily, a character we have seen develop from a child, to a young woman in love, to an adult afraid of growing up, and now, into the afterlife. She realizes she can go back, she can relive any day she wants, and she is told that, yes, this is true. But she is also warned not to do it, that it's not what she expects, and that she will only turn and come back. Of course, she goes anyway. Suddenly, the Stage Manager (Hunt) pulls back a curtain at one end of the theatre and this sparse production that has thus far used primarily our imaginations for its props and scenery, gives way to an amazingly realistic set, a quaint kitchen and dining room with working stove. Emily's mother is there making bacon and when the smell reaches you, you're there too. The richness of this set contrasted with the starkness of everything we'd seen up to that point was like a nail into the heart. Her mother is there, her father as well, and even though they can see her and hear her and speak to her, it's not the same. Now that Emily has witnessed beauty on an extra-worldly level, it's too difficult, too confusing for her to exist with those who can't see it. I think she has a line about no one having time to look each other in the eyes long enough. She says goodbye for good and returns to the cemetery.

As I laid in bed last night, my mind was occupied with this third act, giving way (any topic thought of in bed always gives way to a dozen others) to thoughts of death, or more specifically, the afterlife. Let me just stipulate right from the beginning that I don't believe it's possible for us to comprehend what the afterlife actually is. I think it's beyond our abilities as humans to understand. And yet who can help but to ponder the possibilities. What if my rainy day conundrum speaks in some way to what it means to move on after death? Maybe it means that you don't have to choose where to go or what to do because you are everywhere at once. Every place you could ever be, you are. Every experience you could possibly have, you are having, simultaneously. The question of where are you, what are you doing holds no meaning. What if the most beautiful, joyous moments we'll ever know in this world are merely a view through a pinhole to a flickering candle in the next room? Perhaps what awaits us is to become the fire itself. Maybe to leave our bodies is not merely to lose shape or to fade to black, but to lose the separation between the inner consciousness and the outer world. We would no longer give love or receive love to and from the others we meet, we would be love itself as it exists among everything that ever was. If God is love, we would be ultimately united. I don't think I could walk away from that either.

Forgive me for getting all mystical. I assure you, I am not under the influence of any controlled substances, unless by way of flashback. I hope you can at least appreciate my inspiration, if not where it led me. I believe that art at its best inspires us to better understand ourselves and our world, provoking questions if not providing answers. "Our Town," to me, most certainly did that. Not bad, Mr. Wilder. To be fair and to perhaps diffuse my effusiveness, I didn't walk out of the theatre with my hair turned white. I wasn't bawling or walking on air. In fact, as we drove away from the theatre, towards the sun setting into the seeming eternity of the Pacific Ocean, we decided to go shopping. I know.

So this is the new year...

2012-01-08T21:39:00.000-08:00

Blogging is a lot like sex. Sometimes, even in the absence of true inspiration, you have to do it just to prove to yourself that you still can. Here goes nothin'...

Tomorrow night marks my return to acting class and I could not be more excited. It was an unexpected and unexpectedly long hiatus since my last class ended and I could not be more excited to get back. I think what I look forward to most is the feeling of being completely open and unguarded, which I think I can say with some confidence, is essential. It's a feeling of freedom, a sense that while successes bring elation and joy, even the failures are equally potent reminders that I'm alive and giving myself to something. I compare it, as I do so many things, to standing in the ocean and braving the pounding of oncoming waves. Whether you time your jump and ride the rising water like a zero gravity trampoline or whether your legs are swept from beneath you and you're sent tumbling ass-over-head into the sand, you're having fun regardless. I can't wait to just be out there. So there's that.

As much as I love Christmas, there is something refreshing and relaxing about January, a month that really isn't under any obligation to mean anything. I guess there is the pressure of the fresh start, the new year's resolutions, but in January, nobody is really holding you accountable for those anyway. Do people even really still make new year's resolutions? Anyway, as much as I love the sentimentality and nostalgia of Christmas, January makes for a crisp, glowing morning after. Call me a cockeyed optimist (really, please do), but I feel good things lay ahead in 2012.

I'm not the least bit stressed, I've just had an incredible vacation, but damn it I could use a long drive. I need to trace the coast, watch a sunset, and eat dinner at some place I've never seen before, just because it looks good. "Smell the sea and feel the sky, let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic" as Van Morrison wrote. It's the same old feeling, I realize. Even an exhausting, thoroughly satisfying vacation begets the adverse cruelty that so much beauty exists in this world, but is unavailable but for those precious, carefully budgeted periods. I just typed that and already I disagree with myself. Vacation and travel is a state of mind, of course, but I know what I meant. It's disappointing to realize you'd like to do so much, but can only do so much. Then again, what an inspiring realization that you'll never be able to do it all.

I know what I am going to do. I'm going to take a step outside this building and take a deep breath*. I'm going to cue up some vacation music for the ride home. I'm going to drink wine. I'm going to grill something. I'm going to celebrate.

*It's become sort of a tradition of mine with the new job. I don't really get to go out for lunch so most days I am inside for ten hours straight, albeit with a great view. Still, that first scent of the real, night air is energizing.

P.S. Another thing about my new office, I'm on a new floor where the paint is barely even dry. The place looks great, but you can tell construction was rushed as little errors pop up. For example, the back hall is carpeted and there are these bubbles where the glue didn't take and the carpet is coming up. I go out of my way to walk down that hallway and I can't stop myself from stepping on the carpet bubbles. It feels good under the foot and makes a nifty little noise. I can't decide if this is OCD or living life to the fullest.

(BLOGGER IS APPARENTLY PUNISHING ME FOR MY DORMANCY BY DENYING ME MY RIGHT TO USE PARAGRAPHS. BLAME THEM, NOT ME.)

Mixed Bag Monday

2011-10-24T17:47:00.001-07:00

--Has anyone tried this new series, "American Horror Story" on FX? I only made it about 11 minutes into the first episode before I could take no more. First of all, it was a ridiculous, jumbled mess that was just throwing every horror trick/cliche in the book at us in those first 11 minutes, hitting us over the head like an ax. But really what pissed me/turned me off was their despicable use of Down Syndrome as a scare tactic. If they say that wasn't their intent, they are lying. Whatever the relevant organization is should be all over Ryan Murphy like hair on a bear.

--File under: Power of Music...I did not sleep well at all Thursday night. I woke up a dozen times and had really weird dreams. About an hour or two before my alarm went off, I senses how tired I was going to be when I had to get up and I was already in a bad mood about it. Then the alarm actually did go off and my mood was instantly flipped from foul to fantastic. The song? Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You." Say what you will about the quality of this song in the context of his expansive catalog, but I just love it. Clearly, it affects me on a gut level because I was smiling and dancing prostrate. Thank you, K-Earth. To boot, any possible cases of the Mondays was stopped in its tracks this morning by "Stayin' Alive," my alarm clicking on a half a second before the first note.

I Left My Heart in New York

2011-10-19T17:04:00.000-07:00

You know those annoying people who talk a mile-a-minute and have no internal editor, explaining everything in the painstaking detail of their actual thought process? For example:

Normal Person: Traffic sure sucked coming in today, didn't it?

Abnormal Person: It totally sucked. I normally just take the 170 to the 101 to the 405, but even the 170 was completely jammed so I got off and took sidestreets to the 101 which was also a parking lot. So then I took Ventura instead but so did everyone else. Plus, there were like 2 accidents and then when I finally got to the 405...

And on and on. Anyway, forgive me for becoming that person for the length of this post because I have not the energy or will to compose this post properly (I kind of already started down this path, didn't I).

I was back in New York last weekend. Sigh. It was really nice to be back although I was reminded again how whenever I go back there is always a tinge of sadness lingering in there in the background. I went through some tumultuous times in New York. Nothing close to the proverbial shit millions of people around the world wade through every day, just to keep things in perspective. But for a privileged American male like myself, they were absolutely some emotionally mucky times. Since I left a mere days after graduation and have only been back maybe eight times since, I don't think the city and I ever got full closure on those times. Don't get me wrong, it doesn't affect my ability to enjoy the trip, not even close. If anything, the old memories enhance my experience for their added texture and context.

On Thursday we zigged and zagged through the charming West Village, my favorite neighborhood. It's an area I didn't see much of when I was in school despite it's close proximity. I think that's because there's no attraction to really draw you there, with the exception of shopping which I never had money for and Magnolia Bakery, which hadn't blown up yet then, if it even existed. To me, the West Village is for strolling, just walking and absorbing for the sake of doing so. I don't think I did such things in college. There was this one block where Commerce Street dead-ended into a curve at the end with beautiful old brownstones lining either side, a full canopy of trees overhead. Near the end of the block, was the small, but character-rich Cherry Lane Theatre. It was one of those scenes where you can't help but just stop and stare. And then right there on this whisper of a street, singer-songwriter Ben Taylor walks right in front of us and into one of the buildings. I'm not sure most people would have noticed, but I'm a loyal fan so it was that weird, random kind of cool.

Thursday night was the Indigo Girls concert at the Beacon Theatre on the Upper West Side. I love coincidences that feel like more and this show had the makings of such a night early on. I'd always wanted to see the Indigo Girls (go ahead, make your pithy jokes, punks!), but had never seen them come into town until a recent show at The Troubadour...which I could not go to because I had a class that night. I was really bummed about that. I was trolling the concert listings a few days before we left for NY, just looking for something remotely familiar that we could make an evening out of, when I saw the listing. The show was sold out by the time we walked in, but somehow I was able to get great seats in the 6th row. Also, come to find out, our friend Marjorie lives literally around the corner from the Beacon. We met for dinner and pre-show drinks, had a grand ol' time. I haven't even gotten to the actual concert yet. I may have already used up all my powers of description for concerts because I now find myself searching in vain for the words. It was really, really good. It occurred to me as I sang along to songs like "Get Out the Map," "Power of Two," and "Closer to Fine," that I was just discovering a lot of their music when I was there in college. I remembered the comfort and inspiration I drew from it then as I was navigating all that confusion, uncertainty, and self-doubt. It felt right that I would finally see them live for the first time in New York. New York, home of the finest concertgoers I have ever shared a standing "O" with. Nicole has been bemoaning the LA concertgoer as passionless and drab for years, and I always defended them. Not anymore. At the best shows I have ever seen in LA, there is always a slight sense of self-consciousness, a withholding. If the band says sing along, people might do so, but only at a level where they will be safe from anyone hearing their voice individually. I am guilty of this myself. I am prepared to own it, we Los Angelenos are, generally, a tame, laid back species. Even when we are truly excited to be at a show and having the time of our lives there, we keep it inside. We let it all out when we get back to the anonymity of our cars. On this Thursday night, the people of the Beacon showed me how it's supposed to be done. When we were called on to sing along, we did not slowly build momentum as we fought back nerves; we belted proud on the first cue. We were not cordially encouraged to sing one chorus, we were assigned entire verses of intelligent lyrics and we answered with gusto, loud and united, an acoustic choir raining down from the highest seat in the balcony. At the end of the show as they were taking their final bow, one of the Girls, I forget which one, said, "Thank you! We fuckin' love New York City!" I could see why. As the lights came up and we began filing out, half the theatre was dancing to the recorded exit music for crying out loud.

As we stepped out into the humidity of the intermittent rain, I was reminded of my favorite quality of New York. I will keep it brief because it's a total cliche, but it's the inherent, inescapable energy of the city. There is electricity in the air. Walking the streets, going to dinner, running out for paprika--everything you do feels like an event. It's invigorating and inspiring. I feel more alive there. I feel like my mind is more active, my neurons firing like the crack of sparks from that pole at the back of a bumper car that conducts its power. I'm sure this can't be right, but I don't recall ever finding myself with nothing on my mind there. I recall nary a dinner where any of us looked at each other blankly. It's like being on drugs, usually for better, sometimes for worse (My mental server crashed one night way back when, I melted down).

And on Friday, we shopped. I don't have anything to say about that part really. It was just shopping. Although I did get a peanut butter and jelly donut from Dean & Deluca which turned out to be a failure in my expert opinion. It was really a jelly donut with peanut butter coating the outside. It didn't taste bad but it didn't live up to expectations. If I am going to have such an indulgence, I want it to be worth it. What they should have done is inject the peanut butter into the middle, co-mingling with the jelly and then coated the outside of the donut in sugar. I am confident that donut would have delivered. Ah well.

Our efforts at Broadway were meek and non-committal other than to confirm we would certainly see something. We ended up at TKTS taking whatever they had that we had not already seen in movie form (Sister Act, The Musical? Seriously?), i.e. "Godspell." We had no friggin' clue what "Godspell" was until hours later. We were less than enthused going in, but it actually turned out to be a very entertaining show. The storytelling was a little dense but the staging, modernization, and performances were all outstanding. So there. After the show, we went back to Brooklyn, the hipster part of which I still had never visited. I found it very welcoming on this night. We were pretty sure the bartender had a crush on me because he kept bringing us free drinks. I'm a team player (and a ham) so, what the hell, I played ball.

Saturday we met my other former roommate, whom I hadn't seen in years. We ended up eating at a restaurant right on the corner of our old dorm, a place I had always seen but never felt cool enough to visit (perhaps I had self-esteem issues). He had been studying medicine in Israel and just recently gotten married so it was one of those weird, "wow, I guess we grew up" kind of visits. It's amazing to feel mostly the same and then suddenly realize how far you've actually come, isn't it? Then again, he did also draw me detailed instructions on how to pick a padlock, something he had devoted a lot of time to recently.

Central Park on a Saturday afternoon, one of my favorite places in the world. It's the one single thing I just have to see every time I am in the city. It's where I used to escape to when I felt like I needed to figure things out. I don't think I ever did, but I at least felt a little better whenever I was there. The leaves hadn't really begun to change but plenty were still falling and had fallen, giving me the taste of Fall I had been fantasizing about since booking the trip. I haven't looked at the photos yet, but I swear I got one looking through hanging branches onto a leaf strewn field with some guys playing football (get your mind out of the gutter), the quarterback's arm raised, just about to throw. That's the other thing about New York, production value. Everywhere you look, it just feels like you are living in a movie and it usually feels like a pretty good one. Does this metaphor work...In LA, I feel like the actor, but in New York, I feel like the character? I know, I'm laying it on thick and cheesy now. I'll get some tea and take a break.

Saturday night, Chirag...Wait, I can't believe I haven't mentioned Chirag until now. We stayed with my old roommate, friend, and groomsman at my wedding, Chirag and his wonderful fiance Kristen. They are fantastic hosts and great friends. Now then...So Chirag and Kristen took us to this Italian place in Brooklyn that had to have been there for a hundred years. One of those places with waiters in tuxedos and a wise guy behind the bar. I was compelled to order a martini immediately. That kind of place. It was awesome, and the food was some of the best, freshest Italian I've ever tasted. After dinner, Chirag and I climbed (there was a ladder) to the roof of his building for a manly cigar and talk, with the Manhattan skyline as our view. You can't beat a good man-to-man talk on a rooftop, I tell ya. We used to have long, philosophical conversations back in room 6-E as I recall. Granted, one of us was probably high most of the time which probably contributed to the length and philosophical nature of them. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall now for one of those sessions.

Sunday was our last day in town and we spent the early part of it in classic fashion, shopping for knockoff purses on Canal Street. This was a first for me, and quite the experience. It's illegal, of course, so there is a whole dance of a process you have to go through to avoid The Law. First, you tell them what you're looking for and then they show you a photo grid of everything they have that fits that description. You pick which one you like and then they lead you on a 3-block pilgrimage to some other corner where their people are or where they have deemed to be safe. You negotiate a price, they send a runner to go get the bag. In the meantime, three or four other sellers will gauge your interest in a Rolex watch or a wallet. I looked at a Rolex myself, but it just wasn't my style. Then they bring your item in a black bag so inconspicuous it's conspicuous. Money exchanges hands and you parts ways. It was really fun, almost like a scavenger hunt or a murder mystery dinner but with real players. At one point a cop car pulled up, an officer getting out on foot and suddenly thirty people scattered like rats. As it turns out, he was getting some gum at the newsstand and we avoided a ride in a police car.

We finished off the trip with a massive pastrami sandwich at Katz's Delicatessen, home of the famous Meg Ryan faux-gasm scene from my favorite movie of all-time, "When Harry Met Sally." I'm a dork and I actually do get excited to see locations from movies that mean something to me. The pastrami there is the best I've ever had too, so it works out. As I think about it now though, the sandwiches they are eating in the movie look nothing like what you actually get there. They are eating these tiny little sandwiches that you might get at some bistro somewhere, not the ginormous mounds of meat they give you now. Anyway.

Just like that, it was time to say goodbye to the city once again. Halfway through Day One, I mostly-jokingly told Nicole to think about moving there. I checked in on Day Two and was not surprised to hear she had ruled it out, but stipulated that we should visit more often. I'll take that.

See you again in May, old friend.

P.S. We flew Virgin America, my first experience with them. At first, I was skeptical. The purple lighting and spacey entertainment stations reminded me a lot of Space Mountain which is hardly the type of ride I am looking for on a commercial flight. On the ride home though, the ability to order drinks on demand won me over.

I'm alive, but is my blog dying?

2011-10-05T14:02:00.000-07:00

I think it might be.

The posts have been few (very few) and far between. At first, I was just insanely busy with class and work and squeezing normal life in between. Now I've got plenty of time, but do to a shitstorm at work, I dare not blog for how it will look in my daily productivity report. Consider this very post a quiet act of rebellion on a beautiful rainy day wherein I am feeling sentimental and carefree.

Where do we go from here? I feel my blogging muscles have atrophied. Do I have anything to say for myself?

--Isn't it sad when you someone you've known for years suddenly seems flimsily two-dimensional and utterly fucking annoying to you? I'm not even talking about someone I would call a friend. I can only imagine what it must be like for people to feel this way about a girlfriend or boyfriend, anyone they love. I wonder if anybody's ever felt this way about me.

--If there were ever a day to call in sick, it might have been today. A truly gloomy, rainy day in the heart of Fall? Good lord, it took everything I had not to throw the sweats on today, curl up on the couch, and try for my best sick voice. Alas, the timing for such a ploy could not be worse and inevitably, I end up wondering all day whether or not I pulled it off. I think if I got fired right now I actually would not be the slightest bit stressed about it until the morning, so happy would I be to get to go home and enjoy this afternoon. I would make beef stew and beer bread.

--Why is no one up for Oktoberfest this year? I know last year didn't go exactly according to plan with the party bus crashing and someone puking on my lederhosen, but I thought the during part was good anyway.

--Bill Brasky, if you're reading this, I miss your musk. It's been too long. Give me a call.

--Call me crazy but I love Disneyland in the rain. The lightweights stay home and it's just the pros and the tourists with the run of the park. It reminds me of the old days when all you had to do was go on a weekday to avoid the crowds. Last time I went on a rainy day, we did every relevant ride at least twice, including CA Adventure, and still had plenty of time to squeeze in those special times at Disneyland where you just sit and take it all in or even try something you've never bothered with before. Wow, we even did Tarzan's Treehouse that day. What I wouldn't give for a coffee, a churro, and a haunted mansion right about now.

Well, alright, time to look busy.

Confessions of a Junkie

2011-08-25T17:15:00.000-07:00

Well, I caved. I just couldn't hold out any longer. It wasn't a full cave though, just a toe-in-the-water cave. I got out the pumpkin spice candle. I know! It's still August! More than a week 'til friggin' Labor Day! In my defense, it was not a fresh one, but, rather, the scant remnants of last year's candle. I think I killed it with one burn so it was a merciful act more than anything.

Here's the thing, I saw a red leaf on the ground this week. The leaves, (one by one) they are a changin'. Not only that, but football is back. My pops goes to Starbucks every morning; I got him on Pumpkin Spice Latte Watch (still not back). Today I got an email from BB&B advertising their fall-scented Yankee Candles.

I just can't take it anymore. I'm ready already. Of course, Mother Nature has responded with the hottest weekend of the summer, but I care not. I am hardly announcing or celebrating the arrival of fall (not even my imaginary one), but merely getting my autumnal ducks in a row. I'm getting the fall boxes out of the attic and making sure all is accounted for, so to speak. But know know this, my friends...Come September 5th, I go balls to the wall for Fall. Mark it, Dude.

Reasons I Love Portland

2011-08-02T10:03:00.000-07:00

Brew Festivus!

I think they have Captain Morgan everywhere, but still...

The Boys at Brewfest!

--Architectural and geographical dynamism. I love a city that is visually compelling. I like old buildings, whether they've been renovated or left alone. I like waterfronts and bridges, of which Portland certainly has plenty. I love tree-lined streets. I also need some sort of backdrop. It doesn't have to be anything big, just not flat. When I lived in Sherman Oaks, I could look out my kitchen window and see "The Hill," with it's many houses looking down on us. It was not even a mountain, but it did the trick just fine. I need something in the distance. Portland is a double whammy in this department. The city extends up and into foothills in the immediate and the imposing giant, Mount Hood watches from afar.

