I Left My Heart in El Segundo

Wow, it's been a while. It feels good on a hot Sunday night to begin the babble.

I moved desks again at work, my new location affording me the greatest computer monitor privacy one could hope for short of having an office. My time wasted on this blog should be at an all-time high. Problem is, I've been too damn busy to take advantage of it. Not the good kind of busy either. I've been the kind of busy that consists of tedious, grueling, repetitive work that numbs the brain rather than stimulating it. Every morning (weekday morning, that is), as I begin to pore over receipts and calculate exchange rates, my heart and mind wanders to wherever I'd really like to be. Every day it's some place different. One day New York, Barcelona the next. Maybe I'll try to relieve these urges with a quick entry here, a working stiff's daydream travel channel, if you will. Couldn't hurt, I guess.

There are also the times where I look around and feel like there's no place in the world I'd rather be at that particular moment. Sometimes these opposing feelings occur one after the other, which is confusing. It kind of cheapens both feelings, actually, and leads me to think I'm a whiny loser and a sentimental fool at once! But I digress...My bride and I spent last Friday night painting the town red. That might elicit images of fine dining, dancing, and cavorting in general lavish bliss, but I should mention the town we painted was El Segundo.

I love El Segundo. I really do. It's nearly as close to the ocean as Manhattan, Redondo, or Santa Monica, but it's somehow preserved the feel of a quaint, quiet, charming beach town without any of the bloated self-image or wandering topless schizophrenics. There is no singles scene in El Segundo. I'm not sure if there are even any legal residents between the ages of 19-35. Someone might want to look into that. In the meantime, El Segundo lives on as a family town with a legitimate Main Street, with parades, mom and pop shops, and no need for an Olive Garden or Wal-Mart. I don't mean to discount the value of a good shopping mall, Barnes & Noble or Jiffy Lube, but the beauty of El Segundo is that while all of that is within ten minutes' reach, it's safely situated on the other side of the wall known as Sepulveda Blvd. Still convenient whenever you need it, but existing in your life strictly on your terms. Wow, that hit home. Now I'm sympathizing with Olive Garden. Anyway, it's a great little town where I always see kids skateboarding and playing, and their parents out for an evening walk. To me, El Segundo is idyllic and I would live there in a second if ever won the lottery.

We began our date with dinner at the Richmond Bar & Grill, where I have had lunch every Friday for over a year now. The walls are adorned with kitschy vintage signs like "Next time bring your wife" or "If you're drinking to forget, please pay in advance." The draft beers are always changing and the people are always the same. There's no obvious alkies (I go incognito) or starving actors. The Richmond is a family bar where you feel everyone there is a friend of a friend if for no better reason than you all appreciate the same qualities in your bar & grills. And did I mention they make their own chips? We dined on a couple of chicken sandwiches and pale ales and said hi to the waitress who knows me as a regular. Finally, I'm a regular! We sat at the bar and it was the rare Friday night dinner out that was actually relaxing. No fuss to get a seat, no valet, no coronary when the check came.

After dinner, we had a little time to kill. My bride wished she had gotten a schooner instead of a paltry pint (that's my girl) so we journeyed down a block to the Purple Orchid Exotic Tiki Lounge. In the age of monosyllabic infamy for clubs and restaurants (see Toast, Milk), all I needed to fall in love with the Purple Orchid Exotic Tiki Lounge was to say its big, long, beautiful name. The interior of the Purple Orchid Exotic Tiki Lounge (try saying it, it's great fun), is about everything you could reasonably expect from a tiki bar in a small town. Purple felt pool tables, native Hawaiian wood carvings, blowfish lamps, and stiff boat drinks served in ceramic hula girl glasses. We did one at the Purple Orchid Exotic Tiki Lounge and walked back up the block for our main attraction.

I had always seen the Old Town Music Hall as I crossed the street from my Friday lunches at The Richmond, but I never realized it was still in business. I was never there at the right time. The Old Town Music Hall is a time machine. From the carnival-style admittance tickets to the old-fashioned red-and-white striped popcorn boxes, to the home baked macaroons served out of tupperware, the place just oozed nostalgia. And we hadn't even been inside yet. The pride of the Old Town Music Hall is the Mighty Wurlitzer Organ, a relic from the silent film era, beautifully restored and rejuvenated by the owners of the theatre, Bill Coffman and Bill Field. The console of the organ sits at the front of the intimate, 188-seat theatre where it controls over 2000 pipes, moving percussive instruments and effects. At about ten after eight, one of the Bills (I don't recall which) walked down, sat at the organ and told us briefly about its history and how he and his late partner had put it all together. Bill was an older guy and though he spoke of him without a drip of sentimentality, it was easy to discern that Bill missed his old friend and partner. The idea of these two guys creating this gem together and one Bill carrying on the show after losing the other struck me as very sweet and romantic, as did the Old Town Music Hall as a whole. Bill then began playing the organ and the entire front wall of the theatre came to life with the action of the thousands of its moving pieces. It was like Phantom of the Opera meets Alice in Wonderland. After that brief introduction, the movie screen rolled down from the ceiling and Bill continued his fine organ playing as musical accompaniment to an old Laurel and Hardy short. I'm telling you, it was a time machine. Following the follies, there was an intermission(!). We had to go out for more candy and popcorn, feeling like kids who could eat anything they wanted and did, if not just to soak in the atmosphere of standing in line outside as the leaves blew down the dark street lit only with the glow of neon from the Richmond across the way. Then began our feature presentation..."Casablanca." Widely regarded as the greatest screenplay of all-time and personally one of my favorite films, seeing it in this place, on this night, somehow it meant a little more this time around. I envied Nicole as she was seeing it for the first time. When Rick uttered that most famous of last lines and the credits appeared, the audience applauded. It was not a grand or totally surprising gesture, but like everything else at the Old Town Music Hall, it was a small thing that, to me, held a greater meaning.

Any other Friday night, we may as well have been at The Landmark, swirling our pinots at the wine bar and seeing a newer, louder movie having to do with Nazis. I'm fine with that date and we do it all the time. On this particular Friday night, however, I felt blissfully content to be in El Segundo. It felt good to go small.

There is something wrong with me...

I was at Target Monday night and I happened to catch a passing glimpse of a fall wreath in the Smith & Hawken section. Just like that, I'm craving a pumpkin spice latte and fantasizing about huge piles of red and gold leaves.

Last night, coming off maybe one of the hottest days of the summer mind you, I was listening to Christmas music and itching to watch "Miracle on 34th Street."

It's still friggin' August. I think I might be turning into an elf. I'd ask for help, but the scariest part is...I don't really want it.

In looking for the Newman pic I used below, I stumbled on this. How funny us this?

NEWMAN!

We're Famous!

Finally, my face in print!

(click on image for better view)

Breastbeat

I have decided to combine my love for music with my efforts to raise funds as part of the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. I am excited to announce the release of a very special mix CD called "Simply The Breast."

Over the next few nights, after walking of course, I am going to be putting together a collection of great music that hasn't gotten a lot of attention. A collection of somewhat hidden gems if you will. As many of you know, I take my playlists very seriously. I love those moments when I've got a song playing and someone perks up and asks, "Who is this?" Conversely, I love being on the other end of that scenario too. It will come as no surprise then that I adore-a Pandora and think Itunes' Genius is, well, genius. Obviously, I can't make a single CD that would fit everyone's varying tastes as well as those two musical engines can, but I think I can find a common though eclectic ground of songs that are so universally awesome that it could be overall pleasing to most good people I know. This is my challenge anyway.

Then comes the fundraising part. While it's probably very very illegal to "sell" a CD of other peoples' works, as a separate proposition, I am sure this wonderful collection of music may very well inspire listeners to donate $20 to the crucial cause of breast cancer which kills 40,000 women a year.

So please, friends, if you would like to hear some great new music, please just let me know where to send your copy of "Simply The Breast."

And if you would like to make a donation to the fight against breast cancer, you may do so using my personal page through Avon, sponsors of the upcoming Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, Los Angeles.

http://www.avonwalk.org/goto/JohnKumpart

I would love to share this great music I have stumbled on which I feel enriches my life.

Donations to Avon will go toward funding access to care and finding a cure for Breast Cancer and are, of course, tax deductible.

Thanks everyone. I really hope you like the music.

P.S. Obviously, you don't want to post your address in the comments so email it to me at john.kumpart@gmail.com...Although, who am I kidding, chances are I already have all 10 of your addresses and you could easily just write "I'll take one," but let's play along, shall we?

Avon Walk For Breast Cancer - Training Report - 4 Weeks To Go

I hit a nice milestone last weekend.

On Saturday, I walked all of 20 miles! We started at 6 a.m. and finished around 1:30 p.m. That's 7.5 hours of walking to you and me! I fared much better this time than the previous weekend when I did the 15 miles. I attribute it to better walking gear, better nutrition and hydration, and better company. I joined up with some fellow Avon walkers for a training walk led by a veteran walker (and breast cancer survivor) and it made such a huge difference to have people to talk to. Our leader gave me some great tips for the big walk and taught me a new stretching exercise that I know saved my hips and knees a lot of pain. Most importantly, as tired as I was at the end of the 20 miles, I knew if it were the actual event, I could have easily squeezed 6.2 more miles out of myself, eaten a big spaghetti dinner, and done another 13.1 miles the next day. It was a good feeling, to be confident that I will be able to do this thingI am also counting on my USC Trojans to give me a morale boost by winning at Ohio State that Saturday night. Fight On.

Have you ever wondered?

Why is the soup of the day on Friday always Clam Chowder?



P.S. Take it easy, Conrad. I am NOT saying that it shouldn't be, I am merely asking why it is.

Thunderin' Thursday

So "500 Days of Summer" definitely lived up to expectations. Now I am looking forward to this new Mike Judge movie, "Extract." I couldn't find the embed code for the trailer so here is the good old-fashioned link:

http://www.apple.com/trailers/miramax/extract/

Funny, no? I especially like the part about the sweatpants, not to mention the presence of Mila Kunis, Kristen Wiig, and Ben Affleck as a long-haired, bearded bartender. I'm seeing great potential for this one.

Speaking of Mike Judge,...I forget how it started, but I got on a weird Michael Bolton kick this morning. Very weird...

On my way in Monday morning, I observed two seagulls perched on the fountain out front, staring at their reflections in the glassy black tiles. I was momentarily tickled by this but did not think anything else of it as we are only a mile or two from the ocean, but then there they were again when I left for lunch. It's now Thursday and they are still here, just hanging out. I snapped a couple photos of them this time which I will post when I get home to the proper cord. In the meantime, I think I shall name them....Buddy (after Buddy Hackett who voiced the seagull character in "The Little Mermaid") and Kim (because if my dad is going to name his cat after my son, I am going to name my seagull after him). Buddy & Kim, Kim & Buddy. I like it.

I am loving summer, but, damn it am I ready for Fall. I should say "Fall," as it exists here only as a state of mind, not as an actual season of weather.

Sure could use Conrad's homemade chair this weekend...Native-American Giver! (I realize that my attempt to make the term "Indian Giver" politically correct is kind of like the scene in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation when the little girl is talking with Uncle Clark and uses the term "shittin' bricks." Clark says, "You know you shouldn't use that language" to which she corrects herself by saying, "Sorry. Shittin' rocks.")

The Albums of Summer 2009: Paolo Nutini's "Sunny Side Up" and The Flaming Lips' "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots." I realize the Lips' album was released 7 years ago but I wasn't ready for it then so it's new to me in '09, okay?

Training for this Avon Walk is a killer, man. I did 15 miles last weekend and just about collapsed when I walked back through the door. I was pretty much ruined for Sunday. It sounds so easy, walking. Even if it is for 6 hours at a time, it's still just walking, right? You would think so. I would think so. We would both be wrong. My hips felt like Bo Jackson's. Despite many snacks and water along the way, my energy was totally tapped. When I started out, I was whistling a happy tune, la dee dah, look at the trees, isn't it nice to be out walking, etc. By the last third, I was deleriously singing along loudly to Jimmy Buffet, gawkers be damned. And this was only 15 miles. Day one of the big walk will be 26.2. Luckily, I still have time to build up to it. It's just tough to set aside 6 hours on a Saturday to train, ya know? Kind of throws off the whole flow of the weekend. This Saturday, I'll be rolling out of bed around 5 to squeeze in 20 miles before lunch. If you don't see me Saturday night, you'll now know why...I'm still walking. But it's all for the cause! I got some new shoes and other gear this week that should help, and I will be bringing mental toughness to the table too. Mama said knock you out!

Sniff

I know I've talked about this before, but since when does that stop me from saying it all over again....I get it from my old man.


It always amazes me how powerful a simple scent can be. The other night, I was on one of my walks and for the briefest of moments I smelled Disneyland at night. It could have been Knott's Berry Farm too. It was a unique bouquet of street vendor hot dogs, pavement, water (like a fountain), and the summer night air. Even though I only caught this whiff for a second or two, I was overwhelmed with the desire to be at Disneyland. Not only that, memories of many teenage nights at Knott's Berry Farm came flooding back like the splash down on the log ride. No, I was not high at the time.

Today as I was walking out of Target, I got the smell of popcorn in my nose. Sidebar: doesn't the popcorn at Target always smell incredible? Anyway, within those few steps between the corn and the door, I was reminded of all the lazy summer days spent at the movie theater. Lakewood Center to be specific. The big one, not the smaller Lakewood Center South. Now I can hear Mr. Moviefone in my head telling me for the umpteenth time where it is located (Faculty, South of Candlewood). I smelled the popcorn and it was almost like being back there. I could see it in my head, the ginormous theater, the cardboard cutout ads on the way in, the gold curtains. And of course, the many summer blockbusters we saw there, with a big bucket of highly "buttered" popcorn and a Mr. Pibb or Cherry Coke. For a minute there, I really longed for the freedom of the old days, having nothing to do but play and little more to worry about in life at all (it was a brief period in time, the worry-free). I can't tell you how badly I wanted to skip work and head for the movies.

Tough Loss

I have today off work and despite it being a gorgeous day, I committed myself to staying home and writing. As I'm sitting here pecking away (and not doing very well at that), I find out that one of my heroes, John Hughes, has died of a heart attack while out on a morning walk. Very very sad. I just pulled up the IMDB list of his writing credits. Some of my all-time favorites...

Dutch
Home Alone
Christmas Vacation(!!!!)
Uncle Buck
The Great Outdoors
She's Having a Baby
Plains, Trains, & Automobiles
Some Kind of Wonderful
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
Pretty in Pink
Weird Science
European Vacation
The (fuckin!) Breakfast Club(!!)
Sixteen Candles
National Lampoon's Vacation

I can't think of a single writer with a resume that could come close to that in terms of movies that people love to the point that they will watch them again and again and again. On that list, everything from "Home Alone" down to "Sixteen Candles" are one after another with not a dud to be seen in between. That's a six year hot streak of 13 movies that will stand the test of time. Just awesome.

It's just an odd, odd summer, isn't it?

I Am The Walrus....You Are The Cat

Just talked to my old man. They got a new cat today, male. This is good, exciting news, right? You would think. I was excited for them up until the point where he tells me what they have decided to name him. I won't say the name here, but I will say that it's the name I was pretty much set on for my future son. Obviously, Nicole would have some say in that decision, but my point is this is the name I wanted and was ready to go to bat for in the baby name deliberations. And now they're stealing the name from me...for their cat. I don't know why they couldn't go with Soda. We were all agreed on Soda! I told the old man straight away that we had a little conflict here and they needed to decide whether they wanted their cat and their future grandson to have the same name. I don't think they are changing it. This should be fun. Poor kid is gonna grow up thinking he was named after a friggin' feline. And can you imagine the confusion and mishaps at Christmas?