--Walkability, compactness. On Saturday, we were on our feet all day at Brew Fest, walked all the way to the Timbers game on the other side, then ended up at an Irish pub back across town. We parked the car when we got into town, picked it up when we left, and didn't touch it in between. And we didn't even use the convenient streetcar or Max Lightrail system. I also love viable mass transit that's not a bus. Nothing beats the New York subways, but the spirit of the subway is alive in all train/metro systems.

--Along those same lines, I love Portland for it's small town intimacy intertwined with big city invigoration. Take the Timbers soccer game for example. The open, street-level concourse, the friendly, small scale of the forest green enclosed concourses and the field itself all lent themselves to a feeling of being at a minor league baseball game or a big high school football game. Yet the size and passion of the crowd would rival that of any NFL team in the land. Another example...On Friday, we went to an upscale brewpub where we had four fantastic local micro brews and an "artisan**" pizza (city), but the total bill was a mere twenty bucks (small town). One last example...Portland is home to Powell's City of Books, the largest independent bookstore in the country and one of my absolute musts for every visit. It's three or four stories and takes up an entire city block (big city). Just outside one of the entrances, in a column sculpted to appear as a stack of books, however, are interred the remains of two of Powell's most loyal and passionate customers (small town--albeit a slightly creepy one).

--The beer. They take great pride in their beer in P-town. Home to one of my favorite breweries, Widmer Brothers, Oregon is also the national leader by far when it comes to percentage of local craft brew consumption. Approximately 11 percent of the beer consumed in Oregon is made in Oregon, a significant number when compared to the national average of 3.4 percent (source: New York Times). As a beer lover, I know what I like, but half the fun is being surprised by the beer you'd never heard of. Portland is Beer Mecca. And their wines are pretty damn good too!

--The coffee. The best coffee I've had in America comes from Portland's Stumptown Coffee Roasters. I brought the bigger suitcase just so I could load up.

--I love that I have my Portland staples that I never get tired of, but also the feeling like there is still so much more to explore. Forest Park! The Grotto! The brewpub movies! Fine dining! The Kennedy School! Ringside Steakhouse! When are we going back?

--The weather, as I imagine it anyway. To be fair, I have only been during the summer, when it was sunny and hot and the days were long. However, who loves grey, rainy days more than me? I think I would relish the precipitation. I could stand for average October temps to be a tad lower than their 63, but by November and December, we're talking 52 and 45. Now that's just perfect sweater weather, my friends. With only 3.8 snowy days per year, it's the perfect novelty without any of the hassle. I admit my experience is completely superficial, but for now at least, mark me down as liking if not loving the weather.

--Last but not least, I love Portland because it's got my two buddies Zach and Bill Brasky!

**Can someone please explain to me what the fuck "artisan" really means in terms of bread and pizza? Please.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick...

2011-07-27T15:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, 4th of July is over. Is it Fall yet? Please? Can we bump it up a little at least?

Mixed Bag - Carmageddon Edition!

2011-07-14T16:18:00.000-07:00

--The main thing I hate about going to the dentist is that I can't make any jokes with someone's hands in my mouth. Good stuff, never to be heard. Then again maybe that's why people go into dentistry.

--Carmageddon!! IT IS REAL! I visualize it in one way as one of those black-border motivational posters, a satellite image of gridlocked streets with the caption reading "Clusterfuck, USA." Yesterday's mess was clearly a precursor to Carmageddon. I can only imagine what awaits for tonight's commute to North Hollywood. Since it hasn't officially begun, I can at least appreciate the unity it has brought to an ordinarily detached populace. There is something fun, a slight comraderie that comes with an entire city all talking about the same thing. I remember in hindsight that being one of the things I loved about New York, so much more often are there city issues that everyone is talking about. Anyway, I plan to board the doors and sit in the dark with my music, my whiskey, and a shotgun, watching disaster movies all weekend. Seriously though, I cannot fully express how much I am looking forward to a day or more of being at home and doing absolutely nothing. Or having nothing planned anyway. I have class in NoHo again Sunday night so, in theory, I will be braving the mean streets at some point.

--You know what I don't get? Cheesesteak. The name "cheesesteak" would imply that it's some sort of specialty meat that has been injected with cheese or is otherwise cheese-tasting. In fact, it is simply steak with cheese on top. It's a chopped steak sandwich with cheese on it. It sounds ludicrous, but it is actually possible to have a cheesesteak sandwich sans cheese. That ain't right. "Cheesesteak" is no more cheese-steak than any average cold cut sandwich is a "cheeseham" or a "cheeseturkey" sandwich.

--My state of being yesterday could best be described as emotionally volatile. Stepping out of my car at work, I was feeling on top of the world. And yet a switch was flipped in a matter of minutes as I got to my desk. My coworkers were back after being on location for two weeks. I greeted one of them with a boisterous "good morning!" Nothing. Silence. I repeated my greeting. Long pause, then a quarter-hearted "good morning." "So! What's happening?" Again, dead silence. "Really, that much going on already?" "I'm doing something!!!" I made an angry-cat noise and went to fill my water cup. I won't bore you with the rest. The point is this rudeness and negativity really pissed me off and ruined me for half the work day. I answered the negativity with my own. Finally, I realized how ridiculous it was to do so. I wrote myself a little letter, a pep talk if you will. Then I went outside, took a deep breath, felt the sun on my face, called my wife and all was fine again. I shot a short video (posted below) on my wine excursion last weekend that was intended for these exact moments. Maybe next time I will remember to use it and save myself the huffing and puffing.

--Speaking of my lovely wife, she's out of town. A man always learns things when his wife is out of town, aside from how much he needs his wife. You learn where things are kept. You learn the joyous freedom of being able to fart at will without persecution or condemnation. You learn that it can be an interesting challenge to see how long you can survive off the food on hand, without breaking down and going to the grocery store. You learn that her alarm clock has a projector (?!) built into it that creates a scary, giant, red, LED clock on the ceiling. Yeah, try seeing that for the first time out of the corner of your eye as you are knodding off. It set me back a few minutes. Anyway, that's all.

In the words of Neil Diamond, "Hello again, hello."

2011-06-29T16:39:00.000-07:00

I wish I could say my blogging absence was prolonged by a recent trip to Bali or something, but, no, I've just been really busy. I had the occasional fleeting thought to blog, but nothing came to me that was worth typing. Then I remembered that was hardly my specialty anyway. So screw it, let's blog, baby!

You know what I love? I love being wrong. I love the constant evolution of taste and opinion. For instance, I didn't discover olives until I was maybe 28 years old. And now? Love em. Devour them. Praise olives, I say! I also got a shirt for Christmas that I was not altogether taken with at first. I didn't think it was a color I would feel comfortable wearing. And now that summer has arrived, my fashion sense has thusly warmed and I am having to discipline myself to wear this shirt just often enough that it is not considered a uniform. I can be a man of strong opinions and convictions, most often on topics that are massively insignificant and/or annoying to others. I get great delight from looking back at a past proclamation, a real fist-shaking moment, and realizing I was just wrong. Some other things I was wrong about:

--Owen Wilson. Not willing to celebrate his entire catalog, but I now realize he's a good actor and can be quite endearing in the right role. I don't know who might have been better in "Midnight in Paris."

--Hefeweizen beer. Still not my favorite. Still not something I will opt for often. Yet I am willing to admit that, on a hot summer's day when beer may be imbided, it has its place. I favor Widmer over Pyramid or even Paulaner.

--Bon Ivar's "For Emma, Forever Ago." I'm pretty sure I railed against this album. I remember I was put off by the fact that no one could talk about it without mentioning the cute little story about how he holed up in a winter cabin and did the album himself. I think that maybe soured me a little and then the often unintelligible lyrics and falsetto just put it over the edge. All that stuff is still true, but I've come to really enjoy the album. There are some great melodies, which is the most important thing to me in music anyway.

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You want to know what the most maddening sound in the world is? Silence. Not across the board, of course. Believe me, I value silence as much as anybody and believe we need a lot of more it these days. No, the silence I speak of is very specific. My desk at work sits in a sort of bullpen area shared by my two female coworkers and an empty desk. Back in the old days, we had a grand old time. All day long, we laughed, we argued--we talked. I don't know what happened but these days I may as well be sitting here alone. That would be okay, actually. If there were no one sitting five feet away from me, I would not expect conversation or acknowledgement of existence. However, when there are two people within 49 sq ft of me but neither of them utter 6 words all day, it drives me insane. They both put their little earbuds in and are lost in their own worlds, worlds that are only connected to each other via Instant Messenger. What are they giggling about? I have no friggin' idea. Do I really want to know? Not particularly, but I do think it's rude to carry on as such. You would at least expect that if I initiate a conversation, I would get something back, right? Even if it's a brush off, you would expect that they would at bare minimum say SOMETHING. Wrong. "What are you guys doing for lunch?" Silence. "How was your lunch?" Silence. "After sitting on hold for the last 15 minutes, they just disconnected me. Can you believe that?" UTTER, FRICKIN' SILENCE! I know it's not personal. I know they are not purposely ignoring me due to a grudge of some sort. I honestly don't think they think of me enough at all to muster such feelings. It's like the old saying about how the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Well, I believe that to be true and their silence is a screaming torrent of indifference. I am starting to learn to cope, but it's a struggle.

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And now for the Acting Report.....It's going well. Still having a ball, still taking classes, still working on it. I'd like to think I've made some real progress, but I couldn't say for sure. What am I saying, of course I have. But it is very frustrating because it's a series of small successes followed by failures. And I'm just talking in terms of feeling like you did what you wanted to do in the scence, etc. I thought I had some nice momentum going into this week's class, but then I totally blew it. I was nervous because we had "industry guests" so I was all fired up and over-prepared and just choked, basically. As frustrating as it is though, it is not truly disheartening because every failure really is a learning experience and I always feel the desire to keep working until I get it right. Unfortunately, I don't always get the opportunity to go again because, alas, there are other people in the class too. Anywho, I just started in the "advanced" class which is arbitrary but something, I guess. I've got another class beginning Sunday so then I will have this going four nights a week again at two different places so I should really be rockin' it, so to speak. I also just got my first headshots last weekend. It's a small thing, but it was a big deal for me because that has, for some reason, always been a mental block for me. Maybe I never allowed myself to do it because that would be a way of saying I am really doing this, I am really hanging my balls out there. I think I was afraid to do that. Well, here I am now, balls out.

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My mood these last couple days has been indomitably sunny. Coworkers stone wallin' me? Let 'em keep their earbuds in; that just means I can play my music louder! I did two solid hours of Billy Joel yesterday and I was lovin' life, my friends. The skies are blue, the birds are chirping, the flowers are receiving their due smelling. Add in the music and wine and I am just happy, I tell ya.

I am planning to ride this Spartan spirit straight on through a beautiful 4th of July weekend. My playlists shall abound at parties and home time both! I can almost hear the Bruce(!), smell the BBQ, taste the beer, and feel the sun and pool as we speak. Not to mention Fireworks. I make my return to Vets Stadium this year, hosted by the good ol' Long Beach Fire Department. Their DJ can't be counted upon anymore though so I'll bring my own Lee Greenwood.

Bless you, my friends! Cheers! U-S-A!

Little Things

2011-05-10T11:18:00.000-07:00

Do they mean a lot? Of course they do, sometimes. Then there are other times where they mean absolutely nothing, except to bored minds such as mine.

--Our parking lot at work is wide open. There a couple of reserved spots, but those are not relevant to this little nugget. Still, despite there being virtually no reserved or assigned spots, people tend to park in the same place everyday. That's to be expected, I think. However, one of my coworkers sometimes carpools with another woman whom apparently lives near her. I noticed this morning though that when she drives with her carpool buddy, she parks where the buddy normally parks. When she drives solo, she reverts to her normal spot. Neither spot offers any obvious advantage of shade or proximity to the door. I brought it up to her and she had no explanation or reasoning for this behavior. How does this extend or translate into other areas of her life, I wonder?

--While visiting the kitchen-ish area to wash my morning mug, I noticed the receptionist washing an orange. It occurred to me that I had never heard of a person washing an orange before. Obviously, the orange has a thick protective peel so I've considered there to be a need for washing. Am I alone on this? Has everyone else been washing their oranges outside the net of my awareness?

The Sounds of Summer, Part Deux

2011-05-05T16:08:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm talking about one of the greatest voices in the history of popular music, Mr. Sam Cooke. Is it fair to dub a collection of music approximately 50 years old as The Album of the Summer? Sure, why not. I never said it had to be something new.

I picked up "Sam Cooke: Portrait of a Legend" while at Best Buy to replace my alarm clock and I have since been convinced that that alarm going bad was an alarm going off! It was telling me that the time for Sam Cooke had come! There's thirty songs in this collection with such hits as "Cupid," "(What A) Wonderful World," and "Another Saturday Night,"and others you've never heard before that are every bit as beautiful. You can't not sing along to this music. This is spirit-lifting, soul-jump-starting stuff. It's ice cream cone from Thrifty's music. It's making out at the drive-in music*. This is bike-riding music. It's Sam Freakin' Cooke!

Do yourself a favor and go buy this album, post haste. If you are actually thinking about it, hell, I'll send you a copy. Just get these songs into your ears.

*Can I tell you how proud I am to be a part of the last generation to make out at the drive-in? I weep for these kids that know nothing but multiplex.

Staycation

2011-05-02T11:02:00.000-07:00

I was reminiscing recently about the summers of my early teenage years, the carefree days when having nothing to do was naively construed as a bad thing. There was no real point to it, I was just recalling how long the days seemed and how I used to ride my bike over to Cruiser's every day with my swim trunks and basketball shoes, K-Earth's (oldies) top 500 songs of all-time playing on my Walkman. Walking to the liquor store for strawberry sparkle bars and Arizona iced tea was a common excursion. On an adventurous day we'd even catch the bus down to the beach. Our nightlife consisted of bonfires at Huntington Beach (first pit closest to Jack in the Box--uh huh, right), going to the movies, toilet papering (only our enemies), and going to the Mormon dances with Adam. While these days I love to cut rugs at all speeds, back then the faster songs were a formality, a period to scout our next slow dance target. Plans were never made farther than a day or two in advance because they didn't need to be. We just coasted and drifted, song to song, hour to hour, day to day. It was a great time.

Anyway, it was fun to really focus on those days, recalling specific memories I hadn't thought about in several years. I know I still had it on the brain when I was having lunch with Cruiser Friday, telling him he needed to have a BBQ/pool party. The saying says you can't go home again, and that may be true in many ways, but time is also relative and if you're truly open to it, it's really not that difficult to go back in time. Sometimes it happens without any effort at all, the smells of a certain perfume and a certain leather aligning in just the right way that I can instantly be transported back to the pale green seats of my late grandmother's Oldsmobile.

Where was I going with this...

The weekend, that's right. What a beautiful weekend. I felt like I was on vacation. I love to get out of town as much as the next person, of course, but as I've previously discussed when referencing the book "The Art of Travel," it's wonderful sometimes to realize that travel is a state of mind and that if you put your heart into it, you can have an incredible vacation without really going anywhere. The Staycation, as it's more cleverly dubbed. As I breezed into work this morning, sockless and relaxed, I realized I'd just had such a weekend. There were even moments when I could have sworn I was thirteen and carefree again, to make the hippy passage above not without at least a passing segue.

The music began Friday night. It was night number two of the LA Bluegrass Situation at Largo, a weekend festival of sorts with four nights of music benefiting music programs in local schools, and The Punch Brothers were playing. They killed as they tend to do. My favorite was a seemingly very personal new song titled "Don't Get Married Without Me." New songs mean new albums. This is a good thing.

Saturday morning we slept in. I cannot overstate the joy of this simple accomplishment. It was a nice lazy morning of reading the paper and having coffee. Only when we were absolutely rested and ready did we hop in the car and head down to Manhattan Beach where Nicole shopped briefly and I people-watched. It was an astoundingly gorgeous day of blue skies and 80 degrees. Had we stayed longer than twenty minutes, I might have treated myself to an ice cream cone from the old-fashioned creamery, but we were off to the beach.

Driving home along the beach every night, I had been telling myself I needed to make it a destination instead of a route of passage, for sanity's sake if nothing else. Finally, I was doing it, the sand in the toes, the warmth of the sun, the crisp hush of the waves, the whole bit. I had my ipod, my book, my chair, and my bride. I was lovin' life, my friends.

Alright, I don't want to belabor this or bore you any further with the blow by blow. There was a BBQ with friends and family, there were two more nights of bluegrass and comedy, there was a big fancy anniversary dinner, there was Stan Getz on the stereo all weekend long. The point is that it was relaxing and invigorating at once, as any good vacation should be.

I guess I do have to explain the time travel though, don't I? Okay, so I had about an hour and a half to kill before we left for dinner yesterday. I knew my neighbor was out in his garage messing with his bikes so I seized the opportunity to get my tires inflated and I--get this--rode my bike(!). What a novel concept, I know. Still, it was great. On my beach cruiser, touring the neighborhood in style. The intoxicating scent of a charcoal grill, the guy out washing his VW Beattle in the driveway, the big yellow lab laying across the threshold in the open doorway, the white roses in full, wild bloom, the warm, golden 5 o'clock sunlight peeking and shimmering through the cracks in the canopy of leaves overhead, the quiet peace of a summer afternoon. Such a simple, easy thing to ride my bike around my neighborhood and yet I had never thought to do it. I could swear I was thirteen again, weightless, free, and just generally in love. I realize it's hardly a stretch to say I could have been back in Long Beach since the two 'hoods look similar and it's only 30 miles away regardless, but I could have been back in Long Beach circa 1992. If I could have just closed my eyes, I think I would have been there, but my bike riding balance did not permit it. Close enough.

Anyway, that's it. I realize this post is all over the map, but, hey, this is a blog, not a magazine. Forgive me.

ENOUGH ALREADY!

2011-04-28T11:14:00.000-07:00

I have been biting my tongue on this one because even I realize that this particular inanity is without even a hint of charm, but it's too much, I can't take it anymore. I lack the discipline to continue to turn the other cheek.

First of all, I realize I have a certain level of vanity, which I think justifies my cause in this instance as it takes the form of fashion sense. I fully understand and appreciate a fashion trend. I read the catalogs, I feel the same itch and temptation as the next gal. I am a loyal GQ subscriber for crying out loud. I get it. BUT! I think what we have here is a danger ever present with following fashion trends, but rarely realized. If a trend becomes hot enough and enough people jump on board, it overflows so to speak. You walk down the street and see half the people wearing the exact same thing. In that case, the point of fashion, to express oneself or at least project one's ideal image of oneself, is turned on its head. The desire to look special ends up making you look quite ordinary and humorously conformist.

In other words...

CAN WE FUCKING STOP WITH THE NAUTICAL-ISH BLUE-AND-WHITE HORIZONTAL STRIPED SHIRTS AND SWEATERS?!?!?!?!?! ENOUGH ALREADY!!! IT'S TOO MUCH!!! NO ONE IS SAILING!!! AS EXPLAINED ABOVE, IT'S A NICE LOOKING GARMENT, BUT IT LOOKS STUPID WHEN EVERY THIRD PERSON IS WEARING IT AND EVEN WORSE WHEN YOU HAVE THREE VARIATIONS OF IT AND WEAR ALL THREE IN ANY GIVEN WORK WEEK!

(Deep breath)

Sorry, I know that sounds petty, but I just needed to vent.

Can we talk about music for a minute?

2011-04-15T15:32:00.000-07:00

Because, frankly, I am overwhelmed. Also, I woke up this morning to "I Saw Her Standing There" so this day was decided from the start.

I'm a big concert guy. Last summer, I barely went to any shows at all. There was nothing that I felt like I absolutely had to see, nothing that justified the cost, and it just kind of felt like a down year anyway. Apparently, that was merely an offsetting precursor to this summer. We are officially looking at the Summer of Music(Love), folks. Here are the shows that have so far moved me to put my cats and car in hock:

Paul Simon @ The Music Box

Punch Brothers @ Largo

Mindy Smith @ Bootleg Theater (not yet purchased, yet a foregone conclusion)

Steep Canyon Rangers w/Steve Martin @ Largo

Brandi Carlile @ House of Blues, Anaheim

Stephen Kellogg @ Bootleg Theater

Star Wars in Concert @ Hollywood Bowl

Alison Krauss & Union Station @ The Greek Theatre

Eddie Vedder @ Long Beach Terrace Theatre

The Avett Brothers @ Pechanga Resort & Casino

And that's not even counting Prince's 21-night run that is an irresistible $25/person including fees! Couple that concert mania with the fact that I have been flooded with new(to me, at least) music in the last week. My buddy T-Bone dropped about 8 new albums on me just before about 7 other new albums from some of my favorite artists came out on the following Tuesday. Thank the lawd for the Amazon MP3 store and their great sales. One in particular that I need to talk to you about is the new album from Brett Dennen, "Loverboy." I think the best introduction to the album is provided by the man himself on the inside cover of the CD jacket:

This is an ode to the wonderful feeling of love. Whether it be romantic, friendly, or just plain caring for people. This album is about having fun and letting go, even if it hurts. Enjoy it in the car, on the dance floor, in headphones, or even on your scrawny little computer speakers. If you love it, share with a friend. If you don't love it, listen to something else that makes you happy. Don't take it too seriously. Thank you for all your love and support.