DAD: "Ooops! Sorry (name of cat/child), that ball of twine was actually supposed to be for the cat (name again)."

DAD: "Ooops! No no (cat name), that cashmere sweater was for (child's name). Give it here now..."

STEPMOM: "Awww but look at how he snuggles into it, honey. He really likes it. Maybe his big brother will be nice and let him have it? What do you say, (child's name)?"

TROUBLED CHILD: "Seriously? Ummm..."

STEPMOM: "Say 'thank you,' (cat's name). Say 'thank you.' Here (child), here's some fresh nip for you."

Thanks, Dad.

Tales from Stumptown

Some stories from Portland that you've probably already heard...

--So we're at BrewFest on Friday...And every five-to-ten minutes someone in the increasingly drunk crowd will start a loud "Wooooooooo" that other people will join in with until it builds into a full crowd crescendo of Wooooo's. Once we get wise to this, we, of course, vow to start one ourselves by day's end. Fast forward a few hours and many many spent tokens later. We start our Woo with great, expectantly contagious enthusiasm and ample volume...and nothing happens. A few charity woos but nothing more. Flummoxed, we try again a few minutes later and again, we are collectively shunned. What the hell, fellow BrewFesters?

--Early Sunday evening, Nicole and I took a short walk up to Multnomah Village, a charming small-town-ish main street just a block or so from Sarah and Bill's place. It was after 5 so just about everything was closed. Even though it was in the upper nineties with 'Nam-like humidity, it was nice to be out for a bit and just window shop this quiet little village. On our way back just ten minutes or so after arriving, we were about to turn down a side street when my compulsion pulled me into what appeared to be the only open store in town. Even though it was not the least bit visually enticing from the street and the name of the store left me a little confused as to what we might find inside, I did not fight the tractor beam pulling me towards Post Hip CDs. Once inside, I quickly realized the dusty stuffed animals that filled the front window display (wtf?) were not a fluke. The place had the feel of a thrift store. CDs loosely grouped into genre but otherwise totally unorganized. No artsy end caps or featured albums. The listening stations were two ratty old chairs with a couple of discmans. Fingerprints, it was not, but I was loving it anyway. A middle-aged guy with Harry Potter-ish think, very round frames seemed to be the owner. He was talking to two older gentlemen seated on a couch. They weren't shopping or working; they were apparently there just to talk. It felt like an old barbershop at that point. I found a huge stack of old, used Jackson Browne, James Taylor, Rolling Stones, and Chet Baker, and I sat down to give them a listen (as if I didn't know I was going to get them). Wow, I had forgotten how great a CD sounds. A CD on a CD player with any decent pair of earphones is pretty tough to beat. Eat your heart out, IPod (and I love my IPod). Another couple came in as I was sitting there, and somehow I deduced that they were fellow merchants from another store down the street. They visited for a few minutes and I was really taken by the whole experience of this small town, very low maintenance, no frills music store that seemed to double as a local piazza just 15 minutes from downtown Portland. When I went to check out, the proprietor (I really should have known his name) stepped around several stacks of CDs piled on the floor, behind the short counter that was really nothing more than a formality. There was no cash register, just a spiral notebook where he wrote down by hand the albums I was buying on an otherwise blank page. He did the math in his head(!) and I handed him the cash (I wasn't going to dare hand a debit card). He handed me my discs in a plastic bag I would later notice was being reused from a drugstore. On the way out, I pointed out the vintage typewriters by the door and we ended up talking for another ten minutes. It was really cool. I left with a renewed faith in humanity and six great albums to boot. Viva Portland.

Mooooooon River!

In the last two weeks, I have come to relate to this scene in a very direct way. I don't know yet whether these real life vignettes of violation have made this scene more or less funny.

As promised!

Little Wednesday

--Looking like I will be blessed with a four-day weekend next week. My mind spins with the possibilities. Paris? Tuscany? Anaheim? A man with a couple days off is a terrible thing to waste. It couldn't come at a better time actually. It's been a busy string of months and it's frustrating to not be able to keep up with normal life things like keeping the house clean and getting birthday gifts on time, not to mention the leisurely pleasure of having time to think.

--Had a great time in Portland last weekend. Sarah and Bill Brasky were incredible hosts. I'll post some pics and stories later, just wanted to mention it now.

--Viva El Doug! Poor guy ate shit on his bike and hurt himself pretty badly. I tell you what, this has been a bitch of a year, hasn't it? I won't list them for the sake of it appearing as if I am comparing one hardship with another, but it seems like most people I know have had something really difficult happen in their lives this year. And we're only in July! Still, there have been some really amazing, beautiful, positive things, many of which have come by way of the negative so there you have it. Let's just cease and desist with the bad news until after New Year's, okay Universe? I think that's fair.

--On that same note, with everything Wayne has been going through, who do you think texted me this morning to ask me how I was feeling? The guy was barely home from the hospital and he was asking me how I was (I have been having some severe stomach pains for the past two weeks). He's fighting cancer and he's asking me about my stomach ache. Amazing guy, wouldn't you say? By the way, I'll be shutting up about my health right about....now.

--Also derived from the list of shit....We lost Callie yesterday. If you've ever been to my dad's, you would remember Callie as the sweet little calico that fell over when you scratched her back and was widely regarded as one of the sweeter cats of all time. There was nothing specifically wrong with her in the way of a disease or anything like that. She was just so old (19) and had nothing left in the tank. She couldn't walk more than a few steps without falling over to rest, couldn't make it to the litter box before she had to go, couldn't make it up onto her favorite couch. So, difficult as it was, it was time.

Well, that's all for today.

yikes

--I just saw footage of myself sprinting. Wow, that was an eye-opener. I run like a friggin' goofball! I run like Johnny Damon throws. Come to think of it, my running form reminds me a lot of Bengie Molina. At least it seems to generate more speed for me than it does for Bengie. Still, poetry in motion, I'm not.

--The Pottery Barn catalog is no longer allowed in my home. All it does is make me feel inadequate, reminding me of the house (and life) I will never have. And actually, I'm okay with that part. It's having the wife look at it and then look to me longingly for the same reasons. That's where we gotta nip it in the bud.

--"Even a broken clock is right twice a day..." So I am browsing the Nordstrom Anniversary sale for potential Christmas gifts (I swear) when I came across the summer suit of my dreams (okay so maybe i diverted momentarily), twinkling like the Griswold Family Christmas Tree. Based on the size, I thought for sure it was too small, but since size ain't nothing but a number, I figured I would just make sure. It fit. Like a glove. At least I thought so. But I thought I might be convincing myself it fit since I had instantly become smitten. So I waited for some help from the salesmen. And waited. And waited. There were only two of them and both were tied up with a couple of high maintenance guys. One of these customers was looking at the exact type of suit I am talking about and was smaller than me. He hadn't seen it yet so I walked back to the rack and picked it up, straight away. I saw he and his ladyfriend eyeing it in my hands, but I would not relent. So I stood around pretending to browse for a while. Then I made Nicole, with bad back, wait even longer. Finally, the troll gave up and moved on and his salesman was free. He agreed that it fit like a glove (and this is Nordstrom where I trust the suit salemen to be honest). After another half hour of fretting, we called the tailor, marked the pants and took care of the paperwork. It occurs to me I have been babbling on without yet telling you the best part, the only real point to the story....I got this summer suit of my dreams, this friggin' beauty, for--are you ready?--sixty-seven percent off. SIX-SEVEN. After getting absolutely abused on the airfare to Portland, this little retail miracle at least gives me hope that maybe there is a lucky yin to the cursed yang.

--I think I might have somehow become lactose intolerant. I'll spare you the details. This is upsetting because ever since I was a kid, there's been few things more satisfying than a taaaall glass of milk. If it's true, if I have crossed to the other side, I can only begin to grasp the reaches of the domino effect. Not gonna eat a brownie with soy milk. Not gonna eat a brownie, period. Cookies? Mac & Cheese? Say it ain't so!

--Anybody heard anything about what caused that Southwest plane to tear a hole in itself last week? Just curious since we're flying Southwest in a couple days. I'm sure it's fine. Uh huh, right.

--I need to post more cat pictures. I've got two of the cuter, more interesting cats in the continental US and yet what kind of proud father am I that I never post pictures?

The $18 DVD Rental

The only problem with Netflix is that the no-late-fee thing can encourage movie-watching laziness. One movie can sit unwatched for weeks on end. Before you know it, you've paid two months worth of membership for one movie that you still haven't seen. This was the case for me with "Flash of Genius," starring Greg Kinnear. Last night, we drew a line in the sand. Watched the movie and suspended the account thereafter.

Let me tell you, this movie might have been worth the eighteen bucks. It's a thought-provoking, inspiring story of integrity, perserverance, and truth. I recommend renting it and watching it within the first two months of bringing it home.

THE TUMORS ARE SHRINKING! THE TUMORS ARE SHRINKING!

That's all I know at this point, but that's clearly the big good news of the day. I am sure Val will most more info on her blog. And until then, cause for celebration, I'd say! Wine and grilled pizza for all!

--In other news, I have another piece of sage advice...avoid expired yogurt. Avoid it like the plague. Actually, you should avoid the plague like expired yogurt. Moaning in agony for hours at a time is no way to spend a morning. Went out for Evie's birthday last night and didn't eat a thing because I was still recovering. And the food looked really good. Unfortunately, it took me eating another of the tainted yogurt this morning before I figured out the culprit. I thought a baby alien was gonna pop out of stomach and sing showtunes.

--In the last ten minutes, someone has come through here with In and Out Burger and another with freshly popped popcorn. Sensory torture! Unfair, unacceptable working conditions! Where's my union?!

--I am going to stuff so much Portland coffee in my suitcase, the dogs are going to think I am smuggling drugs. I have been suffering through this artificial-tasting, plastic Dunkin' Donuts shit for far too long. Stumptown, here I come! If there are any coffee lovers who want me to pick them up some of the good shit, let me know.

--Why does Pandora throw in Jack Johnson no matter which (or is it correct to use "what?") station I create? Does Jack Johnson sound the least bit like Bruce Springsteen, Wilco, or Ray LaMontagne to you? Enough with the Jack friggin' Johnson! Then again, maybe this is proof of the blandness of Mr. Johnson. He's like the chicken of music, he tastes like nothing and everything all at once.

--Facebook has been a major disappointment thus far. Other than the poker application and a lot of asinine messages and quizzes, there's just not that much going on on a daily basis. I think I could log in once a month and get everything valuable out of it. All this time, much ado about nothing.

--Just when I thought I was top beard around here, the new guy starts and I'm second billing. The Beard Wars will not be won this easily, I assure you. I have an arsenal of tricks and I intend to exhaust them all.

7 days 'til P-Town

The Pizza Report

It shows definite potential.

Some things I learned after the maiden voyage:

--The dough rises like a son of a bitch. What appeared to be quite thin made for a very thick dough when it cookes. I was going for thin and crispy and I ended up with Chicago style, less the grease. I think it will be much better when I correct this.

--I think I need to remove it from the grill to add the toppings after the first side is cooked. The dough cooks so quickly, you really have no time to add the toppings with it still on the grill. The cheese wasn't melted yet and the crust was already starting to burn. I'll, of course, lower the heat too.

--I made margherita pizzas last night which, you know, call for the big slices of mozzarella. Given the conditions I described above, I think next time I will go for something with shredded cheese. It will melt faster.

--The flavor of the dough was okay. I think I will try the Trader Joe's Garlic Herb dough next time before venturing into making my own. Kick it up a notch!

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

--The lesson of the day is never wait any longer than you absolutely have to when buying plane tickets. I just got slammed paying to go to Portland what should have gotten me to London, all due to waiting 'til the nearly last minute. If I were taking the same trip next month, it would be about 60% cheaper. Shit, this is gonna hurt.

The good news is I am headed for P-Town. The wedding is the cake and The Oregon Brewfest on the waterfront is the very fortunately timed icing. Delicious. I am going to make this trip worth the choke-inducing cost of the travel to get there.

I figured how much it would cost me to drive there. Based on LA gas prices, my little Prius would deliver us there and back for a total of $125. Now if only I had 28 hours to spare behind the wheel.

Ah well.

When the moon hits your eye...

Tonight, I make pizza on the grill. Yes, you heard it right, on the friggin' GRILL. I am very excited about this. It sounds crazy, right? From what I've been reading, short of installing a brick oven in your house, the grill is the ONLY way to cook pizza. I've been reading tips and tricks, watching videos, doing all my homework. Tonight is time to put it to the test. Wish me luck.

TRAGIC BUT TRUE

This exists 5 hours from where I live and breathe...

...a mere 2 hours further than Vegas, closer than San Francisco...

...And I have never been there. Not once.

8/15/2023

Mark it down. For it is on that fateful day just over fourteen years from now that I will finally be free of my student loans. Isn't that something? I seriously want to plan a nice dinner or a party or a trip of some kind to celebrate. Mark your calendars, folks. If I should call on you, I'm not going to be accepting any excuses seeing as how I am giving you fourteen years advance notice. I wonder if home prices will still be at all-time low then. Might be about ready to buy! Woo hoo!

I did it.

I feel like I have been in a nuclear bunker for thirty years and just stepped outside and found myself in modern day Tokyo. Or like Brooks Hatlen when he gets released from Shawshank. "The world went and got itself in a big damned hurry."

I'm overwhelmed to say the least.

The Facebook Conundrum or Joe, you might not be able to hide from me anymore

I am a long standing member of the Anti-Facebook Society. I may as well be a founding father of the club. I know you've all heard my rants/reasons for this opposition so I won't go into it too much here. Basically, I feel that Facebook is a lazy shortcut to maintaining personal relationships. It's frustrated me to no end how my supposed best friends had important things going in their lives that they would announce on Facebook, but never personally to me. In this month's GQ, David Amsden writes that "our 'connected' culture is breeding a pandemic of isolation. That succinctly explains my larger, conceptual hatred for Facebook. I feel like, while we may be communicating more, we are simultaneously drawing back further and further into our own personal pods, with less and less reason to leave our couches or even pick up a phone. I am a big proponent of both. But, to quote the DeNiro character in Heat, there's a flipside to that coin (I think I have used this quote roughly 459 times on this blog in the past).

Two things happened. I was down visiting the fam a few weeks back and my aunt Lisa had her laptop logged in to Facebook. Most of my family have accounts. She was showing my grandma and my cousins photos of my wedding, my mom and uncle's drive to get there, and old family photos from when they were kids. For the first five minutes or so, I sat in a recliner, uninterested. Then I pulled the stick out of my ass and joined in. We scrolled through all kinds of photos, most of which my mom, aunt, or uncle had posted humorous comments on. Lisa and my grandma told stories as the old photos stirred up the old memories. It was a lot of fun.

The second thing was this morning. I was laying in bed and I was just thinking how disappointed I was in myself in terms of the kind of friend, son, nephew, etc. that I am. All I could think about was all the people that are so important to me that I had not called in so long. I realized while I so often think about these people and what they're going through in their lives, I don't go the distance to let them know it hardly as much as I should. And it was overwhelming to think of where to begin. I get up in the morning, I do my exercise, I go to work, I blog (gulp), I come home, take out the trash, cook dinner, do the dishes, maybe watch an hour or so of TV, maybe write, then I go to bed. This is the typical day and there is not a lot of wiggle room in there to be all that I wish I could be to everyone that I care about. I'm not Mother Teresa, of course. I do still require some time to work on my own stuff.