Mark me down in the "love it, share it with a friend" camp. I lurve this album. Friends, I defy you to listen to the song posted above at a volume level exceeding social acceptance and NOT find yourself dancing. I was blasting this song on my way into work this morning and I was literally moved to tears of joy. This is infectious, joyous, life-celebrating music and, although it only entered my life yesterday, I am already eating it alive. I'm gonna go out on a limb here and declare "Loverboy," officially, The Album of the Summer*. There it is! Boom! I just did that!

*Honorable mention to Guster's "Easy Wonderful." Have no doubt, you will be right up in there, but you released just a little too early to take the title**.

**Story of my life.

I'm back with more pointless drivel!

2011-04-05T15:20:00.000-07:00

--I really don't understand why my neighbors have such a hard time avoiding the snails on the sidewalk. Part of me thinks they are not trying to avoid them at all. Part of me thinks they are sadistic, serial killers of innocent, slow-moving gastropads. It's beginning to bother me, actually. As I am hunched over catching my breath after running, I've started taking a closer look at these little guys and I've taken a bit of a liking to them. They're cute. Sure, they eat the plants, but I don't exactly see the garden in dire straits. Just yesterday, I saw a little baby snail. He/she was pointed right at the crushed carcus of an adult snail. I know how ridiculous this sounds as I know snails are not emotional creatures, but, still, I felt for the poor little thing. SAVE THE SNAILS! Hey, that sounds like a great t-shirt.

----If you know me at all, you would probably guess that my alarm clock is set to wake me up with the radio. If I knew me and I were guessing, I would go so far as to venture that I probably had one of those Ipod alarm clocks, complete with its own wake-up playlist*. Well, we would all be wrong. For years, I've gone the way of the buzzer, thinking it was more likely to actually wake me up rather than provide a musical score to my dream state. Last week, I began to question this paradigm. I decided to try the radio. Friends, I will never go back. Isn't it incredible how often the timing of the alarm kicking on and the radio playing the perfect song are miraculously in sync? Friday morning, I woke up to the opening notes of "Grease," I shit you not. My other fear during my buzzer era was that my waking state could be quite volatile emotionally and the wrong song could ruin my day before it even started. Admittedly, I can't yet rule this out entirely, but I will say that the commercials I have encountered a couple of times have caused nothing worse than a snooze hit. And, of course, how could I have underestimated the sheer joy of waking up to the right song? Yes friends, I'm a radio waker now. Who says people don't change?

----The weather is conspiring against me it would seem. All week, as I am required to slave away indoors, the skies are gorgeous powder or royal blue, the sun is shining warmly and brightly, the slight breeze only serving to transport the smell of flowers in bloom. It's agonizing to the soul to see it out there through a 10-square-foot portal of tinted glass while I sit in this dank, swampy tin can of an office. Then the weekend comes and you can imagine me with my flip flops, short shorts, and beach towel, ready to catch some rays only to open the door and have it blown back in my face by a gust of wind from an overcast sky. NO FAIR, I say! In the words of Mel Gibson's character in "Random," GIMME BACK MY SUN!!** And we're right on pace for the same thing to repeat this weekend! ARGH! I'm going to my first baseball game of the season on Sunday and I'll be damned if I am taking a sweatshirt!

*As I think about this, I realize I need one immediately for the sole purpose of waking each and every morning to "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go." I just can't imagine it gets any better than that.

**That's someone else's joke and I have been trying for years to remember where I saw it. I may never know.

If Not Now, When?

2011-01-24T14:41:00.001-08:00

That's the question I saw painted over the door when I walked in. I wondered if it was really there for all to see or if my nerves had steered me into hallucination. Still unsure, I proceeded inside, took a seat in the black room and began talking to whomever was seated nearest me. It's a rare level of nervousness which manifests as outgoing. Once we got started and everyone was introduced, the tension began to release. These were nice enough people and they were no less insecure on that Saturday than I was. Within an hour, I was staring into the eyes of a complete stranger, holding hands and on the verge of tears. This was my reintroduction to acting.

It had been a long time since the glory days of high school drama. My dad and stepmom say they have never seen me as high on life as when I came off the stage from performing in "Hello, Dolly." They're probably right. Being eighteen years old, I took that feeling for granted, or perhaps I just didn't fully understand how rare and precious that feeling becomes later in life. I managed to sneak a few acting classes into my college coursework over the years, but it was really just a keep-in-touch sort of thing, as much as I still enjoyed it. I had decided that I wanted to be behind the camera, so film school was the route I chose. Thinking back now, I'm not sure why I made the choice to put acting off to the side. I think part of it was cynicism about what a theatre degree would "mean" in the real world. Maybe film seemed at least a little more practical without totally selling out my dreams. There was probably an element of intimidation and fear in there as well. Big fish finds himself in a giant pond with thousands of fish skinnier, prettier, and more brash than he, that sort of thing. To some degree, I think I chickened out. I do remember actually thinking to myself that I would pursue writing and then wiggle my way into my own projects as an actor.

The joke, of course, was on me. There is no easy way, no fast track to finding true fulfillment. I was naive and, I'll say it, weak in giving up so easily. Five years after graduating college, I found myself working in the film and TV business, but as an accountant, of all things. Turns out, writing is pretty tough to break into as well. As I would sit in my office, lost, idly wondering what I could have done differently, what I could do now to recapture that feeling of purpose, of pride and passion. I would think about acting. I thought maybe I could find a community theatre production and go for that. I didn't want to go pro, I just wanted to taste the feeling of acting again. Despite my googling for theatre groups, glasses, etc., I never found the right fit. This went on for years.

Thank God for Groupon*. There it was staring at me right in the inbox. A three-hour acting class, offered as a preview of the full class, for thirty bucks. I checked my calendar, but there were no excuses to be found. I let it marinate for a few hours, which is to say I gave myself time to talk myself out of it. Luckily, that little voice inside that always tries to keep things safe and easy could muster no argument more compelling than the simple truth that I was more likely to regret not doing this than to regret giving it a try. I booked it.

The class was taught by the founder of the school, and I was instantly impressed by him. Everything he said was hitting me like a spear to the heart. Opening yourself up to your partner (and the world) and letting go of your fear of what may happen when you do...Focusing on your partner, finding all your answers in them...Keenly observing what they are communicating to you with their energy, their body language, their eyes, regardless of their words...Learning to let go of your preconceived notions of how something should sound and just live it without thinking about it...Resisting the urge to make it about you, to put on a show, to "feel" what you interpret the "correct" feeling to be...Acting or no acting, these were ways to live life. I was in. Also, the shit worked. At the start of class, we were paired up and given scenes to read on stage, in front of the class and a video camera. Then we spent the next hour and a half going through exercises designed to aid us in truly connecting with our partner. Thus the hand-holding and almost-tears. At the conclusion of class, we did our scenes again and then they played back the two versions. It was night and day. Don't get me wrong, we weren't miraculously transformed into Phillip Seymour Hoffman or Meryl Streep. The latter scenes were not "good" per se in that you would pay to see them, but without fail, across the board, they were absolutely more real. In three hours, you could see definitive progress in both the experienced actors and the people who had never taken a class in their lives. When I walked out of that class and you might have expected me to kick my heels in the air I was so overjoyed. I felt overwhelmingly like....myself, if that makes sense. More so than I had in a long time, I realized.

I may have paused again, but there was little doubt I was going to sign up for the full 4-week, 5-nights-a-week class. It was the rare risk you actually look forward to taking. I couldn't get it off my brain for the month/month and a half before it started. And now that it has...Let me tell you, I am not a great writer, but I think I have my moments. At the very least, I feel like I can clearly express my feelings. Not this time. As I write these words, I feel like a second grader explaining the theory of relativity. I have found myself, my friends. My heart leaps. My soul sings. My spirit glows with a tireless nuclear pulse that cares nothing for rest and has an insatiable appetite for work. I have been keeping a journal to track what I have learned as well as my feelings about the experience. On my second entry, I see that I wrote "How could I stop doing this?" Five nights a week, I am driving through some of the worst, most debilitating traffic known to man and I haven't groaned or shuddered once. All I can see is what's on the other side of it. I am alive! I was trying to track down my copy of "Outliers" because I wanted to quote it, but I'll rather badly paraphrase that it described a person's dance-in-the-kitchen moment, that moment where something clicks and they suddenly realize what they are going to do with themselves. I feel like I am having that moment after class every single night. It's a shame that it's so late and Nicole is asleep because there are jigs to be danced.

I know what you're thinking. The answer is I don't know. As giddy and exuberant as I feel, I am not naive. While I certainly can fantasize about quitting my day job and doing this full time, I realize my chances of making a living out of this are one-in-a-million. I'm not eighteen anymore. I'm thirty-two with all the responsibilities that entails (sans children). The beauty of it is, I don't care. I don't expect that I will be making this my job, but I know that I have found my work. I will continue to study. I will continue to work, in classes, student films, community theatre, or wherever they will have me. I'll act for my cats on the stage of my living room if all else fails. The joy is in the doing, not in the having. It's an incredibly liberating feeling.

We're just coming to the end of Week 3 with one more to go. It's going to be sad when it's over. It will be nice to get more sleep, see my wife, be able to watch a movie or a game during the week and ween myself off my burgeoning caffeine dependency, but I will certainly miss the invigoration of heart and the freedom from the constraints of self-consciousness I have enjoyed each night. I know I will be itching to get back at it. I'll make the most out of a short break and then start the next class in March. Assuming they'll have me, which I think is likely, but not a certainty.

I feel like Jerry Maguire at the copymat, mission statement in hand.

...And that's the big problem with Costco peanut butter.

2011-01-20T16:46:00.000-08:00

The jars, while economical, are just too damn big. Even using your longest butter knife, when that jar runs low it's like staring down into an infinite abyss. I'm just trying to make a PBJ and you'd think I was carving a jack-o-lantern. I get back to my desk and I have peanut butter on my elbows. Come on guys, either shorten the depth or widen the mouth. The peanut butter public is begging you.

The Art of Travel

2011-01-09T15:49:00.000-08:00

I like to read as much as the next person. I've usually got a book by my bed side and another in my desk drawer at work, but I am far from what you might call "avid." As much I usually enjoy the books I read, it's not often that I encounter one that hits me in the gut, that speaks to my soul, that truly touches and enlightens me. I was lucky enough to finish one such book recently, The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton.

I love to travel, not simply for the destination, but for the process as well. I love the anticipation that hangs in the air at any airport, the empowering anonymity of flying alone, and the freshness and curiosity with which new places inspire to be viewed. The Art of Travel examines how and why we travel with the wit, charm, and insight to make you realize that, with the right mindset, a voyage around your own bedroom can be as fascinating as a trip around the world. Divided into five sections, "Departure," "Motives," "Landscape," "Art," and "Return," de Botton weaves and relates his own travel experiences with the experiences and writings of fellow travelers such as Vincent Van Gogh, William Wordsworth, and Edward Hopper. A big part of why I found this book so moving was de Botton's analysis of the work of Van Gogh and Hopper, two of my favorite artists.

"Hopper also took an interest in trains. He was drawn to the atmosphere inside half-empty carriages making their way across a landscape: the silence that reigns inside while the wheels beat in rhythm against the rails outside, the dreaminess fostered by the noise and the view from the windows--a dreaminess in which we seem to stand outside our normal selves and to have access to thoughts and memories that may not arise in more settled circumstances. The woman in Compartment C, Car 293 (1938) seems in such a frame of mind, reading her book and shifting her gaze between the carriage and the view."

Which gives way to de Botton expanded on the idea...

"Journeys are the midwives of though. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than moving planes, ships or trains. There is an almost quaint correlation between what is before our eyes and the thoughts we are able to have in our heads: large thoughts at times requiring large views, and new thoughts, new places. Introspective reflections that might otherwise be liable to stall are helped along by the flow of the landscape. The mind may be reluctant to think properly when thinking is all it's supposed to do; the task can be as paralysing as having to tell a joke or mimic an accent on demand. Thinking improves when parts of the mind are given other tasks--charged with listening to music, for example, or following a line of trees. The music or the view distracts for a time the nervous, censorious, practical part of the mind which is inclined to shut down when it notices something difficult emerging in consciousness, and which runs scared of memories, longings, and introspective or original ideas, preferring instead the administrative and the impersonal."

Can I get an "Amen?" I was two drinks deep at thirty thousand feet and listening to jazz when I read that and my heart practically sprang out of my shirt. Those moments are so special when you truly connect to an artistic work, when you feel that it represents your own thoughts or experiences so absolutely perfectly and articulates real meaning from what may have been abstract feelings or intuitions. Aside from my wallet, my phone, and my ipod, the one thing I always make sure to have on my person when traveling is my little notebook, for the exact reason described my de Botton above. Now are these musings any more valuable to the world than "Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy?" Maybe not, but isn't there great personal value in at least charming or provoking yourself?

Some other pearls pulled from the many pages I dog-eared in this book:

"If we find poetry in the service station and the motel, if we are drawn to the airport or the train carriage, it is perhaps because, despite their architectural compromises and discomforts, despite their garish colors and harsh lighting, we implicitly feel that these isolated places offer us a setting for an alternative to the selfish ease, the habits and confinement of the ordinary, rooted world."

"I'm obsessed with inventing stories for people I come across. An overwhelming curiosity makes me ask myself what their lives might be like. I want to know what they do, where they're from, their names, what they're thinking about at that moment, what they regret, what they hope for, whom they've loved, what they dream of...and if they happen to be a woman (especially youngish ones), then the urge becomes intense."

"Decades later, the Alps would continue to live within (Wordsworth) and to strengthen his spirit whenever he evoked them. Their survival led him to argue that we may see in nature certain scenes that will stay with us throughout our lives and offer us, every time they enter our consciousness, both a contrast to and relief from present difficulties."

"There were bits of paper all over the car now. The standard of the word-painting was not far above that of my childlike drawing of an oak tree in the Langdale Valley. But quality was not the point. I had at least attempted to follow one strand of what Ruskin judged to be the twin purposes of art: to make send of pain and to fathom the sources of beauty."

I was about to quote one more when I realized it was the closing line of the entire book. There's nothing better than a great last line so, on the off chance you might read The Art of Travel for yourself, I don't want to deny you the satisfaction.

There are not many books that I read again and again over the years. This is certainly going to be one of them.

The Future's So Bright, I guess

2011-01-07T11:04:00.000-08:00

Greetings, friends. I've got a bigger, better post in me still, but I wanted to take a second to talk about sunglasses. They are a privelage, not a right. If it were up to me, anyone who's abusing 'em would be losin' 'em (I feel so Sarah Palin right now). Obviously, we're all familiar with the primary offense of wearing sunglasses at night or indoors. Unless your name is Jack Nicholson, Jay-Z, or Kanye West, it's just not acceptable. I'm not even willing to discuss this. Period, end of story. A secondary offense, however, is growing in popularity and, I feel, needs to be addressed. Yes, I'm talking about these people that wear their sunglasses indoors, but rest them on their head like a hair clip or a headband. If you just popped inside for a minute between beach volleyball games or some yard work, fine. But if you are sitting at your desk for 8 hours in a windowless building, there is simply no reasonable excuse for keeping your sunglasses on your head.

Someday I'll get it right, a true story

2010-12-07T15:29:00.000-08:00

One of the first gifts I ever gave my future wife was a pair of shoes. Since the size of her feet was not yet second nature to me at that point, you can understand how I could guess wrong on her shoe size. I went back and exchanged them for her. No problem. Then the new pair didn't fit quite right either so I returned to the store once again and exchanged for yet another half size difference. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but this episode would prove to be a harbinger of shoe buying shenanigans to come. As another example, take this scene from last night...

"I think they are just a little too small."

"But every pair of shoes in your closet that shows a size, shows this size."

"The shoes in my closet?"

"Every shoe in your closet."

"Oh, those are too small."

"Of course they are."

Long time, no see

2010-11-29T10:59:00.000-08:00

It's not that I've had nothing to say, it's just that it's a difficult time. Anything I have thought about posting seemed frivolous and pointless at best and moronically insensitive at worst. However, I would just like to check in and dispense one piece of advice for the holiday season.

Do NOT watch "Toy Story 3" prior to decorating your Christmas tree. You are setting yourself up for a festival of guilt. As we began drawing ornaments from the huge spread on our dining room table and placing them on the tree, we couldn't help but feel bad for all the little ornaments that were not going to make it onto the tree this year. They only get unwrapped for a couple hours and are then stored away again for another year. We could hear their little voices in our heads, commiserating about how they weren't going to make the cut because we didn't love them anymore.

Thanks a lot, Toy Story.

With my compliments...

2010-11-11T16:38:00.000-08:00

FULL FORCE!

2010-11-10T15:49:00.001-08:00

First gingerbread latte of the season, folks! Drink. It. In. A tip of the cap and a boisterous "Cheers" to my contacts in the Rockies who inform me that Denver received its first dusting of snow today. I salute you with a fair share of harmless envy. The time has come, my friends. The time has most definitely come. In a related story, I am burning through my Christmas shopping with wild abandon and with great success. My old man laid down a dare to be done by December 1 and while I don't think that is possible for a working stiff, I embrace the challenge. It is going to require focus and decisiveness the likes of which I have never known, but I have faith in my shopping fortitude. Time to get after it!

(No, those strategically placed desk-size Yankee candles do not appear by accident.)

YOU LOST!!!

2010-11-03T10:48:00.000-07:00

The Day After.

All I wanted to do was just post a couple of videos and leave it at that, but they apparently do not exist anywhere in cyberspace. Don't you hate it when that happens? I did however find the audio so allow me to briefly set up the clips.

These were SNL commercial/campaign ad parodies starring Will Ferrell as candidate Mack North. These are post-election campaign ads and I think the only other thing you might need to know is that at one point Mack North tracks down his defeated opponent in a grocery store parking lot. Enjoy.

http://planetwill.jt.org/media/sounds/wavs/macknorthad1.wav

http://planetwill.jt.org/media/sounds/wavs/macknorthad2.wav

And just in case you missed it amid all the hot air and posturing of the election madness, there was one measure that passed that I think we can all be excited about and proud of.

YES WE DID!

The Annoyance of Democracy

2010-11-02T13:34:00.000-07:00

I VOTED! I VOTED! OKAY? I VOTED! NOW CAN YOU PLEASE LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE?

I am not passionate about any of the candidates in today's California state election nor any of its ballot measures. Yet I am almost as excited for today's election as I was in 2008 for no better reason than its symbolic end to all of the campaign ads popping up anywhere I cast a glance for the last 10 months or so. No more insultingly manipulative, childish, he-said-she-said commercials. For the non-residents, one ad actually pinned a Pinocchio nose on its subject. It was that bad. And that's just the TV ads! I get about 20 e-mails, texts, and phone calls a day. Last night I had just crawled into bed around 11:30 when I heard my text chime go off. I got up to check it, thinking any text coming in at 11:30 on a Monday is probably something I need to read right away. Nope, yet another text reminding me to vote. Thank God it's over.

A coworker said she saw Cheech Marin at her polling place. I think his silent presence alone qualifies as electioneering for Prop 19, doesn't it?

I do love the "I Voted" sticker. I wear it with a great deal of pride. Another coworker of mine said this morning that she "never votes." I was tempted to press for further explanation but who needs the aggravation?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(SIDEBAR)

Is it just me or is it mostly women that enjoy Thai food? I can't recall ever hearing a man suggest "Let's go for Thai food" yet I hear women do it all the time. Maybe it's code.

All Hallow's Eve-Eve-Eve-Eve-Eve-Eve-Eve!

2010-10-25T15:42:00.000-07:00

Halloween Week. Finally.

I went to BB&B to replenish my Yankee Candle supply today and I made a switch from my usual favorite, "Autumn Leaves." Well, I made a change with my little work candle anyway. I ventured out to "Pumpkin Pie" and wow am I ever glad I did. It is a revelation! Unfortunately, I have to keep reminding myself that I can't eat the candle.

My buddy Zach comes into town this weekend. This means I will be rocking the karaoke for the first time in I don't know how long. A year at least. I have to admit, I'm nervous. It's been a while, ya know? I'm sure I'll be fine once I get that first song under my belt, but which song do I choose? I guess I'll have to read the room, get a feel for what they want to hear. It would be a lot easier if Bill Brasky hadn't eaten my song list.