It was around this time that I began to reconsider my anti-Facebook feelings. Ideologically, I still felt I was right about the whole concept. But I was also faced with the guilt that I was out of touch with my friends and family and overwhelmed by the task of making it right, especially when so many of them live so far away. Which was more important to me, to be true to my ideology or to be current and more involved with my loved ones (Joe, you are a "loved one," fyi)? My mom was on Facebook and wanted to see photos of her son for crying out loud! Was it maybe time to get off my high horse a little and sacrifice some pride? It might just be.

After all, I can shape my experience to be exactly as I want it. I don't have to turn into a junkie; I do have the will power to use it and not become enslaved by it. Therefore, if I do decide to join, I vow to go by a certain code of Facebook conduct:

I vow to never update my lame-ass "status message," much less do it every five minutes with the most asinine reports imaginable.

I vow to not take drunken photos every time I go out with thought of how they will make me look on Facebook.

I vow to not devote 56 hours to creating a profile so detailed and nuanced that it could serve as my clone. If you know me, you know me. Don't come to my profile to learn about my deepest fears and favorite pizza toppings.

I vow to not stalk or be stalked by every person I had a class with in high school. Long lost friends, sure. Lab partners from sophomore year, no.

I vow to never take one of those childish, brain-squishing quizzes that ask me "Who was the last person you texted with?" or "do people say you're pretty?"

I vow to not make important, life-altering announcements on Facebook. The big stuff is still for phone calls and face-to-face.

Above all, I vow to not revert into being a teenager. I vow to not let Facebook lure me into thinking that my life is my own personal reality show or that people look to me for entertainment.

I'm not saying I'm ready. I still need to sleep on it. But I think we both know where this is heading. By the way, I am fully aware that the arguments stated above in favor of Facebook are arguments very similar to those made to me by some of you enthusiasts in the past.

To quote Fletch Lives, "It takes a big man to admit when he's wrong. I am not a big man."

Sunday Night pt. II

--My friggin' eyelids have been twitching for two weeks now. What does this mean?

--For about the same stretch of time, I have had a constant craving that alternates between Mexican food and pizza. Coincidence? And it's insatiable too. I have one, I want the other. Scratch one itch, the other kicks in.

Wow, last night was a redeeming night for the new Largo. Even though it's still a great venue, I felt like it lacked the intimacy and freeflowing, you-never-know-who-might-show-up-to-play spirit of the original. And then last night.....the old magic.

We went to see Punch Brothers, Bernie and I. We must have some sort of strange, good concert mojo because the previous time we went to a show, it was also an all-timer. So anyway, we're there. Second row. Chris Thile and company put on a show that was simply mesmerizing. They played a few new songs that sounded quite sweet. They need to record them and release them as soon as possible. Fiona Apple came out and sang "Walkin' After Midnight" like Patsy Cline, Ella Fitzgerald, and Janis Joplin fused into one soulful voice. The Watkins came out and jammed and, being the Nickel Creek lover that I am, the reunion was emotionally fulfilling. Just a really fun, surprising show. And that was only the first half.

Prior to the show, it was announced that Sara and Sean (Watkins) were coming down and would be playing in The Little Room following the Punch Brothers' show. It would be free and first come, first served. Luckily, our primo seat location allowed us to get a good position in line. This second show was just really special. It felt like the old Largo family that I used to love to see coming together again (sans Glen Phillips) playing more as fun in somebody's living room than a "show." I felt like they were just jamming and having fun and I was a fly on the wall, almost like I wasn't supposed to be there and could booted at any second. Chris, Fiona and Fiona came in and played again. Benmont Tench joined on piano. Greg Leisz emerged from a dark corner and played the steel guitar. They had a drummer(don't recall his name) keeping rhythm by slapping on--no joke--a yellow legal pad. There was no set list. They would discuss amongst themselves what to play next, sometimes even quietly reviewing how it went before they actually started it. We, the audience, just watched and waited and drank it all in. This was all in a small corner of the room no bigger than 6x6. And did I mention they have finally started serving beer again?

All together, we were there for about five hours. Five hours on a Sunday night after a long weekend and yet when we walked over there, I was giddy with excitement. I was pumped. I could have gone all night, but, alas, there was work to attend in the morning.

I dropped Bernie off and elected to get back to the 10 by way of Fairfax. As I drove past the old Largo, I still got a little nostalgic, but the tinge of sadness was finally gone. One good night.

On the take

This is an interesting break from the talking heads, half-truths, scare tactics, and general propaganda.

http://www.fivethirtyeight.com/2009/06/special-interest-money-means-longer.html

Toto, eat your heart out

JUST when I was afraid I would not have a single thing worth posting today, somebody sends me this and restores my faith in the goodness and ingenuity of humankind.

I'm On A Boat

I don't need to tell any of you how much I love James Taylor, right? Good, moving on. As much as I love the man, I can't explain why it was only just recently that I signed up for the fan club/newsletter/whathaveyou on his official website. Last week, I got my first newsletter from the site containing an essay JT wrote for the recent National Geographic publication, "My Favorite Place on Earth" written by Jerry Camarillo Dunn, Jr. Beyond James' music, my appreciation for him has always extended to my stranger's impression of him as a really nice, grounded, intelligent, interesting person. I really loved his essay and I felt like it definitely supported my image of him. Nice when that happens. I can definitely relate to many of the feelings he describes below. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

"The Center of the Atlantic Ocean" By James Taylor

Once I made a passage up the center of the Atlantic, from the Caribbean to Martha's Vineyard, with a good sailor on a beautiful boat. It was an old wooden sailboat made of teak, strong and seaworthy. The masts were tall, and we operated the sails by hand. I was part of the crew.

Our captain, Nat Benjamin, who is a boat builder on Martha's Vineyard, is an expert at deep ocean sailing. We didn't have satellite navigation. He simply knew when weather was coming. We would shorten sail for a storm, the storm would hit, and we were ready for it. We went through one thrilling night with seas the size of huge houses passing under us. We just ran before the storm, feeling complete trust in our captain.

We had started our trip from the island of St. Martin and after about five days got to the Sargasso Sea. The surface was a floating mat of sargasso weed, which has a unique variety of flora and fauna within it, with eels breeding and other animals living there - a sort of ecosystem to itself.

The Sargasso Sea is in the Bermuda Triangle. We were becalmed there, as is often the case in the Doldrums, so we let down the sails, stopped the motor, and just sat on these oily, calm swells. And to while away the time, we went swimming in the center of the Atlantic Ocean. The depth of the water beneath us was something like three miles. To think that if you stood on the boat and flipped a quarter overboard, it would be falling and falling and falling for a day and a half before it hit bottom that gave me an amazing feeling.

On a boat, everyone takes turn standing watches around the clock. At night, you watch the polestar and see the entire cosmos revolve around it. It's a remarkable awareness you get of being on this planet in space. I know that as astronauts look back at Earth, they get a great sense of what it is. On our boat, I could feel myself on the surface of this water planet.

In a way, it was similar to two trips I've taken down the Grand Canyon in wooden dories. It takes 19 days to get through the canyon, and it really takes you away from ordinary experience and timetables. The fact that you're drifting with the river, and not motoring down or powering through it, also has an effect on you. You're in this great geological picture book, which goes back in time as you get deeper and deeper. It gives you a profound experience of the planet to be at the bottom of this great slice through time and into the depths of Earth. You pass a layer that was once the floor of a sea and eventually get down to the Vishnu Schist, which is two billion years old, some of the oldest rock on the planet. To see this stuff, to drift past it, to live with it, changes you - just like being in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

I was never taught a particular religion growing up. My father was a scientist, and I think, being from the South, he had an aversion to the available organized religious forms. So I was never given a strong religious connection. But I have a very strong spiritual need. And getting into nature is going to church for me. It's my way of surrendering to the bigger picture, to the whole.