I feel I need to do some baking these next few nights. Gotta have something to bring in to work on Friday, something for the tailgate Saturday, and something to indulge in Sunday night. I wish I were a better baker. With cooking, I feel like I manage just fine. I can look at what we have and whip something up. I still have much to learn, but certain basic instincts have been developed. I can improvise. With baking, I am a slave to mixes and rigid instructions. Perhaps if I actually sought out recipes more often instead of being lured by mixes on the spot.

Things were a bit slow under the ol' fluorescents last week, so much so that we found ourselves coloring Halloween decorations for our department. One of the last ones I posted up was a picture of Charlie Brown in his mangled ghost costume pulling a rock out of his trick-or-treat bag. Since then, I have been shocked and disheartened at the widespread depravity that apparently surrounds me on a daily basis. Nobody friggin' gets it.

"Why does that ghost have so many holes in its sheet?"

"Is that ghost holding a rock? Why?"

BECAUSE IT'S CHARLIE FRICKIN' BROWN! AS IN, "IT'S THE GREAT PUMPKIN, CHARLIE BROWN"!!! ARE YOU FROM RUSSIA? HAVE YOU NO CHILDHOOD TO SPEAK OF!?!?

Forgive me, I don't really want to be one of those "you haven't seen (blank)?!?!" a-holes, but I guess I kind of am in this case.

I am really loving football this year. I love it every year, but usually my initial testosterone-laced enthusiasm wanes by about Week 4. Usually by then I don't want to sit inside all day unless it's a particularly good matchup. There is something in the air for me this year though I guess because I can't get enough. I actually feel a little post-football hangover on Tuesday mornings when I realize I have to wait a few days before it comes on again. I can think of no reasonable explanation for it, but I am not fighting it. Are you ready for some football? Yes I am, Hank. Yes, I am. If only my fantasy team shared my zest for the game.

I went to the movies by myself Saturday night and that is always an interesting experience to fly solo among the clouds of couples on a prime date night. It's sort of like being invisible. Or like being an ax-murderer, as it turns out. The movie let out around midnight and I had to go down to the bowels of the parking structure to get back to my car. As I got down to Level Three, it was just me and the couple a few steps ahead of me on the escalator. We all got off at Four and it did have that sort of slasher-flick vibe. The girl looked behind her nervously a few times, clearly wondering what someone would be doing at a movie theater alone on a Saturday night. I pressed my keyless entry as soon as I got in range so she would see the lights blink on my Prius and know I was completely harmless.

I just got a hankering for one of those candy cane martinis I was mixing last Christmas. Back into the closet, Christmas! The world is not yet ready for all the joyous splendor that is you! It's not your fault! Your time will come! Somebody hand me something pumpkin, STAT!

Due to contractual obligations with the National Football League, we will now be leaving this blog and moving to Monday Night Football....TOUCHDOWN ROMOCOP!

Riptide/Open Door

2010-10-21T17:32:00.000-07:00

You know that feeling when you're standing in the ocean and the tide starts to pull you out with it? You are trying to stand tall and balanced but it just keeps pulling. You have to keep giving little steps further and further if only to keep from getting swept off your feet entirely. You don't even realize how those steps are adding up, how much ground you have sacrificed. Suddenly, you're neck deep and it takes all you have just to keep your mouth above the surface, just breathing. You try to stand but you're too deep now. You try to swim but you are simply denied by the current. You swim with everything you've got but you don't gain a stroke. So you tread water and look to the horizon, waiting for that one big wave that will carry you back to shore.

Yeah, that feeling. It sucks, right?

On a more pleasant note, I am very pleased to announce that I have adopted an open door policy on Christmas music. This is not to be confused with Open Season, which means deliberately playing all xmas tunes all the time. No, this open door policy merely stipulates that should a Christmas song occur randomly within an all-song shuffle, it will be allowed to run its course at normal volume. Call it Phase One of the transition to Christmas.

Mixed Bag

2010-10-20T16:44:00.000-07:00

--Do you ever want to ask people to explain their ringtones? There is a lady at work whose ringtone is some sort of bastardized, uncool imitation of the "Airwolf" theme. It's not funny, it's not subtle, and it's certainly not the default. It does represent a clear choice being made. I just wanna ask her, "What are you going for here? What are you trying to say with this ringtone because I am not receiving the message."

--Is it okay to be angry with coworkers that come to work sick and refuse to go home? I hope so, because I am peeved. My boss was out yesterday with a violent stomach flu. He had gotten it from his daughter who had gotten it from his wife so this thing was no flimsy thread. This baby had legs. And yet here he was the very next day. I took one look at him and put my shirt over my mouth. He still looked peeked, sickly, pale. He even confessed to not being "totally fine." SO THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! Who brings an infectious agent like the flu into a limited air circulation and then hands papers back and forth all day? I have been sterilizing like mad, but wouldn't you know it, my stomach doesn't feel quite right. Grrrrrrrr...

--I'd like to announce my latest great crush...singer/songwriter Brandi Carlile. I've listened to her music for years and thought she was a good-looking woman, but she didn't seem like my type. She was never smiling in any of the pictures I saw so I got the impression she may be a serious, depressive type. Then there was the concert. She was quite personable, funny and, I dare say, endearing. Did I mention that she closed her set with a heart-shattering cover of Alphaville's 80s classic "Forever Young?" There was a link to the show I went to but the recording quality is better on this one. I'm smitten.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDVwtPAqgGc

--I've noticed a couple guys in the office sporting plaids or flannels without undershirts this week. It's a bold move, but as long as the button situation doesn't work out to be too low, I think it might work. What the hell, I'll try it.

"The Sweet Life"

2010-10-15T14:11:00.000-07:00

I gotta tell ya, I just had a very nice Thursday night.

We went to La Dolce Vita in Beverly Hills, or as it is more commonly known (on their website)...

...intimately dark and inviting, homespun and cosmopolitan, La Dolce Vita has long been the favorite destination of the renowned and famous, from presidents and celebrities to the Rat Pack and the rest of us who are looking for some of the finest Northern Italian cuisine in Southern California.

We settled into a comfortable, red leather booth in the back and had martinis on the table before bread or a menu. The swanky sounds of Old Blue Eyes emanated from rafters, or was it the heavens? The rolls were warm, the marinara complex. When I found out they were out of their famous osso bucco (They serve it one night a week and they are sold out by 8 pm? Huh?), I quickly moved to plan B, the Spaghetti d' Ischia with smoked salmon and capers in a light vodka creme sauce. Eat your heart out, osso bucco. I was feeling guilty about eating calf anyway. Man, this was easily the best or tied for the best pasta dish I have ever had in my 32 years on this planet. The saltiness of the smoked salmon and capers perfectly balanced with the creme sauce, all amid an awesomely al dente texture. Each bite was like a birthday party. Speaking of birthday parties, there was a rather large and loud one directly in front of us, which is what made the evening truly unique.

They were an ever expanding party that ultimately topped out at around eighteen people, all around one ginormous round table. They were largely Nicaraguan, rather than Italian, but they had the familial exuberance of an old mobster movie. They were loud, they hugged, they were opinionated. One older gentleman in particular was quite schnockered, but not in a way that bothered us at all. The whole group was more entertaining than anything else. Yet towards the end of our meal as we were waiting for the check, an older gentleman from their party looked at us apologetically and offered to buy us a drink. We smiled and assured him it was not necessary. Five minutes later as the drunk guy ambled around the table, he got up and came over to apologize again, asking if he may join us for a moment. Of course, we said, sliding over a bit. And so down he sat, chatting with us for the next five minutes or so. He told us that the guests of honor in their party owned a Cuban supper club in Hollywood. He gave us his card and told us to if we ever wanted to go, to give him a call and he would set it up. Of course, I doubt we would ever be so bold as to take him up on it, but we were just sort of taken by the gesture, not so much the club offer, but more so by him coming over to our table to sit. Who does that anymore, really? It was just really nice.

I'd like to say I topped this splendid step back in time of an evening off by going home and watching the old black & white I had on Netflix, "The Philadelphia Story." However, I can't lie. As it was a Thursday night and this dinner wound up being one of those two-plus hour affairs, there was only time for a "Modern Family" before bed.

For a random Thursday, I'll take it.

I and Love and You

2010-10-14T15:27:00.000-07:00

Because I miss New York, because I am still coming down from seeing their show two Fridays ago, and because I don't post enough things just because they awesome.

Double Down

2010-10-13T12:07:00.000-07:00

Damn it, I just want to go to the movies all day. There's a thousand things I want to see and I am way behind. I want to reel off something like a quadruple feature, taking breaks only for the bathroom, eating, and discussing the movies I've just seen. Then when I get weary, I'll go for a nice long walk and then watch a couple more movies at home.

Realistically speaking though, you can't beat a good double feature. I remember doing the ultimate yin/yang double feature as a kid, seeing "Three Men and a Little Lady" and "Predator 2" back to back. I tried to match that contrast recently with "The Expendables" and "The Other Guys." In college, of course, it was a matter of necessity. We couldn't afford to pay 13 bucks and only get one movie out of it. I recall employing elaborate plans of dressing in layers of different styled clothing. We'd hit the bathroom after one show, shed one clothing identity for another, before heading out for the second show, undetected. You'd be surprised how much a hat can do for you in that situation.

Today, I'm happy to pay, of course. I'd be so delighted to find the time to knock out two movies in succession, why risk getting the boot at the halfway point?

What's the deal with....

2010-10-12T16:19:00.001-07:00

--People who refer to an SUV as a truck? It's such a clear and easy distinction; a truck has a flatbed. Boom. End of story. A Nissan Pathfinder is not a truck, it is a sport utility vehicle. The SUV category was created because such vehicles were neither cars nor trucks. If you were out sick when the SUV category was created and of the two choices, car and truck, you choose truck, I get that. But if you are aware of the SUV, how could you get it wrong? Is it truck envy? Do you wish you had a truck? You can buy a truck, you know. They are even cheaper than SUVs, generally. Maybe I will start calling my Prius a truck, just to test this, to see if anyone will correct me. After all, with that big hatchback and with those rear seats folded down, there is a tremendous amount of space.**

--The slanted shoe rack? Why would you give it a slant? It makes no damn sense at all. You've created a valuable tool, a way to more effectively store a bulky odd-shaped item like shoes and yet you've given the shoes an advantage, encouraging them to slide right back onto the floor. Make it flat and everybody stays put. It drives me batty.

--The one horizontal button hole at the bottom of a man's shirt? Why is it different than its vertical brothers above it? How long has this been going on? Who started it? My only guess is that it has something to do with tucking the shirt in, but that makes so sense either. A horizontal button is theoretically easier to come undone with the side-to-side shifting created by pants. Besides that, what sort of body type calls for a shirt to be tucked in only as far as the bottom button? Is this the Beer Belly Fit?

--Bacon-wrapped hot dogs? They smell fantastic but taste average at best. It's a sensory sham, I tell you!

Sorry, I know that is a pretty weak entry, but let's move on.

**I know some of you are guilty of this, but please take no offense. I'm just really bored and being a smartass. Pay me no mind.

Step 1: Open Mouth, Insert Foot

2010-10-12T10:22:00.001-07:00

Wow, did I ever have a bad interview yesterday.

I am just not good at interviews. I get nervous, my mouth goes dry as cotton, and words just fumble out of my head randomly like a bucket of Legos being dumped on the floor. I lose all ability to think on my feet, recognize opportunities to convey a positive impression of myself, or say anything with any conviction or confidence.

How bad could it really have been, you ask? Let's just say that at one point I referenced fantasy football. I wish I were kidding.

The good news is I don't have to be nervous about whether I'll get the job or not. The rest of the week, I can relax, have a good hearty laugh at myself, and figure out how I am going to improve for next time.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

2010-10-07T17:06:00.000-07:00

When it comes to cooking a Thanksgiving turkey, I am no amateur. I'm no gourmet, not by any stretch, but I'm just saying, I've done it a couple times. Why it was in this very space some three years ago that I posted pictures from my very first turkey roasting. I thought then as I have in the years since that my turkeys were for my own selfish delight, a way of expressing my holiday spirit and ensuring I had leftovers for three weeks. Now I realize I was actually being groomed by fate, groomed for the big dance. That's right, folks. You are talking to the new Chief Executive in Charge of Turkey for the first-ever Kumpart-hosted Thanksgiving. The in-laws are in-bound! I didn't think I would get the call to host Thanksgiving until I had sprouted a couple five-year-olds and a few patches of grey. Yet here I am on the big stage in only my second year of marriage. I feel like a single-A pitcher whose inexplicably been called to The Show. Let me tell ya, I could not be more thrilled.

First, the selfish reasons. I don't have to drive anywhere. I can't imagine what this is going to feel like but I assume it will be at least moderately blissful. Second, I get to make decisions such as when to serve dessert*. As much as I love and cherish all the holiday meals at my grandma's house, one thing has always bugged me as an adult. Pie is served immediately after the meal without even a momentary lapse for digestion's sake. I am not even finished with my yams before others are on to pie and coffee. The whole thing just whizzes by. I digress...Third, I know, love, and actually even like everyone that's coming. It's a core group. I don't have to make small talk with some stranger my third cousin once removed happens to be dating. Fourth, and you had to know this was coming, I can control the music.

Far more important than any of those factors, however, is that it gives me the opportunity to show my appreciation for and attempt to return at least some small fraction of the warmth and hospitality that the Koops have always shown me. I wish I had a big house in suburban Chicago so I could really give this thing the true Griswold treatment, but I will do my best to make due with what I have, an apartment, an oven, and some decent wine.

If weather and mothers permit, I am thinking that perhaps after dinner we'll do a special screening of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation on the back patio, Christmas lights shining, fire pit crackling, hot chocolate** steaming.

I can't wait. Luckily, there is much to look forward to between now and then such as Halloween, a weekend lovers' getaway. First though is the big one....the one we've all been waiting for....tomorrow night.....

OKTOBERFEST!!!!!!!

*This is not entirely up to me as my wife and stepmother will also be heavily involved, but they can claim control on their blogs too.

**Or Irish Coffee. Either/or.

Now Hiring

2010-09-29T17:18:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite jobs I ever had was working at Borders. Sure, the hours were inconsistent and sometimes grueling. There was your occasional pain-in-the-ass customer. Restocking the periodical shelves was like an agonizing game of Where's Waldo. Yet overall, it was a fun experience, at least according to memory. I, of course, had spent many a non-working hour reading or sampling music. I think there is something to be said for working in a familiar, enjoyable place even if the work itself is uncomplicated and not challenging.

This is what occurred to me as I escaped to the Williams-Sonoma at lunch today. They had a french onion soup starter, pumpkin spice quick bread, and a harvest blend stuffing kit from La Brea Bakery! As usual, the place smelled like sweet bread in the oven, and the faces around the counter were friendly and personable. I wanted it all. I wanted to go all "Julie & Julia" and cook my way through the whole damn store. Today's was only a browsing mission, however, a scout if you will. I will be back. Oh yes, I will be back.

Back to my point though...As I was leaving and relishing the joy that is Williams-Sonoma, I had an impractical fantasy. What if I just worked a string of retail jobs at my favorite stores? One day at each store, maybe two-a-day a few times a week. Could I live? Maybe not, but it would be fun, wouldn't it? Besides, think of the discounts.

I give you my list of stores I would work at if I were actually to lose my mind and implement such a plan:

(In no particular order)

Williams-Sonoma
BevMo
Book Soup
Amoeba Records
REI
Portrait of a Bookstore
Ballard Designs (I know it's a catalog, not a store but this is a stupid fantasy anyway)
LL Bean (see above)
Cost Plus World Market

Hogwash

2010-09-24T16:45:00.000-07:00

Correction: I was horrified to find that I had a spelling error posted large as life for 9 straight days. I humbly apologize.

Well, I am bored as hell (shocker!) and I thought I should throw something up here so in the absence of anything worthwhile, I shall regale you with a tale of last night's encounter with a surly barman. Let's call it "(Petty)Showdown at the Formosa Cafe."

Arriving at the historic Formosa Cafe around 8:30 for The Doug and Mara's fundraiser, my lady friend and I made our way to the bar. Whilst imbibing on the first of several free cocktails, we eyed a miniature, A-frame menu advertising appetizers at Happy Hour prices. The veggie spring rolls were too great a sumptuous value to resist. We ordered them. They came, Nicole ate them, all was well...or so it seemed. A short while later, Ellen arrived and had designs on veggie spring rolls of her own. These, however, would have to be of the full price variety as the mini-menu had been replaced by one far more physically and economically imposing. We ordered them anyway. They came, the broads ate them, all was well...or so it seemed. When the check came, I noticed that we'd been charged the full, robust price for both sets of rolls, rather than one-and-one, happy hour-to-regular. I jovially pointed this out to the waitress who immediately agreed as to the error and vowed swift reparations. I thanked her, gave her my credit card and she vanished to the unseen kitchen area. That's where, as we would later find out, someone got to her. She came out moments later to ask me how many veggie spring rolls had come out in the initial serving, because someone in the kitchen (with Dina?) was asserting that we got six, which was apparently more than the Happy Hour portion. I assured her I had no idea since I had not partaken, but that, regardless, we had ordered the first veggie spring rolls under the pretense of the low low price as it was displayed to us and would probably not have so splurged otherwise. After all, I had enjoyed a turkey sandwich on the way over. I did stipulate that I was certain the first spring rolls had arrived on a decidedly smaller plate. Again, she was gone. Moments later, a strange man dressed in black emerged, seemingly from thin air, and inquired if we were "the people with the veggie spring rolls." In my own subtle way, I answered, You got it, Butch. Well well well....This man in black was visibly perturbed. He said that while he was going to adjust our check to reflect a one-and-one price tab, he just wanted me to know that we DID get six(!) veggie spring rolls. He was adamant about the number we had received and consumed and that number was SIX! Not two, not four, but six. The implication, of course, being that we are somehow responsible for knowing how many veggie spring rolls are served in any of their various price tiers and that by eating the allegedly additional spring rolls placed in front of us, we were making a commitment to pay for them. You-eat-it-you-buy-it kind of thing. I acknowledged that we'd been so informed and somehow managed to keep my immeasurable gratitude for his lesson in ethics contained. Then he somewhat brashly asked to confirm my mini-menu story. I stood my ground, the truth standing behind me like a big brother with his arms crossed. The man in black then pointedly checked to make sure that this mini-menu had now been taken away, seemingly so that we could not try any more of these shenanigans. We showed him that it certainly had, most likely sometime around when Happy Hour ended, or ten minutes after we polished off the last of the first veggie spring rolls. With one more fleeting yet still prideful assertion that we had gotten six spring rolls, the man in black was gone. The waitress returned with the new check, still cheerful, still as disinterested and baffled by the scope of this minor battle as I was. Sure enough, there was the receipt with the old total and there was the receipt with the new total. Everything's kosher, right? Wrong. The credit card receipt, the little guy you actually sign, still carried the older, higher total of injustice. What was I to do? Track down the innocent waitress again and drag this trifling tragedy out even further? On another day, after another drink, that just may be exactly what I would have done. Alas, it was not to be, not on this night. On that night, the point was conceded to the man in black. In the end, he just wanted it more. I scoffingly signed my name as if writing a check for a parking ticket, including an impartial tip for the waitress who was unwittingly caught in the crossfire. I downed the last swig of my martini, paid my respects to The Doug, and called it a night, without the slightest flutter of regret or shame. After all, we did get six veggie spring rolls.

THE END.

And look at that, it's now time to go home!

Big, Huge Announcement

2010-09-15T16:04:00.000-07:00

After many hours of deliberation and careful calibration, I am very pleased to announce that the Fall playlist is complete! September 15th already, but, finally, it is complete!

Not that size matters, but...

We're talkin' 421 songs, 1 Day, 1.80 GB of devastatingly appropriate music for the Fall season, real or mostly imagined. I leave you now to enjoy a celebratory cup of chai tea.

No NOT Walk Alone

2010-09-14T15:04:00.000-07:00

So I'm out running this morning and I'm on my way back when I come to a stop light where a small, residential street feeds into a mid-major street. I see this kid on the corner on his bike, waiting to cross. I'm looking around for where this kid's parents are, but there is no one. This kid is smaller than my five-year-old nephew who is in Kindergarten. He's on training wheels for crying out loud. Cars are whizzing past at an average 37 mph in this exact type of intersection where I have almost been hit myself several times by cars making a right turn without looking for peds. Even if a car were looking, they wouldn't see this little guy who, even with his helmet on, was no higher than my waist. We just stood there, the three of us, him, me, and the other me that was standing beside himself in shock over this situation. Anyway, the light changed, we both made it across and the next block to school was back in the quiet residential area. Safe and sound for this morning at least. But still, are you fucking kidding me?