I feel the skin of life on the planet as a sort of coevolved life form. It has a type of consciousness that we humans - with individuated consciousness and an ego-based world view - see as alien. But it's my own belief that it is alive, a single organism on this amazing, rare, and perhaps unique planet. I really need to feel that connection.

California Dreamin'

I am wearing a shirt today that I have not worn or washed since the honeymoon. It still smells like a wonderful potpourri of sea breeze, sunscreen, and massage oil. It is taking me back, I tell ya. I wish I could be there right now. Been doing that a lot lately, daydreaming about all the trips I'd like to take. I'm not talking pie-in-the-sky dreaming or anything, just reasonable summer trips that I could realistically take if I had such a thing as vacation days.

Portland, OR - Actually going on this one for Zach's wedding, but I'd love to stay a week instead of a quick 2.5 days. Brewfest on the waterfront, Powell's books, McMenamins' many brewpub movie theatres, The Tex-ass Challenge at Voo Doo Donuts. It's too much! Then again, Bill Brasky won't talk to me since the Lakers won, so I might not have as many friends up there as I thought.

Atlanta, GA - Conradical! The Dirty South! What more do I need to say?

Austin, TX - I have heard nothing but great things about Austin and, as a music, food and film lover, I have wanted to go for years. Lindsay, Austin native, was talking recently about rafting and whatnot in one of the rivers nearby. Sounds like good late summer fun.

Houston, TX - I never would have guessed there would be two places in Texas that I ever actually wanted to go to, but Wayne is there for treatment at MD Anderson and I wish I could go visit.

Rapid City, SD - Good ol' fashioned family trip in the fall would be a lot of fun. Test my hot streak in Deadwood. See if I can't reclaim my manhood by testing my luck against Val at beer pong. Our last trip there was only the second time I've been when it was NOT the dead of winter. I had forgotten how beautiful it really is when there's green on the hills, leaves on the trees.

Beach near Oxnard, CA - Renting a beach house for the Fantasy Football Draft. Inspired by the cabin experience in South Dakota, this was a great idea that Kissen came up with. Fifteen people (mostly guys) in a beach house with a boatload of booze for a football draft. What could go wrong?

Camping, some other beach in CA - I haven't been camping in a loooong time and the last time was not one I want to leave as the lasting impression. I would love to just be sitting by a campfire, looking out to sun setting on the Pacific with a skyful of stars overhead. Nothing for days but swimming, reading, drinking, and playing board/card games.

Sonoma/Napa, CA - Ever since we went with Wayne and Val, what was it--2 years ago, I have fantasized about going back.

Buenos Aires, Argentina - Charles says he's going for his 40th birthday in January. This would be unfunkinbelievable. Argentina is very high on my list of places to go and when there is an actual occasion to target it just makes it all the more tempting. If only I were rich or tickets weren't over a grand. So maybe this one stretches my promise of realism, but there is an actual invitation to consider so I say it's okay.

San Luis Obispo/Big Sur/Monterey/Carmel/Pacific Grove - Just a relaxing road trip up the coast with Redwoods, ocean bluffs, small coffeehouses, PCH seafood dives, wine, and a kickass road trip soundtrack.

Las Vegas, NV - Both Jackson Browne and Counting Crows have shows at this oasis just outside of town. I've only done it once, but seeing a concert in Vegas is pretty awesome and seeing one at a small venue at an isolated casino would be....fun.

Some part of Japan - Adam, if you're reading this, I haven't forgotten about you, buddy! (He's stationed there for the next couple years)

If only this antiquated notion of work didn't always get in the way. I know this makes me a lazy, unmotivated drip. But a fella can dream, can't he?

The Price is Right?

I've just spent the last two hours shopping for health insurance as my employer doth not provide and I am somewhat perturbed by my recently discovered high cholesterol and the chest discomfort I've had for almost forty-eight hours.

My findings: what a complete fucking joke.

$5000 deductible with 40% coinsurance after the deductible? How can you still call that insurance?

Are you familiar with this concept of coinsurance by the way? Maybe I have lived a sheltered life until now, but I had never heard of it until today. The word itself sounds ridiculous to me. If you don't know:

"Having a health plan that requires you to pay a coinsurance, or percentage participation, rate means that you’ll essentially be splitting the cost of your healthcare with your insurance carrier."

Pardon my French, but since when are we expected to go Dutch with our insurance companies? That's the whole reason they exist. Their sole purpose is to pick up the check.

The problem is I would like to go see a doctor, but I don't have a gajillion dollars to pay for it. So I figure I should look into health insurance. Now explain something to me, insurance companies....If I have to pay for the first $5,000 of my tab, how is that any different than having no coverage at all?

Not to beat a dead horse, but let's run through this one more time because I just don't get it....Let's say I pick one of these plans. I pay $200 a month as my monthly premium. Then I get sick and I want to go to the doctor. That costs me $30 in co-pay. Let's say they need to run a couple tests, an x-ray or some mild lab work. The bill for this little visit comes to $4,000. I now pay 100% of that too because my deductible has not been met (despite the $1,200 I have sent in as premium payments for the last six months). So let's say I need some sort of outpatient procedure done and that cost is gonna come to.....$5,000. I'll have to pay the first $1,000 which finally fulfills my deductible, but I'm not done yet! According to the co-insurance, I am still responsible for 20% of the remaining $4,000 which comes to $800. But I am now, thankfully, healthy. Let's summarize those numbers:

$1,200 = 6 months of premium payments
$30 = Office visit co-pay
$4,000 = Office visit bill including x-rays, tests
$1,000 = Outpatient surgery portion to reach deductible total
$800 = 20% coinsurance amount of remaining surgery bill
_________________________________________
$7,030 = Total paid by me for this medical issue whatever it may be

$3,200 = Amount paid by my "insurance" company for this issue (80% of the surgery subtotal)

Somebody, please, I impore you, tell me I am wrong and explain to me how it is not as royally fucked as it seems to me right now!

To be fair, I was able to find one or two plans that gave me the coverage I was looking for, $0 deductible, reasonable office-visit and ER copay, no coinsurance, and a small copay for generic prescriptions (I'm not even looking at vision or dental for fuck's sake!). They do exist....for a mere $445 a month. Somebody hand me a pen, I've got money to burn!

(Un) Learning to Fly

We got to talking about air travel again today at lunch, specifically the fear of air travel. It seems like I am coming across an increasing number of people who are afraid to fly and need Xanax or copious booze in order to get through it without having a breakdown. A lot of these people are like me in that they have only developed this fear in their adulthood. I wonder why that is.

Is it as simple as attributing it to 9/11 and TV shows and movies like "Lost" and "Cast Away" that graphically depict air disasters? I guess it could be, but if that were the main factor, it seems to me that our fears would gradually decrease over time, but I feel like the opposite is true. I am more afraid of flying now than I was flying to New York two weeks after 9/11 and I saw "Lost" and "Cast Away" years ago.

There have, of course, been real life crashes to inspire fear, but they are few and far between and we've all heard the statistics that say it is dramatically safer to travel by plane than it is by car.

Is it a natural increasing sense of our own mortality as we get older? I am sure that is some part of it, but that doesn't explain the specificity of this fear.

So what is it then?

My apologies to Twitter.

Objects in photo are as close as they appear.

No zoom necessary

So I'm sitting on my couch watching my Lakers celebrate, wondering if I should head downtown and join in the looting of a discount shoe store, when my doorbell (text message alert ringtone) rings. It's T-Bone. He says John Mayer just posted on Twitter that he's doing an impromptu show at the Hotel Cafe at 11:30, five bucks. Five minutes later, I am in my car. Even coming from the west side, I beat the crowds, slipped in before the line had begun to form. If you haven't been there, The Hotel Cafe is about the size of a large coffeehouse. We abandoned prime wall position for the sake of proximity, shuffling to within 7 feet of the stage. And wouldn't you know it, a mere 12 minutes after he had said he'd be there, in strolls Mr. Mayer right behind us and up onto the stage. For a solid hour and a half, it was just JM, his electric guitar, and a hundred or so of his most attentive local fans. It was just awesome. He played mostly new stuff from his upcoming album, mixing in some old stuff here and there. He did do "Free Fallin'" and, I wanna tell you, he owned it. He was funny, frank, and surprisingly candid, admitting at one point that for a long time he had been an "arrogant douchebag," but now had a better perspective on life. At one point, he picked up a cell phone from a guy right in front, said hi to the stranger on the other end and then excused himself to go play another song. Just a funny, playful, relaxed vibe. When a girl shouted "I wanna be inside you" between songs, no one laughed like they might at a larger show where such things waft around without identity like a fog of marijuana smoke. It was as awkward as if she'd said it at a dinner party. When the show was over, he signed whatever anybody asked him to sign, he posed for seemingly every photo he was asked to take.

From the moment I stepped inside, I was already realizing this was perhaps a once in a lifetime experience. Nights like this are the stories I hear people tell of times they saw somebody play before they were famous or just happened to be at the right place at the right time. This time, I was a part of it and I knew right away how lucky I was to be there. T-Bone has dragged his roommate along with him, a guy who was not a JM fan at all. This guy was giddy with glee at the end of the night, an instant convert succumbed to the power of the experience and to one of the finest living guitar players. Say what you will about this city, but nights like this don't happen in too many places. The Lakers win their 15th championship, morons set cars on fire, and John Mayer slips into a quiet club to give a hundred people a show they'll be talking about for years. Just a Sunday night in Los Angeles.

Back in the High Life Again

I'll be back in the high life again...

All the doors I closed one time will open up again...

I'll be back in the high life again...

All the eyes that watched me once will smile and take me in...

Yes, I am quoting Steve Winwood in regards to a Laker game. So what? After years of Laker-hating raining down and "idiotic criticism," it's a beautiful morning in Los Angeles once again. Unless, of course, you're a cop who was injured by low-lifes "celebrating" or you had your car turned over and set on fire. I didn't realize there were that many Michigan State alums here in town. Seriously though, it is an absolute shame that something as joyous and pure as the Lakers' accomplishment is marred by the incomprehensible actions of a small percentage of mindless, lazy, barbaric sleazebags.

But back to the beauty of it all. From the top to the bottom to getting smacked in the mouth to getting right back up and climbing back to the top all over again. It's just sports, yes, but it is an amazing story, I think. Who would have believed this was possible when Phil was trashing Kobe in his book, when the Lakers were missing the playoffs or getting schooled in the first round? It was less than two years ago that I wrote a melancholy entry here lamenting what I thought was the imminent trade of Kobe and the plummeting fate of the franchise. And yet today the Lakers are champions once more, with Phil at the rudder and Kobe smiling and holding a Finals MVP trophy. If that's not redemption, I don't know what is.

Crank up the Randy Newman. I Love L.A.

P.S. I am 3 days deep in The Post-Title Pau Gasol Tribute Beard.

"Thank you, Vinny. That's very deep."

Sometimes in my dreams I see people (let's call them characters, actually) whom do not at all recognize. These characters are not anyone I have ever met or known in my life. They are not celebrities or people I might have seen on TV. They are complete and total strangers to me. This happens to you, right? I just wonder, since most things in dreams can be traced to some place in your subconscious mind, where do the strangers come from? How does the mind create them? I wonder if they are, coincidentally, real people that exist somewhere in the world.

Not to get all "Waking Life" on you, but do you think dreams really mean anything? Obviously, some are fairly clear in their apparent meaning. If you dream about accidentally showing up naked for the first day of school the night before the first day of school, it's not hard to figure out you are nervous about the first day of school. But what about the weirdest, most random dreams? Do those have meaning?

No, I did not smoke out at lunch today. I'm just reeeeeeeally bored at work.

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

Quote of the Day from Christine:

On why I strike her as Canadian:

"Because he's very nice and puts things in Tupperware."

The Way I See It #76

From the side of a recent Starbucks cup:

The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating--in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.

--Anne Morriss, Starbucks customer from New York City


I really like that quote and I absolutely agree with it. To me, that is always a huge challenge, to make that commitment and "remove my head as the barrier" to my goals or aspirtations.

Back in the saddle

It occurs to me that I never seem to go to shows anymore. It used to be I would frequently comb the sites of my favorite small venues and when I found an artist I liked playing, boom, I was on it. It didn't matter if it was at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday on the other side of the worst traffic imaginable at a place that didn't serve food and had expensive parking. I went. And I loved it. It wasn't just entertaining, it was enriching and enlightening. Perhaps most importantly, it was inspirational. I don't really like to talk about writing, but I will say that, for me, there is no better way to light a fire than with a couple glasses of wine and an intimate concert. God bless the old Largo. I don't think it's a stretch to connect my lack of authorial spirit with my sharp drop in concert attendance. Why do we sometimes stray from the things that make us so happy? Granted, part of it is a financial sacrifice. With all the weddings and what not over the course these spring and summer months, I had to shy away from the big shows with the big ticket prices. No matter, those were not the shows most important to me anyway. It was the little shows with the $10 cash only at the door and the standing room only and I don't know why I got so lazy about them. I liken it to taking a loved one for granted. It's not that you lose interest or love, you just get complacent even if you're denying yourself happiness in the process. You could also compare it to gaining weight after moving in with a girlfriend/boyfriend. You don't mean for it to happen or notice as it's happening, but one day, there you are twenty pounds heavier. Laziness is addictive. Until you catch yourself and stop it, damn it. Stop the insanity! Tomorrow night, I declare I shall attend either the Hotel Cafe for Patrick Park or The Little Room at Largo for Peter Salett and Larry Goldings. It's time to get it going again, in more ways than one.

Gone Green

Oil companies, the buck stops here!

"Ed, this is not the car I ordered. I had the sportswagon with the optional rally fun pack."

After 4 hours of test drives, furrowed brows, long pauses, walk-out threats, and the requisite fascade of honest dealing, I am the proud owner of a new automobile.

"You think you hate it now, but wait 'til you drive it."

Did I go higher on my monthly payment than I said I would when I left the house that morning? Yeah, I did. But I was also talking about a lesser car with a fraction of the mpg. At the end of the day (literally), I got the car I really wanted at a fantastic price. I feel good about this.

"Believe me Honey, if you're gonna drive the whole tribe cross country, this is your automobile."

For a guy who hems and haws over the most insignificant decisions, you can imagine the weight of my agony in making such a substantial commitment. If I had walked out of there with a brand new Porsche for $10,000, interest free, I would still be going gray with second guessing. Getting married was easier than this.

It's over now. It's me, my Jetson-mobile and the open (or traffic jammed) road. Damn it, I feel like driving to San Francisco right now. Make that San Francisco and back....on 1.1 tanks of gas?



P.S. Also still mourning the loss of Big Erv. I can't shake the last image of him sitting there, naked without all my personal junk he had been needlessly holding for all those years. Stripped of his Angels Baseball license plate frame. Sold for pennies on the dollar to a collection of strangers intending to do God knows what with him. It pains me. Okay, I really need to get a hold of myself with this kind of talk. It's just a car...it's just a car...it's just a car...

P.P.S. Despite the now apparent danger of personifying one's automobile, I think this new ride needs a name. The license plate letters are no help there so it's going to be more work to come up with something.

How about (Pri) Fontaine?

Steak Dinner Series

Lakers vs. Magic. For the NBA Title. Kobe Bryant playing for his legacy. The Lakers playing for redemption. The Magic playing for respect. But it's so much more than that...there's steak on the line.

The Bet: The Lakers vs. The Eastern Conference Field
The Setting: 2009 NBA Finals, Best of 7 starting tonight in Los Angeles

The Stakes: Steaks. Loser treats the winner to a steak dinner at the venue of his choosing.