Walk Alone

2010-09-10T12:27:00.000-07:00

When I was about ten years old, my fifth grade class spent three days at this sort of outdoor science school up in the mountains, Camp Hi Hill. The curriculum was comprised of hiking to a natural spring, star gazing, and various other scientific stuff that I can barely even vaguely recall. I do have two lasting memories from this little excursion. The first is the "memory stick" each of us brought home with us, my first exposure to the sentimentality that would later blossom into the lost art of yearbook-signing. The second memory was in hindsight the most valuable aspect of the whole trip.

It was just around dusk as our cabin group was being led by our counselor to the top of the mesa from some unknown point to which we had hiked. Our counselor stopped us on the trail unexpectedly. We all sat down and he explained what was about to happen. We were about five minutes' walk from the top of the mesa, he said, where the rest of the campers would be waiting. He told us that each of us, one by one, would be walking the rest of the way up the trail on our own. It was to be our personal, solo walk. For someone who was already towing the line between bravery and fear just by being up there with all these strangers, away from family for the first time, this was no walk in the park. It was a mildly scary proposition. But there I went, out into the trees alone. I can't lie and say I remember it vividly. Honestly, I just remember walking, the myriad whistles, cranks, and hums of the wild forest around me, and the first twinkle of pride when I made it through to the other side unscathed.

Last night though, as I was trying to fall asleep, I was thinking about how nice it is sometimes to go for a walk alone. I hear more, I see more, I experience everything differently. The best part is the opportunity to be truly and completely alone with my own thoughts. Really, how often do we get that in our daily lives? I even recalled specific walks I had taken over the years that had each been very important to me in their own way. A walk by myself is a way to work things out. As I began thinking about this, it occurred to me that it very well may have started that night in the woods. I would think that had been the point, to plant a seed of independence or self-reliance. I don't know that it's as simple as saying "it worked." A big part of it, I'm sure, is simply growing up. But I will say, I really enjoy my alone time when I get it, be it a walk or the occasional Saturday night grill and football game at home.

That's all. Just saying.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL?!!!...No? Not interested? Oh. Okay.

2010-09-09T17:13:00.000-07:00

There is something very very wrong with this world when a man (me) cannot find a single buddy to go to a friggin' football game with. Not one. I can't afford it. I have plans with my girlfriend. I have a family thing. I have to get up early Sunday morning. All fine, iron-clad(ish) excuses if considered on an individual level, but when viewed as a collective whole, is there really any just cause that I had access to four(!) tickets for the USC game this Saturday yet will end up watching it from my couch? (Rhetorical)

Did I mention it's the 2010 home opener?!

What. The. Hell.

It's cool. I can tailgate on my back patio, drinking fall seasonals*, grilling burgers, making macho jokes to Mr. Frodo. At least I save a few bucks, which offsets the cost of my recently acquired lederhosen. So I got that going for me, which is nice.

*I found a Widmer Bros. Oktoberfest brew at Bevmo.

A Good, Deep Breath

2010-09-02T16:06:00.000-07:00

When I was living in New York, which I cannot believe was a decade ago, the city would get to me. The crowds, lights, subways, and the cramped, vertical, walking-city layout were key factors in what it made it so damn thrilling to live there, but I would also reach a point where if I didn't see a tree and a patch of grass, my head was going to burst. These moments were easily recognizable and always lingering even when the need was not immediate, like feeling the jaws of a vise on your head even before it's tightened. Thank God for Central Park.

Living in Los Angeles, with its vast spread, sea breezes, and mind-numbing traffic, I've never felt the urgent need to break away from the city because it doesn't really feel like a "city." Or so I thought. When I touched down in South Dakota last week, I realized I actually did need to escape from LA and that my head was in fact dangerously close to popping. The difference was that this time, the tension had been building painlessly, gradually like a slowly filling helium balloon. I didn't know how badly I needed to get out of town until I was already gone.

What a break it was. It was more than a break, it was a recalibration. It was a deep breath and a slow, careful exhale. I'd been to South Dakota and Denver many times before, of course, but this was the first time I can say I truly felt like I was going to a second home (Just ask brother Wayne and he'll vouch for me helping myself to his pantry). Maybe the best way I can organize my thoughts on this is to break it down by day.

Monday

First stop, directly from the airport should always be Armadillo's ice cream shop (seasonal). I had a steamburger, of course, and then satisfied a month-long craving for a milkshake with one of their signature concoctions edible only with a spoon. The Snickers Delite, folks. I friggin' love Snickers.

The nap. Is there anything better? I cannot tell you the last time I had a legitimate nap prior to that afternoon. And I went deep. I was dreaming.

Return to the scene of the crime, the winery of our wedding. Now that was weird. It felt like it had been a lot longer than a year. It felt kind of like going back into last year's classroom, assuming that conjures good memories for you. It certainly did for me. I caught myself telling every employee I came in contact with, like showing the new kids where the graph paper is stored. "Let me help you pick out a few tastings, youngster. I got married here last year."

And they had even managed to get all the candle wax off the hearth.

Tuesday

Uncle Jim took me fishing, my first time. The power and peace of the utter quiet. The sky. Holy shit, the sky. The purest, brightest blue, an ocean touching this lake. The term "big sky" hit home. The endearing, dry banter of Uncle Jim and his son Rick, playfully picking on each other all day long. My first and only fish! He was too small to keep, but, he fought like a marlin. The honor in keeping the tiniest fish that died as we removed the hook, scooping him back out of the water even though he had less than an ounce of meat on him. Rick was not going to let him lay to waste. A ham sandwich and a PBR never tasted so good as they did out on that boat, with a line in the water.

Deadwood, always Deadwood. The big, fancy suite you'd never expect to see in this Old West gambling town with its giant tub, fireplace, and complimentary slippers. Sharing a bottle of wine with the winemaker and his family (i.e., me). Hitting the tables and losing my shirt. The graciousness and sincerity of the dealer we had all to ourselves who implored me to never give up on my artistic dreams. Sometimes it's just so much easier to be open with a stranger.

Wednesday

Like Willie Nelson said, "a bloody mary morning." After years of trying to like them, I am finally(!) on board. It's a good thing because I needed a little hair of the horse that bucked me and then kicked me as I tried to stand up. The luck that began with finding the only place serving a breakfast sandwich at noon. The luck that continued as I hit my straight flush, taking all my money back and some of theirs, all with one foot out the door. The convertible. A '91 LeBaron, but a convertible nonetheless. Driving (see, rocking) through Custer State Park, top down, "American Woman" blasting. The striking scale of the Cathedral Spires. Driving through "The Eye of the Needle," aptly named for the size of this rock tunnel. Wondering what the first car to drive through it might have looked like. The kindness of strangers when the convertible wouldn't start again (it is a '91 LeBaron).

Sitting on the back patio that night, sharing several bottles of wine with the winemaker and his family. The crackle of the fire in the chiminea. The often underrated magic of seeing stars, their power to remind you how small you are...in a healthy way. The way the flicker of firelight seems to filter out everything but honesty on the faces it touches.

Thursday

The road trip. Denver, by way of Wyoming. Desolation, isolation, service station. The crap we buy there. Snow fences, open spaces, a metal cowboy planted on the hilltop for no apparent reason. The budding anticipation for the Little America Resort in Cheyenne, building from mild amusement to ecstatic glee after hundreds of miles of roadside billboards.

The reward of reaching family at the finish line.

Friday

Playing in the sandbox, building cities, farms, construction sites at once. The jolt to the imagination that is trying to keep up with the kids. Wiping the sand from Claire's eyes, trying not laugh too hard that she has dumped the entire cup of sand right on her head. The unspoken fun of taking little Caeden to kindergarten. Promising to take care of his monster truck until he gets home (I think I left it in the car. Oops.). A new outdoor mall for the Gap/Banana Give-and-Get 3-Day sale. Hey, I have come to love that sale. Plus the sales tax is lower in Colorado. The surprise and joy of my first Papa Murphy's pizza. Sitting out back, watching the sun set over the Rockies.

Saturday

The Wedding. I love everything about weddings and this one was a knockout. The beaming pride of families coming together. The naked humility on the faces of the bride and groom as their big moment finally arrives. The indomitable tears everyone knew were coming yet are still utterly sincere. Then, the party. The brotherhood that builds around the bar. Dancing with any man, woman, or child in my vicinity. Dancing with parents. For a music fascist like me, realizing sometimes (though rarely) the song doesn't matter in the least. The 10 year-old who could give me lessons on being a ladies man. Letting go, looking around to find everybody falling with you. Everybody pretty much cutting footloose. The summer camp camaraderie of everyone staying in the same hotel.

Sunday

The Day After breakfast, trying to remember everything you still desperately need to recover from. Noticing the same confusion on faces around the room. Asking "Hey, wasn't that you doing the Thriller dance?" while waiting on the wafflemaker. Saying goodbye, wondering when you might see them all again. Hoping it won't be long.

Finally, coming home. Dropping your bags, picking up the cats, and getting ready to start over.

How You Know You've Had a Great Vacation

2010-08-30T10:08:00.000-07:00

When you walk back into work Monday morning, your boss says, "Welcome back. You didn't think you were getting paid for last week, did you? When I said you could have a week off, I just meant you could be gone," and you just smile and say, "Oops, I guess that was just a misunderstanding."

Take this job and...

2010-08-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

Chewing the fat with the old man last night and he asks to our neighbor if she's ready to retire. She said she was mentally ready but not financially ready and I quickly added an "Aaaaaamen." He asked me "Yeah, but what would you do if you retired," clearly (because I know his points before he does) taking the angle of one of these people who say they tried to retire but were bored out of their minds, etc. If these people really exist, I am happy for them, but sure know I am not one of them. What would I do if I could retire? Whatever the f_*k I want, that's what.

I would exercise without time constraints, I would read the paper over breakfast, I would read all the books I want to read, see all the movies I want to see, travel the world, see all the family and friends I never get to see, learn my guitar, take various types of classes, write actual letters to people....I really could go on all day.

I realize I am kind of going back to my post not too long ago so I will keep it brief.

The thing is, his perspective is radically than mine, assuming he was agreeing with the "Who, me? Retire?" crowd. His job is meaningful. As I am finally reading Outliers, as I pledged, the author defines a meaningful job as having three criteria: "complexity, autonomy, and a relationship between effort and reward in doing creative work." His job meets all three and God bless him for that. My perspective, however, is quite different. You could argue there's complexity, but really, I am so used to it, I could do it in my sleep by now. As for the latter two, not by any stretch of the imagination.

The author goes on to say something that might be completely obvious even out of context, but it struck a chord with me.

"Hard* work is a prison sentence only if it does not have meaning. Once it does, it becomes the kind of thing that makes you grab your wife around the waist and dance a jig."

I long...I yearn...I ache to dance that jig.

*I would argue that the same could be said for easy work and that easy work considered a prison sentence, in its own way, is as painful as hard work.

Tick...Tick...Tick...

2010-08-18T14:32:00.001-07:00

I feel I am a man on edge. These last couple days I can feel my fuse shortening and everytime somebody comes near me with a proverbial matchstick, I am afraid they are going to be the one that gets burned when I finally explode.

I couldn't tell you why, not definitively anyway. Sure, there have been a couple situations at work or with the folks that could have motivated this sour mood of mine, but I can't say for sure whether it was those negative experiences that caused my fed-up-edness or my preexisting angst that painted those encounters in such a negative light.

I know if I allow this tension to continue to build, that an explosion, while bringing an instant of relief, will only be outweighed by the aftermath of guilt, apologies, and reparations. So what then. The wine apparently isn't working. I've got tennis tonight. If I play well, there is hope that might help to turn this thing around. If not, there is a growing chance I may go McEnroe. Beyond that, I may resort to sitting in the dark and listening to mellow music. Maybe a nice long walk and a series of deep breaths. Is this what yoga is for?

At least I can recognize it. That way, I can at least try to turn the heat down when my blood starts boiling. Then again, maybe this method of swallowing anger and frustration is only what causes this backup of the emotional pipes. Maybe if I allowed the occasional controlled burn, I could avoid these impending 500-acre brushfires. Three consecutive metaphors! Look out, I'm on a roll!

Then again, maybe the problem is not me. Maybe all these little things that are driving me to the brink of sanity are not overreations at all. Perhaps it's a weird coincidence that all these injustices and episodes of rudeness are all happening to me in a short span of time and my handling of the situation is actually more well-adjusted than the next guy's would be. Yeah, let's go ahead and rule this theory out immediately.

Deep breath. Count to ten. Hear the music. "Smell the sea and feel the sky."

Thank God I am off next week. Heading for the heartland. This trip, for me anyway, could not have come at a better time. It might just save me from the straight jacket.

And in other, more interesting news...

2010-08-17T16:16:00.001-07:00

The Fall Seasonals Are Here! The Fall Seasonals Are Here!

Ohhhh, my friends. What a sumptuous surprise to stumble upon during a lunch break Ralph's run. My heart leapt, my loins sunk, my stomach remained fairly stable, considering. The Sam Adams Octoberfest brew! The New Belgium Hoptober! There was even a liter bottle of some Sierra Nevada seasonal brew that I'd never even heard of! It bore a burnt sienna label with a stream and golden leaves! In the voice of Terrence Mann, Autumn will come, Ray. Autumn will most definitely come. You probably noticed that the six-pack of Sammy pictured above is resting atop a twelve-pack. If I told you that it was a seasonal brew combo-pack, you'd probably tell me how those are a ripoff because they always sneak in some disgusting curveball brew like "Cranberry Lambec." I would agree with you, but today, my friends, I am thrilled to report that we would both be wrong. For this combo-pack was solid throughout. Of course, you realize this is only the beginning, the first whiff of smoke signaling the raging fire of Fall still to come. Why just looking at that photo above, I was moved to imbibe a hot mug of chai tea with peanut butter toast, finally willing to entertain that my most sacredly loved of seasons was almost here again.

I Just Don't Get It

2010-08-17T15:41:00.001-07:00

Why do some people waste so much of their time on the so-called guilty pleasure entertainment, i.e. really really shitty, brain-sucking, soulless, depraved reality shows? When there is so much good stuff to watch, read, or listen to and so little time to get to it all, who can consistently waste time with the garbage?

Now hold on a second. I understand the value of mixing in a little kitsch. I am not saying I am Mr. All-High-Art-All-The-Time, not even close**. I understand that, even though you know it's bad and bad for you, sometimes you just want Taco Bell. I get that sometimes you'll come across a bad movie on cable, but it's a fun bad movie because maybe you used to watch it growing up or maybe you just feel like not thinking for a while. I get it and I am right there with you.

No, what I am talking about are the folks who watch nothing but the crap. I know a couple very intelligent people who love to laugh at the absurdity of the celebrity gossip that Yahoo "News" gives the weight of global warming. They enjoy watching "Jersey Shore" or the latest Kardashian calamity if only to revel in how tasteless it is. But here's the thing, as far as I can tell, the crap is not offset by more valuable venues visited the majority of the time. They're not reading the New York Times or catching up on "Mad Men" and then clicking over to "TMZ" for a little levity. As far as I can see, and I have been paying attention, it's all-asinine-all-the-time. Don't you see that it's never going to stop if you keep looking at it?!

WHY?!?!?!?! It's maddening, isn't it?

**For evidence that I am not playing the snobby high-brow card, see previous post.

The Not Expendables

2010-08-16T11:45:00.000-07:00

In honor of last weekend's top box office grosser, I would like to list my top ten action movies featuring cast members of "The Expendables," or, as it turns out, my top ten Stallone/Schwarzenegger/Willis action movies. You will notice that none of the "Rocky" series appears on this list because I don't think they really classify as action movies. They are boxing movies, their own genre.

10. Tango & Cash - great chemistry, genuinely funny moments, a kickass 4x4, and Jack Palance as the bad guy

9. Commando - "Remember when I said I'd kill you last?....I lied."

8. Predator - "Come on, I'm here! Kill me! Do it now!"

7. Cobra - The toothpick, the muscle car, the laser-pointer aiming device...plus a truly scary villain.

6. Rambo: First Blood Part II - Probably didn't invent the "gear-up" sequence, but did it as well as anyone. They even carried it over to the cartoon.

5. Die Hard 2: Die Harder

4. The Running Man - Watch this movie and tell me we are not three years away from this actually happening.

3. Terminator 2: Judgment Day - I don't think this one has aged very well, unfortunately. Edward Furlong's whiny brat John Connor is tough to take.

2. True Lies - Three words: Jamie. Lee. Curtis.

1. Die Hard - "Yippe ki-yay, motherfucker."

"PROGNOSIS NEGATIVE!!!!!"

2010-08-13T16:01:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow morning, me and a couple of my guys are embarking on perhaps the greatest double feature pairing in recent memory.

10:10 a.m. "The Expendables" followed by a 12:30 "The Other Guys" with a beer in between.

Does it get any better than that? I don't think so. Wooooooooooo!

On the flip side, one of my coworkers is doing "Eat, Pray, Love"* and "Charlie St. Cloud," perhaps only to prove there is a yin to my yang.

*Do I want to see "Eat, Pray, Love?" Of course. But come on, "Expendables" first.

On a side note, I recently gave a guy friend my favorite book as a gift. I came this close to giving him "Eat, Pray, Love" as well, not having read it myself but based solely on the subject matter. In the nick of time, I saw that the opening lines of the book are her begging to be kissed by a guy named Antonio. Wow, that was a close call. Can you friggin' imagine?

Posted By Popular Demand!

2010-08-13T11:22:00.001-07:00

A Rebel Without a Claus

2010-08-12T16:51:00.000-07:00

I know it's August.

I know it is 75 degrees out.

I know there is still a month and a half of baseball to be played.

I know it's still fashionably acceptable to be wearing linen shirts and white pants.

I know all these thing. And I do embrace them.

But I just listened to a Christmas song*, intentionally and in its entirety.

Because I just needed it, that's why. I might listen to three more by days' end. Sorry, coworkers.

*Ironically, my selection was Johnny Mathis' version of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas."

Drivel

2010-08-11T10:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's the little things.

Ever since we moved in, we've been living with this ceiling fan in the dining room. It's not a bad looking model, but it's still a ceiling fan, which confounds me as to why it was ever installed in a dining room.

"Gee hun, my soup is just too darned hot. Would you mind cranking on the ceiling fan for me?"

or

"(Groan) Ohhh! Look at this table! It's covered in dust!"

"But we're out of Pledge and paper towels and our guests will be here any minute!"

"Fear not, kitten. I know exactly what to do..."

Suffice to say, we never used the thing. Not even for light as it had some godawful energy-saving, ambiance-sucking fluorescent-looking bulb inside it. Lighting was a real challenge actually. Candles are nice, but sometimes you want a nice, soft glow without the romance, ya know? Sometimes you want a casual warmth as opposed to a seductive warmth and we could never find the right balance using the other lamps around the room.

Last night, it all became moot. Our lighting crisis was zapped to oblivion with the snap of a breaker. Thirty minutes of observed labor and awkward conversation later, and we had a brand new chandelier installed! But wait, that's not all. Are you ready for this? We also had the electrician install.......(drum roll).......a dimmer! A dimmer! My kingdom for a dimmer! Man oh man, I wanna tell you....

That chandelier really ties the room together. I just laid down and stared at it. Casual warmth up the wazoo! And really, slide it down a quarter inch more, light a couple peripheral candles and, boom, seductive warmth. Romanza bonanza.

I just wonder why it took us this long to see that the solution was so simple, as obvious as a riddle that kids get in two seconds when their parents rack their brains for hours. No matter, the new era is here now. The new Era of (Dining Room) Enlightenment.

----------------------------------------------

Then there's the shower caddy. Eureka! What a marvel of efficiency and practical design! I'm not talking about the shower caddy as a concept. That's old news, of course. I'm talking about the new one we just installed after the old one rusted out. I tell ya, nothing pleases me like outstanding organization in the shower and they really made a quantum leap forward with this model. I can see they did their homework. It's like they read my mind or could sense my frustration with the various shower elements hanging out all over the place like a big lady in a small bra. The shampoo is held tight against the wall, no longer free to fall forward, impeding the stream and spraying water everywhere! Never again will the slippery soap slide off its perch into the waters below! There is now a lip corralling it like with the pride of a sheppard.

Everything in its place, my friends. Everything in its place.

Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?

2010-08-05T16:41:00.000-07:00

I have been sitting at my desk doing absolutely nothing for the last three hours. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Wait, I did send a few business emails. So I got that going for me. For the last half hour or so, my boss's door has been closed and my two coworkers have disappeared. Save for the occasional remote cough or the snap of a stray binder closing, there is dead and utter silence. I am tempted to put my head down at my desk or blast some music, as much for my own enjoyment as to prove a point. Maybe I'll just scream. I am alive here! I wonder how many people across the world right now are sitting at their desks, staring at their monitors, and wondering, like me, if time has frozen still or if they have become invisible. I've got a big book order on the way. Perhaps I'll start reading in such times of despair. Maybe we should get a bird. At least then I would have someone to talk to. You know what would be great? If we had a bar downstairs in the lobby. In times like these, who could fault a sane man for stealing away for a quick beer and a few minutes of a ballgame. Great, I'm being driven to drink at work. This could be the beginning of the end. Ha! Like there is ever going to be an end!

(Fifteen minutes later)

After talking to my friend Christine for a few minutes, I feel a little better. Still, when the door closes behind me today, the radio is going up and my voice is going hoarse.

What's the deal with honey?

2010-07-29T17:38:00.000-07:00

It comes in a little plastic bottle. The honey is contained inside the bottle, which is often shaped like a bear. The honey comes out of a little tiny hole on the top of the bottle. There is a lid that snaps closed over that little hole. Now it's a gewey substance so I can see how when you end your pour, how a little residue could be left around the honey hole. So then why is it that halfway through the bottle, the entire exterior of the bottle is covered in a film of honey? It gets all over your hands, it pools on the bottom of the cupboard. It's like juggling pine cones. You handle it for ten seconds and you're chasing sap all over your body for hours. How does this happen? How does the honey get all over the friggin' bottle? It's like it travels through the plastic by osmosis or something. I love honey. Love it. But this stickey situation (ding!) is cause to reconsider. I just don't get it.

Confessional or This Is How Secure in My Manhood I Am

2010-07-29T17:15:00.001-07:00

--I cannot listen to Taylor Swift's "The Best Day" by myself without crying.

--I recently asked my wife if she could pick me up a pore-reducing mask.

--I also recently had an argument with my wife about how many pillows we need on our bed...and I was for adding more.

--I adore, even crave, lavender.

--A fraction of my motivation for working out lately, albeit a small one, has been to better fit a shirt I recently bought.

That's all I got for now, but that's probably a good thing, right? It's kind of like the opposite of the Dos Equis Guy commericals.

New Look, New Post!

2010-07-27T20:53:00.001-07:00

I don't know what happened. The mindless haze of summer sun and fun? Sure, let's call it that. Let's just move forward, shall we?

And now the burden of having something to say...Okay, I got one...

I have been working virtually nonstop since I was 15 years old. Even when I was in college taking 18 units a semester, I worked a job at the very least 16 hours a week. You would think that by now I would be at peace with the concept of a job being a job, a necessary sacrifice of time and free will for the sake of stability in one's food, shelter, and wine. Yet lately it has been bothering me more than ever.

I have been having some great weekends. Lots of relaxing, reading, and enjoying outdoor movies with friends. You would think this release would appease me and make the work days in between more tolerable, but in fact it has had the opposite effect. The more I enjoy life on my terms, the less patience I have to waste it away on someone else's.

I don't mean to sound immature or whiny. It's not like I pout about it or throw a tantrum. Really, it just inspires my bi-monthly What-am-doing-with-my-life, Is-this-really-the-best-I-can-do mini-crisis. You know, those periods where you reflect on all your failures and unfulfilled potential and wonder what you could have done differently. Sometimes I think maybe this is why you have children, to give life meaning and to stop the endless cycle of chasing your own elusive happiness. Then I remind myself that one should not decide to have children to solve one's problems, that they are not a prescription. Besides, if the simple pleasure of feeling the sun on my face is making work intolerable, what effect is the heart-leaping joy of fatherhood going to have? The most agonizing aspect of these times is that nothing positive comes from them. All the reflection and internal sulking changes nothing. I stare at the ocean, listen to early Jackson Browne, and pray for guidance. Eventually, my mind just wanders to problems less vexing. Still, short of landing a miracle new job that inspires a sense of pride and purpose, I don't see what there is I can really do about it. Nonetheless, I have to try. Here is what I have come up with, my 6-step plan for contentment:

Step 1: Head for Vegas*. Going on Friday.

Step 2: Start writing again. Something different this time. Something lighter. So what if no one likes it or, God forbid, buys it. That becomes evident later. The value is in the doing.

Step 3: Learn to play the guitar. I know I have claimed this one before, but I went to McCabe's last night and bought a book! I'll see how much I can teach myself and then go for lessons. If you're gonna sing the blues, at least give it some accompaniment, right? (rim shot)

Step 4: Keep exercising. I'm going on three good weeks and it always helps to feel physically good.

Step 5: Go back to the improv classes. Like working out, it was something I always tried to talk myself out of (because it was terrifying and a painful commute away), but was thrilled about after I had done it.

Step 6: As a fail safe, finally pick up Malcom Gladwell's Outliers: The Story of Success, or as it's less widely known, "You're A Loser, But It's Not Your Fault." On that note...

I stumbled on a program on NPR last weekend where they were debating the existence of free will as we know it. The segment I heard was an interview with a quantum physicist who, of course, was making the point that despite what we would like to believe or what seems to us to be true, that we actually have no conscious control over our actions. He cited this study where they hooked people up to these brain wave machines and told them to press this button at some point in the next three minutes, whenever they chose to do so. Conventional wisdom would have you expect the results to show the brain sending the signal to the fingers to press the button and then for the button to be pressed. However, they found that the brain sent a signal reacting to the action before it ever sent the signal to initiate the action. This study seemed to indicate the subjects' brains knew when the action was coming before the subject made the "choice" to act. Of course, we are talking about minute fractions of a second here and I am sure I am butchering this study in my recounting of it (couldn't find the program in a quick search). I'm not saying I am that easily convinced one way or the other, but I was certainly intrigued by the question.

So here I am, stuck in a rut. Maybe my plans to get out of it will only further entrench me in this wedge, like quick sand or a rip tide. Maybe it's out of my hands (and brain) to change anything anyway. Maybe the metaphor of the rollercoaster of life is true in its implication that the course is already set and we are merely along for the ride. Something tells me those quantum physicists smoke a lot of pot. Regardless, what's the harm in trying?

I was confronted with a license plate frame this morning that I think sums it all up as plainly and succinctly as only a license plate frame can. It said, "So what? Enough already."

And with that, back to work...

*This trip was already planned, but the timing works out well, doesn't it?

You Make The Call

2010-06-25T16:10:00.001-07:00

If I am hanging out with two native Germans and one fellow American, and the two Germans choose to converse only in their first language, what's the ruling on that?

A) Good for them. They probably relish the opportunity to speak German and feel a little piece of home for a change.

B) For a minute, it's cool, but beyond that it's just rude. It's the most obvious and blatant means of making people feel totally excluded from a conversation. English is the language the fours of us all speak so how about we go with that, okay?

When am I?

2010-06-25T16:06:00.000-07:00

It is high tea time here around the ol' officestead. Everyone had me pegged for chai today, but they were dead wrong. As I explained, I had chair yesterday and it was just too confusing for me to deal with. Chai is the tea of Fall, of sweaters and museums and complaining that it doesn't rain enough. Chair is no summer tea and as you well know, we are hardly to July. My autumnal heart was befuddled. I can't do that to myself again today.

Green all the way.

WORLD CUP MORNING!

2010-06-11T08:07:00.000-07:00

What a beautiful morning.

Awakened, as usual, by the hungry cries of Mr. Frodo in plenty of time to get up and make coffee before the opening kick.

A bowl of Wheaties. Two cups of coffee. The morning paper chalk full of bitter pills of info on the Laker loss and the NCAA witchhunt.

A full game of World Cup soccer before even thinking about getting dressed for work.

Nice little Friday.

A (Larry) Bird In The Hand Beats Two In A (George) Bush

2010-06-09T16:55:00.000-07:00

I am starting to realize I might not have room in my life for both sports and politics.

Okay, so that's overstating it a bit, but I will say that I have taken a hiatus from caring about anything political and it may be directly linked to the dearth of thrilling sports stories developing this week. You've got the Lakers and the Celtics in the NBA Finals, of course. That alone is enough to monopolize a fan's attention. Then you put the World Cup into the mix and the hours become nothing but a countdown until the next game. Just for good measure or perhaps to test my excitement threshold, let's toss in the Angels-Dodgers Freeway Series, amplified further still by a bet with Kissen raising the stakes (or steaks, as it were). The icing on the cake, the last touch of foreboding, which makes all this sporting action not just fun but actually important, is the impending NCAA ruling on the USC case.

There is a LOT of potential for celebration in these next couple weeks. We're talking actual jump-for-joy giddiness. On the flip side, of course, there is also potential for great heartbreak and disappointment. At this stage though, as the Lakers are only through Game 3, and the rest of the events have yet to begin, it's all nervous, elated anticipation.

I'm not sure why I started by relating this to politics, but the break has been nice and this sports bonanza has been a more than adequate replacement. Just between you and me, I didn't even vote yesterday. I'm not proud of it. I swear, I forgot. Besides, I had to come into work early so that I could leave early to make it home in time for the Lakers tipoff.

UPDATE (Thursday, 9:15 a.m.): Well that playful peppering of foreboding turned out to be more than I had anticipated. So what did I do last night when I learned of the imminent sanctions against USC? I watched "The Rachel Maddow Show." Not only do I have room for both, but it would seem they are a neccesary yin and yang.

THE DROUGHT IS OVER!!!!

2010-06-09T16:01:00.000-07:00

Ended by a single rain drop:

According to my estimates, approximately 67% of my office is wearing sandals today. As recently as two years ago, sandals were something you could technically get away with if you wore them with pants, but you had to be prepared to hear one or two half-joking remarks from the powers that be. Now, apparently, we're Huntington Beach which is just fine by me. It's the summer of love! Woooooo! Let it flow!

STIGMA!!!!

2010-05-23T11:29:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have those times when there is a word on the tip of your tongue, but you have some sort of temporary mental block preventing you from remembering what it is and spitting it out?

I don't remember what the context was but, I had such a crisis about 2 months ago and today the word popped right back in there. The word was:

STIGMA.

There, now it is on public record and the next time I forget it, I know just where I can find it. Humor me.

Say what?

2010-05-22T14:20:00.001-07:00

My boss was born and raised in Germany. He did not learn English until he moved to the U.S. By now his English is fantastic, but we do often discuss American sayings, what they mean, what the origin is, etc. We were also just discussing the realm of nuts. It is a little slow right now in case you couldn't tell. But anyway, it got me thinking...

I submit to you that the saying "greatest thing since sliced bread" should forever be changed to "greatest thing since shelled pistachios." Let me tell you why. How hard is it to slice bread really? As long as you have a serrated knife, it takes two seconds. Was sliced bread a wonderful invention and a huge leap forward for mankind (and ducks)? Of course. I'm just saying if we didn't have it, we could still get by just fine. But pistachios...

Pistachios are far and away the best tasting of all nuts. This point is not open for discussion. However, I will often shy away from the deliciousness of the pistachios because they are such a pain in the ass to get out of their shells. It's no coincidence that the best nut is also the highest maintenance nut. It's one of nature's classic jokes. So when they started selling the pre-shelled pistachios, that, to me, was the defining moment of greatness to which all others should be compared against. There was only two periods in time, Before Shelled Pistachios and After Shelled Pistachios, or B.S.P. and A.S.P. 'Twas the vortex, my friends.

The cooler with wheels, that was also a great invention. One might say it was the greatest thing since shelled pistachios.

Two Common Phrases That Are Long Overdue For Retirement

2010-05-21T06:27:00.000-07:00

1) "Really?"

As in the SNL Weekend Update segment. As in, "Come on. Really? Really, Officer? You're gonna give me a ticket for jaywalking? Really?"

2) "I like where your head's at."

Thank You

2010-05-17T09:45:00.001-07:00

Just wanted to say thank you to everyone for their good anniversary wishes. It's weird, cool thing these anniversaries. Kind of like having your birthdays on the same day. Anyway, I was really touched by all the texts we received over the weekend. Thank you for remembering and taking the time to wish us well. It was a beautiful weekend. Really could not have been better. Now I am back at work and feeling like shit (just tired, sick), but I'll post pictures later!

Where's a genie when you need one?

2010-05-07T14:26:00.000-07:00

Can I just say that if I had a wish, it might be that I could just BE Will Ferrell? I feel like he is the living incarnation of the life I dreamed of.

Pants? Check. Shoes? Check. Starbucks cup in hand? Check.

2010-05-06T11:59:00.000-07:00

There is a girl at work here who walks in every single day, without exception, carrying a grande or venti Starbucks cup. She's a very nice person and this is not really about her, but it got me thinking...

Not so much about the roughly $350 a year that adds up to, but rather, what does that cup really stand for, aside from the obvious caffeination. My theory is that some people rely on the Starbucks cup as a symbol of power or readiness. Think about it, a person carrying a Starbucks cup (grande or larger--don't even try to come up in here with your "tall" boy) has more visual cache than a person without one, or so the theory goes. I think these people are using it as a crutch, something to occupy their hands, subconsciously sensing this cup gives them an air of authority or general with-it-ness. It's like a clipboard, a walkie, or a headset in that way. And who knows, maybe they're right. Maybe it works.

**As I googled to find an image for this, I found many photos of Hollywood actresses with their Starbucks, talking on their cell phones. I guess a second theory might be that it's a way to look cool too.

Folk or Fight

2010-05-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

Joni Mitchell in a recent LA Times interview:

"Bob is not authentic at all. He's a plagiarist, and his name and voice are fake. Everything about Bob is a deception. We are like night and day, he and I."

Them's fightin' words! This is the kind of bulletin board material that can only end in a face-to-face showdown! Can I promote this?

DYLAN-MITCHELL!
LIVE FROM THE MGM GRAND GARDEN ARENA!
JULY 23rd LAS VEGAS, NEVADA!
ACOUSTIC GUITAR LADDER MATCH!
TWO LEGENDARY FOLK SINGERS WILL ENTER THE RING! ONLY ONE WILL LEAVE!

DYLAN-MITCHELL - FOLK OR FIGHT!!!

Sweet Sweet Summer

2010-05-05T15:03:00.000-07:00

Summer is here. We've seen flashes over the last few weeks, but it was always followed by rain or gail force winds. Maybe it's just that I am really feeling the mood, but I think this time it might be here to stay.

Last night, we drove down to Long Beach to see David Sedaris. Carpool lane was wiiiiiide open. We were cruising along like we were riding a monorail, eating sandwiches and listening to my new Diana Krall album. I've never really thought about jazz as summer beach music, but this really worked well. I was probably taking a visual from the tranquil shore scenes in the inside cover art, but there was a romantic elegance to the music that had me hearkening back to a peaceful afternoon in the Caribbean, sipping rum punch and watching the sun set. Before you roll your eyes, you should know that I wrote that last sentence in my best Ron Burgundy voice. We got down to LB in time to have a preshow glass of wine out on the terrace. The view was nothing spectacular, but I was reminded how good it feels to be outside on a warm summer night.

Last night was the opening act today's headliner. Sunny and warm, I drove down to the mall at lunch, windows down, blaring the feel-good music of The Samples. They're a 90s band from Colorado that play kind of unpolished, jam band music that reminds me of what Sting might sound like if he had a side project back in the day. Pottery Barn was all shells, nautical decor, and bright patio dining umbrellas. I felt like I was in the Hamptons. And I've never even been to the Hamptons. Walking into Williams-Sonoma was, as usual, like walking into someone's house at dinner time, smelling something incredible, and knowing you can't stay. Today they were roasting pork with some heavenly seasoned Chipotle marinade. Alas, it was not ready yet. Instead I drooled over the pineapple margarita mix and the Ad Hoc Chocolate Frosting (chocolate knows no season in my book).

I'm telling you, it was really really hard to come back to work. To rub margarita salt in my wounds, somebody pulled up to me at the first stoplight riding...a classic green Vespa. So now I am imagining puttering on my scooter through the cobblestone villages of Tuscany or Provence, shopping for local art and fresh bread, cheese, and wine for dinner. However, doing simple, repetitive math in a window-less, climate-controlled office is a close second.

Summer is out there, I tell you. It's waiting for me. I've got my deck shoes on and I am ready to go. And it's only Wednesday. At this rate, I'll be rolling into work on Friday wearing a grass skirt and a sombrero.

!Cinco De Mayo!

2010-05-05T09:41:00.000-07:00

Most asinine thing you will hear today, most likely several times:

"I'm not Mexican."

OOooooohhh so you believe that we should only celebrate the holidays that apply directly to us rather than celebrating the many cultures and people of this world. Hey, if you want to live that way, you go right ahead. Personally, I relish the opportunity to celebrate anything. I'm a celebrator. You don't need to be Irish to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. You can be a Roman Catholic and still find beauty in Chanukah. You can be Republican and still go green for Arbor Day*. When in Rome, I say!

!FELIZ CINCO DE MAYO, MIS AMIGOS!

*While already celebrated by several states, Republican President Richard Nixon proclaimed the last Friday in April to be National Arbor Day. We just missed it! Damn it!

Music Mania!!!!!

2010-05-03T17:32:00.000-07:00

Lot of action lately.

I got my first review up on T-Bone's music blog. I spent about two hours last weekend digging for new music and finding some unbelievable stuff, like Joshua James.

Saturday night we went to see Stephen Kellogg (awesome) open for Needtobreathe (very disappointing). As usual, I made an ass of myself gushing over Mr. Kellogg at the merch table. "Your music cuts straight to my heart" was bad. I think I hit rock bottom with "I like to go running. I know a lot of people like to run to hip hop but your music really gets me going." Yes, I really said that. Did I mean everything I said? Yes, I did, so I shouldn't feel THAT bad, but still.....embarassing. This is what I do, which is why, seven times out of ten when presented with the opportunity to say thank you to an artist whose work has touched my life, I will opt not to. Anyway, he signed my poster "Thank you for the kind words," which is great, of course, as it will remind me of those words every time I see it. Sigh.

Then on Sunday was that Amoeba Garage Sale. It was intense. I met Bernie and T-Bone there and when we finally walked out, we realized we had been down there for two solid hours. I think I blacked out at one point. Still, it was worth it. CDs and vinyl for a buck each. And we're not talking Color Me Badd here. There was some great stuff in there. I don't even recall everything I brought home but here is a small sample:

Oscar Peterson Trio
Top Gun soundtrack (yeah, I said it)
Miles Davis & Gil Evans
Billy Joel
Glen Campbell
Diana Krall
Duke Ellington
Benny Goodman
Ben Kweller
The Samples
Jackson Browne
Steve Martin

Did I mention I found the Willie Nelson, Don Williams, and Ron Sexsmith I needed at Fingerprints last weekend? I haven't even looked at the flash drive filled with tunes that Bernie gave me. I'm neck deep, I tell ya, neck deep! Put your dancin' shoes on 'cause we're pushing straight on through 'til morning!

As if this were not enough, the James Taylor/Carole King album comes out tomorrow. Does this entry age the shit out of me even beyond the years I've actually lived? Probably. But hey, good music is good music. I'll come back with some indie emo-rock tomorrow.

What's for dinner

2010-05-03T17:24:00.000-07:00

Every weekend I seem to eat worse than the last. This weekend included, burgers (2 times), fries, beer, chips, pizza, more beer, and a quesadilla. Oh yeah, and burgers a third time (forgot about the late night McDonald's). Dear Lord. I do so well Monday through Thursday and then the wheels come off the wagon...and the wagon carenes into a vat of grease.

There are no words....

2010-04-30T14:46:00.000-07:00

There's really not any need for commentary on this. If you're with me, it speaks for itself. If there's anything I can say, let it just be that I wish there was a way to wrap up everything about this concept, this video, and all its participants....to wrap them up inside a tortilla of TMZ and Perez Hilton and set the whole fucking thing on fire.

Bloop bloop bloop bloop

2010-04-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned that my entire office has the same text message alert tone? I swear it's the sound effect to an old Nintendo game, I just can't place it. Ah well, I get plenty of chances to identify it. About 500 chances a day to be specific.

It's Over

2010-04-27T21:11:00.000-07:00

You know what, I am done with peas. No more peas in my life. They are just too damned small. They're difficult to negotiate onto your fork and the small amount you are able to accumulate for a bite is still too small to give you any kind of real, full flavor. Give me some broccolli, some asparagus, even lima beans, but, please, peas no more.

Still Here, Mixed Bag Tuesday

2010-04-27T17:24:00.000-07:00

--I sat on the couch for about two hours Saturday listening to new (to me anyway) music on Itunes. I've said it before, but I'll say it again, Genius is genius! I compiled a list longer than my....well, it was long*. Come to find out my timing could not have been better as Amoeba is having their first ever garage sale! Hooha! It's gonna take a lot of discipline not to blow Frodo and Sophie's college fund come Sunday morning.

--Speaking of music, my buddy T-Bone has started a music blog and invited me to participate. Here's the link. It's basically new album and conert reviews. My first review should be up there shortly. As you can see, T-Bone is fairly prolific so I would imagine he'll be writing the bulk of the stuff. He did a great report on this year's Coachella Festival.

--Speaking of music and record stores, I was down in Long Beach Sunday and, of course, I stopped in Fingerprints. Who should I happen to run into there, but my cousin Ryan. It was really weird because as I was parking, I remembered that he lived down there now and I had a feeling I was going to see him. I went over and hung out with he and his girlfriend at their place and then we all met Cruiser and Jen at Joe Jost's for schooners, specials, billiards, and such jukebox classics as "Night Moves" and "Winds of Change." We had a grand ol' time. It was really cool because Ryan and I had been practically inseperable as kids, but only seen each other every other Christmas or so in our adult years. After Sunday, I have a good feeling that that is going to change. Family becoming friends to boot! Who knew?

--Does anyone else watch "Damages?" Man, what a friggin' great show. This season really blew me away, especially that season finale.

--Still playing tennis, though not as regularly as I'd like. I felt like I was making real progress and then came an unexpected two-week hiatus. Last night I was a mess. Very frustrating. From now on, if Juan can't play, I'm going to the court to hit against the wall by myself.

Well, that's all I got at the moment. Ya gotta ease back into these things.

Tiger Tales

2010-04-09T10:36:00.001-07:00

Let me start by saying that celebrity humor, for once, has been a source of great relief for me.

Since The Masters started on Tuesday, I was really surprised and dismayed by the reception Tiger Woods seemed to be getting from the local fans as well as the media. He was quoted as saying how moved he was by the support he got from the fans out on the course, how great everybody was, etc. etc. Apparently the "get in the hole!" sheep were all too willing to start baa-ing for their favorite shepherd once again. And the media coverage seemed to slant the story as a comeback tale, neglecting to rehash any of the most unsavory details of his scandal. It's not that I think they should. We all know by now what the story is and we don't necessarily need to hear it reiterated for what factually amounts to a sports report. It's just that I am entertained by their choice not to do it since it has really become S.O.P. for most celebrity scandals. For example, if South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford were to donate $1 million to a local food bank, the coverage would still go something like:

"South Carolina Mark Sanford was in Columbia this morning to present a local food bank with a personal donation in the amount of one million dollars. Officials say the donation is the largest single donation they've ever received and will feed thousands of otherwise hungry and malnourished South Carolinans for as long as one year. Sanford has come under fire recently for committing adultery, disappearing to South America without notice to meet his mistress, and for using state funds to aid him in his affair."

So to see reporters, FEMALE reporters mind you, simply say how Tiger Woods was back on the golf course looking to repair his image and, hey, he shot a 4-under to boot and leave it at that was a little disheartening.

Now don't misunderstand me yet, because I sense you are about to. I am not getting on a high-horse and saying that Tiger Woods' personal life is any of my business or that he should not be allowed to go back to work because he committed adultery. I don't care what celebrities do in their personal lives. I truly don't. Obviously, cheating on your wife is a horrible thing and I don't want to make light of it, but Tiger's marriage is simply none of my damn business. So this is not about me judging him for the cheating. Who cares.

I will, however, be happy to pass a little bit of judgment based on the nature of his affairs, specifically the shit he allegedly said in his many text conversations with these mistresses. Have you read this stuff? Here is a link. Warning: it's extremely graphic. After reading this, I don't feel guilty for saying that it's a fucked up person that says these things to a woman, even one he's having a torrid affair with. This is not just dirty talk that pushes the envelope in the name of sexual excitement. This is sick, sick shit. This is someone who has some issues. I was wondering to myself, how could a person read these texts (which to my knowledge have not been disputed as false) and still head out to the course and say "Go Tiger! Go get 'em buddy!" I'm not saying they should go out there and heckle him or ridicule him. Personally, I wouldn't say anything at all. But, really, "Go Tiger"?

And then the Nike commercial came out. And then the Nike commercial parodies starting popping up. The humor and wit of these parodies and the enjoyment people seem to be getting out of them make me think the "Go Tiger" sheep are a minority and that there are still plenty of people out there that aren't sweeping his transgressions under their mental carpet.

P.S. As I type this, I forsee a huge hypocrisy flag being waved in my face. It's purple and gold in color and bears the name "Bryant" in white letters. To that I say, you definitely have a point. Kobe has never been my favorite Laker, but since the Colorado affair, I have rooted for him on the basketball court. I'd like to think that if these same texts had come from Kobe's phone, that I would not be able to root for him either. After all, like I said, it's not Tiger's cheating that turns me off to the point of not being able to seperate sports from personal life, it's the content of the texts, plain and simple. I believe if Kobe had said such things (to our public knowledge), that I would not be able to root for him. But you what, it's still fair to call me a hypocrite here. I can't say for sure that there is no trace of that in what I am saying.

The Top 9 Ballparks I'd Love to See

2010-04-08T17:00:00.000-07:00

Name: Miller Park

Location: Milwaukee, WI

Home of: The Brewers

Attraction: It just looks awesome, doesn't it? Of course, there's also the slide in left center where the mascot slides down following a Brewers' home run. There's the sausage race during the 7th inning stretch (I believe?). In more recent lore, Bill Brasky has told tales of the 9-9-9 Club Challenge at the park, 9 bratwurst, 9 beers in 9 innings. You better hope the bats are hot the day you try that one. It just seems like a nice, fun park with quirks and perks.

Probability of actually visiting: 9% (it's in Wisconsin, ya see)

Name: PNC Park
Location: Pittsburgh, PA

Home of: Pirates

Attraction: I think this is the coolest looking park in baseball. I love the cityscape in the background with the team-colored bridges. It also had an intimacy to it. Look at it, it's a big league park with only two levels! This is actually makes me want to go to Pittsburgh.

Probability of actually visiting: 0.00 %

Name: Wrigley Field

Location: Chicago, I-L

Home of: Cubs, Da broad shoulders

Attraction: Are you kidding me? It's one of the last parks left that actually have some real history! The Ivy! The "friendly confines" moniker! The sign out front! Old Style Beer! The rooftop seats! This is the only park where I'd feel the need to see 2 games there, one inside and one from the rooftops across the street. Not only that, but the surrounding area of Wrigleyville with its many bars and pubs (The Cubby Bear!) filled for hours before and after every game make for an all-day experience that's even bigger than the game itself.
Probability of actually visiting: 83.4%

Name: AT&T Park (as of press time)

Location: San Francisco, CA

Home of: The Giants

Attraction: It's a baseball field on the friggin' ocean. McCovey Cove has to be the coolest single ballpark feature in all of baseball (yeah Fenway, I said it!). Who can forget Barry Bonds crushing homers into the drink, kayakers out there with nets pulling balls out of the water. Say what you will about what may have been helping him do it, but you can't deny it was memorable. I gotta see this place.

Probability of actually visiting: 81%

Name: Coors Field

Location: Denver, CO

Home of: The Rockies

Attraction: The vertical-ness of it. That towering grandstand in centerfield always looks appealed to me. I think it suites the Mile-High City. Add to that the pine trees, the thin air making for many a HR, and the young and talented Rockies and I am sold. Of course, the many bars and restaurants in the upscale LoDo around the park is also intriguing.

Probability of actually visiting: Wayne? Val? 98%?

Name: Doubleday Field

Location: Cooperstown, NY

Home of: The Hall of Fame Game

Attraction: It's near the Hall of Fame. I actually don't really need to see the field at all, I just really reeeeeally want to visit the H.O.F. and this is my way of expressing it.

Probability of actually visiting: I'd like to think 93.5%

Name: The New Yankee Stadium

Location: The Bronx, NY

Home of: The Yankees, a-holes

Attraction: The sheer magnitude of the place. This is the Rome of baseball stadiums and actually cost more than the entire kingdom of Rome to create, costs adjusted for inflation, of course. I hate the Yankees nearly as much as any team, but I am above-all-else a baseball fan and I feel it is my duty to see the new stadium. Then take a scalding hot shower.

Probability of actually visiting: 81.6%

Name: Busch Stadium (new)

Location: St. Louis, MO

Home of: The Cardinals

Attraction: A really beatiful new park in what I hear is one of the best baseball cities in America. In my albeit limited experience with Cardinals fans, I've been very impressed. Who knew baseball fans could be as passionate and involved as any in the game, yet still nice, reasonable human beings. I gotta go to their home to see it and believe it. Also, Albert Pujols plays here.

Probability of actually visiting: Sadly, 19%

Name: Field of Dreams Movie Site

Location: Dubuque, IA

Home of: the "Field of Dreams" movie site

Attraction: If you love baseball like I do, if you love movies like I do, if you love the idea of something magical and surprising still being possible, then you will understand why this field is like holy ground. Not to mention, it requires a comparable pilgrimmage to get there. Sure, it's just a movie set. But I think a lot of men would understand when I say that this particular movie is as close to my heart as any work of art in any medium. There is a sacredness in that connection, like a favorite song that you feel is your song. What would you do there? a non-believer may ask. To tell you the truth, I don't really know. I imagine I would walk out and into the corn. I'd probably sit in the bleachers and stare for a while. I'm sure I'd recite the Terrence Mann speech from the film. I think the draw for this place is just as it was described in the movie, a place where people can catch a glimpse of the past. I'd even go a step further and say I imagine it to be a place to find a purity of sorts. People will come, Ray. People will most definitely come.

Probability of actually visiting: 100% (what do you have if not hope?)

Play it again, Sam

2010-04-01T18:22:00.000-07:00

Some people don't understand how I (or others) can watch a movie over and over throughout the years. They see it once, they move on, and they can't see any benefit to witnessing a story for which they already know the ending. Last weekend I watched "Before Sunrise" for the I don't know how many-th time and I was reminded why I will always revisit the movies I love.

I hadn't seen it in quite a while. Ever since "Before Sunset" came out, I had sort of gravitated toward that one. I guess I was more compelled by two people seasoned by age, dealing with what might have been than by the romanticism of their one youthful night ten years before. I knew from the opening scene that the revisit was long overdue.

One obvious reason I'll watch a movie again is that I usually catch something new. Maybe it's not that I don't remember seeing it before, it's just that it might stand out to me more the next time around. For example, in "Before Sunrise," there's a scene where Jesse and Celine are sitting at an outdoor cafe talking, when they are approached by a gypsy woman, a fortune teller. The actual palm reading is nothing special (not this time anyway), just your average "you are becoming a woman," etc., but after the gypsy woman has been paid and begins walking away, she gives them a little bonus message, if you will, as she walks away. She says:

"You need to resign yourself to the awkwardness of life. Only if you find peace in yourself will you find true connection with others."

I was 17 the first time I saw this movie. Coming from this kooky gypsy character, I probably paid it the same cynical attention that the young Jesse character does at that time, if I paid it much attention at all. But this time, probably my 19th time seeing the movie, I was so taken by it, I paused the movie and wrote it down. You need to resign yourself to the awkwardness of life...I am still chewing on this one, trying to figure out what it means to me. I like it.

As I go completely off the hippy reservation, let me just say that movies are not like wine. They are completed works, sealed, delivered, and unchanging. Like with any artistic work in any medium, however, the beauty of the art is not just in the color of the paints, the clever wordplay, or the emotional charge of the performance. The beauty is also in how we react to the art, what it does to us, how it affects the way we view ourselves and life in general. We, of course, are always, constantly changing so it makes sense that movies, like any art, mean different things to us at different times in our lives. If I had seen "Before Sunset" as a 17-year-old kid, I probably would have hated it. I would have thought it was a pointless wallow in a poor, cynical choice of a second act in the story of Jesse and Celine. But as an inescapably somewhat jaded adult, it hit home like an earthquake in the middle of the night.

I guess my point is actually really simple. The movies don't change, but we do and so, while we might still know how they end, our evolving perspectives can change what the movie really means to us. And that's what we truly love about movies, isn't it? Not their plots, not their effects, not even their acting. I just think we just love the way they make us feel. I loved "Before Sunrise" at 17 and I love it just as much at 31. It's a beautiful film about the purity and precociousness of young love that exists in the magical realm between realism and romanticism, where you can't say for sure what is real and what is too good to be true.

As I was looking for a picture to post with this entry, I stumbled on another blog where the author(?) was saying if you didn't see this film for the first time when you were 17-22, you missed your chance, that if you were to see it for the first time outside of that window, you would see these characters talking about life and its possibilities and groan at them to grow up already.

God, I hope that isn't true. I get what he or she means, that if we were to listen to our 18-yr-old selves talking about what we found so fascinating back then, we would want to slap ourselves. Believe me, I definitely get that. But I would hope that even if a first time viewer were not exactly bowled over by a discussion about the logistics of reincarnation, that, even in spite of that, they could not miss the heart of the film, which, to me, is two people finding themselves in each other.

False Alarm

2010-04-01T17:15:00.000-07:00

Ya know, I have heard more jokes about April Fool's Day today than actual April Fool's Day jokes. I guess people just want to put forth the effort.

Going to The Show

2010-03-25T15:14:00.001-07:00

Well my day just got made.

I went to the bank and as the teller was processing my transaction, we started your usual small talk. Almost Friday, etc, etc. I told him today was Friday for me, that I was off tomorrow to head out to Spring Training in Arizona. To which he replied...

"Which team do you play for?"

The Office Catwalk

2010-03-23T10:37:00.000-07:00

Why can a man not wear a navy blazer without being compared to a captain, a sailor, or a prep school student?

Sure, I get that those three do wear navy blazers, but they're hardly the only ones. It's as standard an article as khakis, jeans, or t-shirts. It's a classic and yet it appears to be maligned or at least given undue special attention.

Our office is casual dress. You can't really wear shorts but you can wear t-shirts and flip flops. Still, is it so wrong to show a little style? I walked in this morning and within 3 minutes, I got comments from 3 people, the first going into a rant about how I looked like I was going sailing or to prep school. I gave her my most sarcastic "thank you" and yet she could not help herself as she continued to lay it on and promised to be back later for more. Then my boss comes out and asks me if I have a business meeting or an interview, then notices my un-ironed shirt and says I look like I'm going to a fashion show. The real topper came next when another coworker came by, took one look at me, and said I looked very "fluffy." Dear Lord, you would think I was wearing a fucking boa. Every morning, if it's not my outfit, it's my hair (OH MY GOD, IT'S GETTING LONG!!! HE LOOKS DIFFERENT IN SOME WAY!!! LET'S GET HIM!!!). Everybody's gotta weigh in.

Cotton, CASUAL navy blazer, khakis, white CASUAL, wrinkled button-down, grey t-shirt, brown slip-on shoes. What the crap, folks? This is still an office, isn't it?

I "Love" It!

2010-03-19T11:07:00.000-07:00

I played tennis last night. I hadn't played in over a year and actually longer than that since I was sickly hungover the last time I played. My neighbor, Juan, and I dusted off the old rackets and hit the hard court to see how much of our game we could still muster, hoping for a decent rally and no injuries. Sadly, this scenario describes the last five times I have played tennis over the last seven or so years. I only get as far as the first game back before the next 9-month layoff.

It's always a mixed bag. I'm excited to be playing again, but frustrated that I can't play anywhere near the level I feel I should. The footwork and positioning are gone. Every third shot is off balance and probably pretty funny to look at from the sidelines. Worst of all, even when I find myself in position to win a point, my hand-eye coordination fails me and I can't even execute a simple volley. Facing a steady diet of weak 2nd serves placed on a tee, I swipe them long time after time, not because I'm trying to kill them, but because I have no consistent strroke. And they're like knuckleballs, they just sit there. But this time there is hope. Juan and I made a deal to play regularly, twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I am returning to tennis, my friends!

I am really happy about this. I hope it works out. It gets me back to my roots, it's fun, and it gives me a great workout. I run about 3-4 days a week and do my resistance band training thing, but after an hour and a half of tennis last night, I could barely walk around I was so sore and exhausted. This morning, Nicole got up and went to the gym early and, for the first time, I didn't wake up, didn't hear a thing. It's different muscle groups, I'm tellin' ya.

I figure I can do my normal workout of running and band-age on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and sleep in and play tennis on Tuesday/Thursday. I like it and I think I can stick to it. Plus, this gives me an excuse to buy athletic gear, a personal joy for me and most any man.

"Service!"

JUSTICE IS MINE!!!!

2010-03-17T10:14:00.000-07:00

3/17/2010

Dear Mr Kumpart,

I am very sorry to hear about the problem you had with your luggage.

Thank you for writing to us about it.

I understand how stressful and frustrating it is when you haven’t got your bags.

After review of your claim, I have arranged for another check in the amount of $948.10 to be sent to you in full settlement of your baggage claim. This amount reflects the amount you are claiming minus the $200 already sent to you. I have also added the cost of posting your claim to us.

Once again please accept our apologies for the inconvenience. I hope this will not deter you from travelling with British Airways in the future.

Sincerely,

Joseph Kerrigan

British Airways Customer Relations

Sweet justice!!

I am so incredibly relieved. This really makes my St. Patty's Day. To the pub, I say! To the pub! If you're doing the math and thinking this latest check is not actually covering the full balance, that's my fault. I looked at my claim again and it wasn't $1,300, it was $1,142. So this next check will fully resolve this issue for me, both in my checkbook and in my heart.

And to my dear friends who decided I was in the wrong, I would like to extend to you my sincerest Spaceballs Salute.

British Airways: Screwing Over Their Customers With A Smile.

2010-03-10T21:57:00.000-08:00

Many of you have already heard my tale of woe, but as the scandal continues to evolve, I need to do a little rooftop shouting or my head will explode. Let's take it from the top shall we?

Big Barcelona trip. Couldn't be more excited. Always wanted to go, didn't know what I would get to. Until! I found a great fare with British Airways and all the other pieces fell into place after accordingly. So I land in Barcelona around 22:00 local time. My luggage does not. I go to the counter, I fill out my paperwork, they give me a number to call and nothing else. No ETA, no temporary toothbrush, no cheap, airline socks.

So I give this phone number a try. Repeatedly. While the representatives on the other end of the line are very friendly, there are not altogether useful. They are not able to tell me when my baggage will arrive, only that it hasn't arrived yet, which I could already deduce by the smell of the clothes that had been on my person far longer than The Gap ever intended. What am I supposed to do? I ask them. "British Airways will reimburse you for the clothes and toiletries you need to buy until your baggage arrives, just save your receipts," the woman tells me. I feel I should repeat that promise for emphasis:

"BRITISH AIRWAYS WILL REIMBURSE YOU FOR THE CLOTHES AND TOILETRIES YOU NEED TO BUY UNTIL YOUR BAGGAGE ARRIVES..."

Well that's a relief, I think. At least there's the consolation that I won't have to find out the hard way how tough Spain's vagrancy statutes are because the police mistake me for a homeless man who hasn't showered in 2 months. There's just the small task of the shopping. Now at this point a person who loves to shop, possibly a woman, would think "Jackpot! Shopping spree on British Airways dime! Which way to the Prada store?" Not me. While I do enjoy shopping, it's only when I have no reservations about whether I can afford it that I will actually allow myself to live it up. Despite the verbal vow of the unnamed British Airways representative, I didn't trust the situation. It felt like a trap. Unfortunately, if I wanted to wear clothes during my vacation, I had little choice but to go buy them.

You might be thinking, You were on vacation in Europe. You were going to be buying clothes anyway. Absolutely true, I would have. However, I would have bought one or two items as they struck my fancy throughout the natural progression of the trip. We would have gone about our sightseeing and if a shop next door happened to display a shirt that called my name, sure I probably would have picked it up. There's a big difference between casual shopping and necessity shopping. I lost an entire day, my friends. Underwear, undershirts, button-downs, t-shirts, a pair of casual paints, a pair of dress pants, socks, a belt, deodorant, soap, and on and on. Think about literally every single thing you would need to buy to achieve the mere basic status of being able to walk down the street. Now factor in that you're dealing with European sizes so you have to try on every single piece. Oh and it's also January so you're going to need layers. Also, you're going to an event that requires you dress up a little so now you're into dress shoes, shirts, and a tie. It's not about finding stuff you like, it's about finding stuff that simply, suitably covers your ass. It's going to take all damn day, and that's if you're not picky about style. Is this still sounding fun to anyone? As I felt the bill escalating, I actually began to feel sympathy for British Airways so I honestly wasted even more time trying to find the cheapest options possible. I can tell this story is running a bit long so let me skip ahead and tell you why I say "wasted"...

The f_ckers stiffed me.

Yep. I wish I were kidding. I came home and, being the upstanding accountant that I am, I put together an impeccable presentation of my receipts. For those of you familiar with the wonderful world of petty cash, this was a real thing of beauty, the kind you laminate and hang on the wall as an example of how to do it. The total was in the neighborhood of $1,300 USD. At first glance, sure, I can see how that would seem really high. Remember though, we're talking about every stitch of clothing you would need for five days of sightseeing in a foreign land. Undies, pants, shirts, socks, belt, shoes (explanation above). AND you're purchasing it all in Euros, but since it's on your credit card, the actual financial responsibility comes to you in US Dollars so you've got inflation due to the exchange rate. I think you'll agree that it's actually pretty conservative. If you don't contact me on the side and I'll go over it with you one receipt at a time and you'll understand. But I digress...

Fast forward about three weeks. I get an e-mail from the good folks at British Airways, a Ms. Roberta Lance to be precise. On my best day, I could not adequately capture the beautifully simplistic cruelty of her e-mail so I will paste it below:

Dear Mr. Kumpart,

We go to great lengths to look after our customers' belongings at British Airways, and this certainly includes getting every single piece of luggage to the right place at the right time. This is small comfort, I know, after the situation we put you in following your own flight.

And of course you needed some essentials to tide you over. The figure you gave us does seem disproportionately high given the time you were without your bag, so I cannot agree to pay the entire amount. However, I am happy to offer you $200 and I'm arranging to send you a check for this amount.

I hope that this will not come as too much of a disappointment and that you'll be joining us again on a British Airways flight again soon.

Sincerely,

Roberta Lance
British Airways Regional Baggage Service

Where to begin, right? Well, I started by e-mailing the smug folks at jolly old British Airways. Not replying directly to Ms. Lance, of course, NO! This is a corporation, you can't do that. You can fill out the e-mail form on their website and hope that it actually reaches someone. So I did. I told them I would like someone to call me to discuss how my claim was "disproportionately high" to being virtually naked for five days in the dead of winter. I invited Ms. Lance to advise me as to how I should have clothed myself for five days on what would have amounted to 135 Euro (generously). That's 27 Euro per day, folks. I wanted someone to explain to me how that was possible, short of Wal-Mart opening a flagship store in downtown Barcelona. Maybe they could create a game show out of it. "How to dress on 27 Euro a Day with British Airways." I should register that title...Anyway, I explained as well in my e-mail that I was conservative in my spending, how I audit reimbursements for a living so I wasn't trying to scam anybody, etc etc.

No response.

I began to grow impatient so I sent another e-mail. I hit all the main points again...(Paraphrasing) I bought only the clothes I needed to get by for the FIVE DAYS I went without my bag**. I didn't want these clothes and should not have needed these clothes but for the errors of British Airways. Why should I be responsible for these costs? I did nothing wrong. I packed well and paid my fare. A hundred and thirty-five Euro as an offer of reimbursement is a slap in the face and what's more, it's completely, insultingly arbitrary. If my claim seems high, here's an idea, turn the page! There's a spreadsheet! If you're going to dispute my claim, how about using some supporting sentences after your thesis statement? How about referring me to the magical store where you can clothe yourself from head to toe for 27 Eur a day? I really think this lady looked at the top sheet, scratched her head and went "Hmmm, that seems like a lot. Two hundred is a nice round number. Next!" We're just talking about my clothes, which I'd be happy to send to British Airways by the way. What about the cost of my many cell phone calls to British Airways that afforded me no information other than to say "your bag is still not on its way, we don't know when it will be on its way, and British Airways will reimburse you for the clothes and toiletries you need until it arrives"? Let me ask you this, British Airways, what is my time worth? How much money is "proportionate" to the entire day I lost frantically shopping for clothes I didn't want and shouldn't have needed? How much should I get for the time I lost waiting for my bag when the final delivery of it was four hours late on top of the five days already running? All I am asking for is what is fair and what was promised me. I am not excited to lose any more money paying for attorneys fees to fight this in the legal system, but I am compelled above all else to be treated fairly.

No response. My joke of a check did arrive in the meantime though. It's sitting on my table where it will remain indefinitely. By depositing that mockery of a reimbursement, I feel I would be implying my approval of it.

This morning I decided to call British Airways. Even if I had to wait on hold for an hour and go through six different people, I was determined to speak to a presumably logical human being. Eventually, I did reach someone, in the reservations department. She informed me, by way of cutting me off before I could finish any one sentence by the way, that 1) it may take up to 3 weeks to receive a response to an e-mail, 2) it was not possible to speak with anyone on the phone regarding the matter, that customer service could only be reached by e-mail or fax, and 3) that there was no human name should could give me to address a written letter to, only the general customer service mailbox. Again, this exchanges is so baffling to me, I feel I have to type it bigger, bolder, and in brighter colors in the hopes that this will mystically transform it into something that isn't completely, utterly, and, if you'll pardon the pun, royally f_cked up.

IT WAS NOT POSSIBLE TO SPEAK TO THE BRITISH AIRWAYS CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT.

It begs a question, doesn't it? If there is no existing name of a supervisor and it is not possible to speak to the customer service department, what proof is there that it actually exists at all? I'm not kidding.

So that's where it stands, me shaking my fist at a seemingly infinitely tall, long, and cold wall. I know this won't end well. I know I'll be paying off every red cent of that debt even as every check will burn an ever-deepening hole in my pride and soul. I get that this just the name of the game in the battle of big company vs. little guy. Chances are my e-mails won't even be read all the way through, much less taken seriously. I do understand that the language they speak is the universal language of money. All I can hope is that all the other people that they have screwed and will undoubtedly continue to screw join me in my boycott until the point where they look at their quarterlies and ask themselves the same question I am asking them now, "Where did my money go?"

How long will it be before they reply, if they are gracious enough to reply at all? How long should I wait before pursuing legal avenues? Can a single individual even sue a giant corporation these days? Is it possible or do you have to be part of a class action suit? How much would it cost me to fight for what's right? How much is justice, fairness, and basic decency worth? It's more questions than I can answer, but there is one I can sum up with absolutely certainty.

Will I be "joining them on a British Airways flight again soon?" Not even if the world were exploding and they had the last flight to heaven.

**Among the great void of logic and reason that was Ms. Lance's e-mail, there is one strain that stands out to me as particularly interesting. At no point was I ever given an estimate as to how long it would take before they could get me my bag. They weren't able to tell me anything in that respect until the morning it actually arrived in Barcelona. How was I supposed to know what amount of money was proportionate or "disproportionately high" for the time I was without my bag if I had no idea how long I would be without my bag? Would they have me treat my basic clothing like a croissant and a coffee, shuffling down to the local store each morning to buy my morning underwear and pants? At this point, I can't put anything past them.

Sunday Morning

2010-03-10T21:46:00.000-08:00

Daylight savings time returns this Sunday. This is a great relief to me. We don't have much in the way of harsh winters to complain about here, but I think we can all relate to the joy that comes from walking out of work at the end of the day and having it still be light out. It's simply a happier feeling. I've been kind of depressed lately myself so what I am most looking forward to is being able to see the ocean on my drive home. That's where I took the picture above, albeit on a day when I stayed later than usual. I think it brings me peace. I miss that.

Doesn't he look like Elijah Wood?

2010-03-04T15:26:00.000-08:00

Has there ever been a movie that excited stoners more? I almost want to watch the audience going in just to observe how many have eyes that look like the Mad Hatter above. I am surprised they didn't release this movie on Bob Marley Day.

Not that there's anything wrong with that...

Greetings From the Jury Reporting Room!

2010-02-21T22:54:00.000-08:00

(from Friday)

That's right, my friends, I'm on duty today. Took the wife to the airport at 5 a.m. (!), had a nice manly breakfast of solitude at The Pantry and reported for duty right on schedule at 7:45 a.m. Everyone says if you want to get out of it, you should just say you are racist or hate everyone, etc. This is funny, but I question whether anyone would really say that to a room full of people, even if they were strangers. Also, I've seen variations of this attemped in the past and, trust me, the judges are on to it. Not only are you unlikely to get excused but the judge is probably also going to humiliate you with his/her cross examination. No thank you, I am happy to serve.

Some interesting observations in the ol' holding chamber here...Remember that episode of "Seinfeld" where Elaine and Putty are on the plane and he's just staring at the seat back in front of him? Would you like a magazine, maybe some earphones? she asks him. Nope, he's fine, he says before going back to a blank stare. I am witnessing the same phenomenon this morning. Who goes----------pause for group reporting announcement.............

STILL CLEAR! Three groups called and I am 0 for 3.

Another sidebar...Conversation just overheard:

Young Guy:
(Looking out the window)
It's not raining yet?

The skies are vaguely cloudy.

Older Guy:

Nope, but it will be by tonight.

You know, we make fun of the local news' obssession with the mystical idea of rain (STORMWATCH!), but it's really evident in the people too. If there is even the slightest possibility of a single droplet falling in the tri-county area, it's like a mental scab that people can't stop picking. I should be more interested in this today as I am wearing suede shoes.

Now where was I...Ah yes. Who the hell comes to jury duty, where you know you are likely to spend 8 hours in a room with nothing to do, without so much as a pamphlet to read? Really, you didn't think to grab a magazine, newspaper, or novella? Not a Walkman, not a videogame, nor Kindle?

Sidebar #2 (or 3?): Now the hot topic is how "ridiculous" the security measures are at the airport. They makes you take your shoes off, they take your toothpaste....If I were not so damned passive aggressive, I would chime in that it beats exploding into a giant fireball at 30,000 feet. You're right guys, it's ridiculous. And I'm sure the only reason these measures are in place are to screw with you. You know I really hate people.

Sorry. Back to the easily entertained. Some people, apparently, think of jury duty as a great way to meet people. They come here to talk. Some enthralled in chat about the weather, or the inconvenience of safety, others by abstract speculation about the process at hand. What do you think they're doing? Are they calling names at random you think? Do you think they will call anymore groups before lunch? Is this your first time? The nerve of people to be friendly and personable, right? Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like a snarky little prick.

Ya know there is a common misperception out there that the womens' low-rise jean gave way to the visible-panty-bendover phenomena or "whale tail" as its more commonly known in the case of a thong, but new evidence discovered just this morning suggests a more nuanced relationship. About an hour ago, a woman approximately 54 years of age bent over to access something in her purse. Her jeans which reached well into the lumbar region were surpasses in height by underwear stretching halfway up her back. It begs the question, If a woman were to continually raise the waist level of her pants, would the underwear only rise ever higher? What if she went so far as to wear one of those one-piece things like mechanics wear? Would the underwear swallow her head in retaliation? Apparently, the underwear-pant line relationship is quite the game of cat and mouse. I find it appropriate that such a great truth should be revealed at a courthouse.

Alright, I think that's enough for now as this laptop is probably irradiating my testes. I'm against that.

P.S. The good news about sitting in a strange room for hours on end is that it has afforded me the opportunity to really dive in to my new Nick Hornby book, "Juliet, Naked." I am loving it so far. What's more, only about a third of the way in, I can tell it's only going to get better. Do you listen to music while you read? Fiction, I mean. I can't believe it's taken me this long to get on board with this pairing. I was using Bob Dylan for this book, but the wordier songs were becoming distracting. Very well then.

Hey oh! Just got the call! Headed for the big show! Adios muchachos!

Something's Gotta Give

2010-02-18T10:28:00.000-08:00

If NBC is going to tape delay the Olympics, then there needs to be a consensus among the rest of the media to not report results as if we have the ability to watch them live.

It's driving me absolutely insane. If I want to actually watch the Olympics without already knowing the outcome, I have to go into a cone of silence the entire day. I can't go to espn.com even one single time. Do you have any idea how difficult this is for a red-blooded, sports-loving, American male? I believe it fits the legal definition of torture. (Insert political joke here) It's the painful. I can't follow the beginning of spring training. I can't check on breaking NBA trades. I can't even check the Olympic schedule. To safely avoid any spoiler, I must avoid sports altogether all day long. Not only that, but I can't go to any news site either. No NY Times, no msnbc, no nada. (Insert second political joke here) What am I supposed to do if I can't read about sports and world affairs, work?

I don't even know if I can have friends during the Olympics. Can I trust them not to IM, email, text, or Facebook something about the fate of the U.S. Olympians? We had one close call already and after this post, I have a feeling I will be getting spoiler messages simply out of spite.

That's it, I am moving to a secluded shack in the backwoods of Montana for the duration of the Olympiad. Of course, it will still need to have HD service.

Go for Gomez?

2010-02-18T10:24:00.000-08:00

Anybody seen Gomez in concert? They are coming to the El Rey and since I am a fan but not a superfan (only know the last two albums and Ian Ball's solo), I am wondering if it is worth it. Help a brotha out.

Februrary in Southern California

2010-02-16T18:09:00.000-08:00

From the shores of Malibu...

...to the snow-capped St. Jacinto Mountains and Idyllwild.

In the words of Frank Cushman, "I'll either surf or ski." And there was a small bit of desert in between!

My Top 10 (Non-Jazz) Rainy Day Albums

2010-02-09T17:27:00.000-08:00

Because on a rainy day, nothing is better than jazz and it's not fair to compare...Also, greatest hits albums are not eligible.

10. Patty Griffin - 1000 Kisses

9. M. Ward - Hold Time (This album, I believe, will eventually be ranked higher, but I need to listen to it about 50 more times)

8. Wilco - Sky Blue Sky

7. James Taylor - JT

6. Mat Kearney - City of Black & White

5. Justin Townes Earle - The Good Life

4. Jackson Browne - Late For The Sky

3. Ben Folds Five - Whatever and Ever Amen

2. Nick Drake - Pink Moon

1. Counting Crows - August and Everything After

Please, friends, tell me yours.

Remember This Day, My Friends....

2010-02-08T16:14:00.000-08:00

For it is the day we thought would never come...

The day they made donuts healthy.

I have sampled these myself, in the Pumpkin variety, and they were a delight. Today dawns a new age of eating, when one must no longer suppress one's desire for donuts.

Score on for The Veggie People.

A Man's Best Beers

2010-02-05T10:49:00.000-08:00

Men love beer. If there were ever a stereotype that rang true, this might be the one. However, there is something to be said for the many layers of love men have for their precious porter, ale, lager, or stout. While we all have our favorites brands or styles, I believe there are times when the circumstances or setting are what makes a beer so beautiful. Men, you know what I'm talking about...

The Airport Beer - You've lugged your bag through the check-in line, you've cleared the strip search at security, you've peed and bought your magazine. It's time for a beer. Your trip has now officially begun. My best guess for why an airport beer tastes so damn good is that the air you breathe in as you take that first long sip is ripe with possibility as your journey lays before you. This is a beer that pairs perfectly with imagination as a man sitting in an airport bar feels he could be anyone, unfettered by the limitations of who he really is. The Airport Beer makes you feel mysterious, solitary, but secure. A man having an Airport Beer is a man who is going places. Minimum Airport Beers to Consume: 2.5

The Dollar Beer - It's usually a Miller Lite at room temp in a plastic mug, but the Dollar Beer is never about the taste or even the cost, really. The Dollar Beer is about the camaraderie of the guys you enjoy them with. It's about buying a round of six beers for the table and not hesitating to buy the next round too. There's no pause or ulterior thought processing about what your tab might be at that point. You can just relax, enjoy hanging out with the guys, drink all the beer you want and even have a grilled cheese, knowing your bill is not going to be more than thirty bucks. Minimum Dollar Beers to Consume: You don't count, that's the beauty of it.

The Ballgame Beer - With the exorbitant cost of this beer and the high risk of it being spilled as you or someone near you tries to catch a foul ball, it would make sense to buy insurance for The Ballgame Beer. "When trying to catch a foul ball, the last thing you should have to worry about is your beer. That's All State's stand." This is the food-pairing beer, the one that complements and is so well complemented by its partner, the hot dog, that the two become Siamese twins of taste. This is the beer that actually does quench your thirst, just like the breathless rush of euphoria of walking out of the tunnel and seeing the field for the first time. This is the beer that reminds you that no matter how long it's been, it has been too long. Minimum Ballgame Beers to Consume: 1.

The Handyman Beer - If tools are present, so shall be The Handyman Beer. Whether you're rebuilding an engine or struggling with a Swedish balsa wood bookcase, the one constant is this classic beer. This is the beer that makes you feel like a man. An American man. The Handyman Beer is the one that makes you think about your dad. Or your grandpa. It's the beer of classic rock or country played through the tin-sounding speakers of a beat up old boombox. This is the beer that makes even the flashlight-holding kid feel like one of the guys when he's given a sip. Always cheap, light, bitter, and out of a can, The Handyman Beer is a rite of passage and proof that every beer, even a Milwaukee's Best, has its own time and place. Minimum Handyman Beers to consume: 2.

The Brewery/Festival Beer - It's like drinking icy fresh mountain water straight from the spring. The Brewery/Festival Beer is a beer that comes with no baggage or guilt whatsoever. It's an educational experience. This is beer as art. "How do you like this one, Cornelius?" "The hops are in the forefront on this one, Alfred, but there is a surprising floral note and a toasty finish that tame it down a bit. Ultimately it tilts a may unrefined for me, old boy. I fear the only viable pairing would be Humboldt granola, the only suitable social gathering one in which Birkenstocks are predominant." And yet, there is still a place in our hearts for The Brewery/Festival Beer. This is the beer that helps a man to feel like an adult**. Minimum Brewery/Festival Beers to consume: 12 (They're just samples!)

**For better or for worse.

The Lunch Hour Beer - This is the beer that reminds even the most embedded of corporate drones that he is still and will always be his own man. They might have him by the balls from 9 to 1 and from 2 to 6, but for that precious, fleeting hour, a man can do whatever the hell he wants. Watch him have a beer with his burger. The Lunch Hour Beer reminds a man that each day is actually different from the last and that the weekend is always only a few days away. It's the beer of quiet rebellion and the beer of daydreaming, fooling the open minded man into feeling, if only for a second, that he's not working some boring job. He could be anywhere on his way to anywhere else. The Lunch Hour Beer is the archenemy of the Quizno's sub. Next time you see a long line of ugly golf shirts and baggy Dockers pouring out of Quizno's while there's ten open stools at O'Shaughnessy's next door, think of what a sad perversion of virtue that picture paints. No matter, as long as there is such a thing as bosses, The Lunch Hour Beer will endure. Minimum Lunch Beers to consume: 1*.

*Schooner, if possible.

Super Bowl Ad Previews

2010-02-05T08:44:00.000-08:00

Why is this the hot topic dejuere for all the local news and national talk shows? Am I the only one that has no need or desire to see a preview of commercials? I know they are expensive and often funny, but, come on, they are still just commercials. I can wait.

Phil.

2010-02-04T20:41:00.000-08:00

After watching another instantly classic "Modern Family" with my bride this evening, it occurred to me that she finds me less annoying immediately after watching this show, specifically the Phil character. So I threw it out there...

"I think after watching Phil from 'Modern Family' you appreciate me in a less annoying way."

"I think you're right."

Thank you, "Modern Family."

P.S. How great is this show? If I had to choose only one comedy I could keep watching, I can't tell you which one I would pick, "30 Rock" or "Modern Family." It's that close.

THE END IS NEAR!

2010-02-04T16:26:00.000-08:00

True story:

It's a Tuesday like any other. I am hard at work at my desk or hard at looking like I'm at work anyway (the line is often blurred) when I hear a loud BANG! from one of the outer offices. The woman in this office is scared to death, shouting "JESUS!" in that split second after a bang that's reached only by primal instinct. I look over and I see feathers out her window, fluttering in the air. I know what you're thinking...A bird hit the window, so what. Hardly story-worthy. But there's more...

So she gets up and looks out her window to see what it was exactly had slammed so hard into the window, but it's not a bird that she sees. It's an entire flock of birds. Their bodies litter the sidewalk below. I got up from my desk and looked out to see it for myself. You couldn't count them there were so many. I would find out the next day from the first floor tenants who picked them up that were 26 birds in total. Yet the sound was one single bang.

Twenty-six birds crash against an office window, lay dead on the ground below. It's the opening to a horror movie, is it not?

It was an eery and upsetting sight. Luckily, we were told the next day that 9 of them actually lived and had only been dazed by the impact. They were released and flew away.

PCH

2010-02-04T16:22:00.001-08:00

There's nothing wrong. My mood is fine. The week has been a little on the long side but nothing out of the ordinary. I just have that inexplicable yearning to hop in the car and drive up the coast. No room booked for the night. No turnaround point predetermined. No destination known. Just grab some a light jacket, maybe a sleeping bag, a cooler. Just go.

The Jell-O Still Giggles

2010-01-28T14:14:00.000-08:00

I just saw something on espn.com about the 5 greatest Lakers or something and their pick for #1 was our old friend, the late great Chick Hearn. Man oh man, do I miss Chick. Sometimes I do forget that I miss him until while watching a Lakers game they will use some old footage in a promotional clip and I'll hear the golden voice back in action. No offense to Joel Myers, but I sigh when the game comes back on and Chick's not calling it. Just wanted to post a little "dribble drive" down memory lane.