Bill Brasky got the better of me last year when his beloved Celtics crushed my Lakers. I can't eat crowe two years in a row. This year, I eat steak. If I have to go Jeff Gillooly on somebody to win this thing, I am prepared to do it.

Let's Go Lakers! I implore you, don't let me down.

P.S. New, low-degree pet peeve: people that say "pitchers" instead of "pictures."

Also....For the second time this week I have encountered a misunderstanding about the meaning of the saying "It's all downhill from here." To me, this saying means that the hard work is done, that it's all coasting from here, the fun part of the rollercoaster ride is beginning, etc. I see it as a good thing. To say it's all uphill from here, to me, would imply that the hardest work is still to come. Both times I have used the phrase in this way this week, the other person has understood it to have meant the exact opposite. It makes no sense the other way. I understand that "down" can often have negative connotations, but "downhill" is a different word and a different story. Am I right or am I wrong?

Ailing Erv

So Big Erv (my car) is at the doctor's and it doesn't look good. We're talking timing belt, bare minimum. I could commit to do the timing belt for $1,100 only to have him get in there and find the problem is something else that would then jack the cost up to $3,500. That is obviously too much to pay in repairs for a 1995 car no matter how much you have bonded with it. But I wouldn't be able to find out without committing to the $1,100. So I could pay $1,100 and still have to get a new car. Also, given his advanced age and mileage, I could do all these repairs and some other major thing could go bad two months down the line. Conrad said it best, I am basically playing Russian Roulette, automotivally speaking.

So this day, all day, has been spent weighing my options and looking at cars online. Good thing I didn't have any work to do today.

Man oh man, it was nice not having a car payment for.....a whole year? One-point-five? (Sigh).

UPDATE:

So the decision has been made to let Big Erv go. This is tough to do. I realize it sounds ridiculous to be emotionally attached to a machine, but tell me you didn't get misty when they lowered Arnold into the molten metal at the end of Terminator 2. It happens, folks. I would venture it's even more likely to happen here in Southern California where we spend half our lives in our cars. A bond forms, damn it. Big Erv was the first car I ever bought on my own. I made for every cent of him with my own hard-earned dollars. I washed him. I changed his oil. I took him to Vegas. We're carpool buddies. I know this is temporary. I haven't thought about my car previous to Erv in ages. I know when I get the new car, whatever it may be, I will be swept up in the romance of new car love all over again. But right now, it hurts.

Color Me Grounded

How scary is this story about the Air France flight that went down? Excuse me, how absolutely fucking horrifically petrifying is this story? I can't seem to get it out of my head. I imagine myself on board as it's all going down and it gives me the chills and a pain in my chest. I think I am a little hypersensitive to it in light of our experiences flying into and out of Miami two weeks ago.

Flying in, it was lightly raining when we landed. We connected to our next plane and were waiting to pull away from the terminal when they told us there was a mechanical problem and that we would have to unload and reload aboard a new plane. Better to do it while we're on the ground, I say. So an hour or so later we get on the new plane, but by this time the light rain has become frequent lightning and rattling thunder. They have to call in the grounds crew that was transferring the baggage. We sit on the plane for three hours as I look out the window at the lighting, wondering if I will be spending the first night of my honeymoon in the Miami Airport. When we do finally take off, the lightning is not completely gone and I begin wondering if the plane can withstand a strike. The flight is bumpy and rough, but it does land safely. Luckily, the Jack Daniels was free because I might have blown my wad on that tab. Throughout the week, we met a couple that had flown in from New York and had the same problem. Also in Miami, also on American Airlines.

On the way home, the weather was fine. After a three hour layover, we took off on schedule. About three or four minutes after takeoff, we noticed we had already leveled off in altitude. Sure enough, the pilot came on and informed us we would have to turn back and land again in Miami. The windshield was overheating and possibly cracking*. At this point, I am losing it inside. When we touch down back in Miami, the emergency trucks are all there on the runway waiting for us, following us with sirens blazing as we move toward the terminal. Having not used any fuel, we were overweight and they were concerned about the gear. After some inspection, they decided to get us off that plane and onto a new one. Thank God. Another three hours later, we took off again, this time for keeps. My friend John Daniels was there again to ease my anxiety and fear of death. Again, it thankfully free. This time, the flight attendant gave me two bottles at once. My desperation must have showed.

Three AA planes in one airport inside of a week. Is it time to update the fleet, ya think?

Anyway, I don't meant to compare my experience with those who died tragically on Flight 447. What I am able to imagine about their experience makes me sick with horror. I connect the two only to better explain why I am done flying for a while.

Maybe their future is too bright?

In the last couple months, I have developed a new pet peeve. Great news, right? I really needed another one, I'm sure you'll agree. So the latest thing that I can't stand, that makes me want to slap somebody are these people that wear their sunglasses indoors. Maybe it's just me noticing it more, but it seems like it's getting to be a lot more prevalent. I go to Whole Foods for lunch and there will undoubtedly be some hispter sporting his neon pink Ray-Bans in the fresh buffet. Go home and watch TV and I can't escape the designated driver public service announcement with the guy in the back seat singing along with Biz Markie....and wearing sunglasses in the dead of night. On the plane to my honeymoon destination, there was a douche who did not take his sunglasses off the entire flight--an evening flight in the thick of a nasty thunderstorm, mind you. Could a person be any more gratuitous and pathetically grasping if they wore a t-shirt that said "I am trying SO hard to be cool." Actually, no because such a t-shirt would be seen as sarcastic and we all know the sarcastic t-shirt is a whole other battle in itself. If achieving "coolness" is something these people are so earnestly striving for, you would at least think that they would understand that the coolest of the cool, i.e. George Clooney, do it without looking like they're trying so hard. Maybe it's the difference between Classic Cool and Hipster Cool. Come to think of it, wasn't Joe wearing his sunglasses on the plane on the flight home? Did he take them off when he woke up? I don't recall. My policy is, if you are wearing sunglasses at night or indoors, you had better be Jack Nicholson.

Back.

I have been meaning to get back on the blogging horse for a couple days now, but the last two weeks were so incredible, to know where to begin was overwhelming.

So my solution is to skip the reporting. Chances are, you were there for the Old Guy Beer Challenge, Rocky Mountain Oysters, an epic Flip Cup collapse, Conrad struggling to open the salsa jar while completely nude, sawdust angels in Deadwood, my shocking disarmament as Beer chugging champion at the hands of my new sister-in-law, the wheelchair dance, The Gambler, and, oh yeah, my wedding. No point in recounting a whirlwind of good times that you were most likely present for. If not, at least we will still have something to talk about in person. That and the honeymoon (hey oh!). Now that that's out of the way, there are some things I would like to say...

--Before it all started, my married friend Bernie told me, "Enjoy the ride." That's exactly what it was, a ride. As we pull back into the station of real life, I truly wish I could signal the operator and go through it all over again right now. (Sorry, I am a sucker for metaphors, even the cheesy ones)

--Everyone has their own lives, of course. Some were a week away from proposing marriage themselves in New York. Some came straight from their last final in Washington State. Some were pregnant and traveling alone. Some drove for two weeks to get there and back. One even scheduled his friggin' chemotherapy so that he could make it. It was not an easy trip for anyone. To say, "Thanks for coming" just doesn't even scratch the surface. I could not be more humbled or more grateful to all who made such huge sacrifices and effort just to be there, for us. And the same goes for those who truly wanted to make it, but simply just could not do it. I know you felt bad, but I am here to tell you there are no hard feelings and I'll use you folks as an opportunity to relive the whole thing again in pictures and stories.

--Back to Val demolishing me in the chug race...Wasn't that just astounding? You would think my manly pride would be shredded, but it's like losing to Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods, there's no shame in it. You're just thankful that you can tell your grand kids the story of how you once went up against the greatest. Seriously...I was in a chugging contest but Val was in a pouring contest. Nuff said.

--I consider my toilet-papered work station to be a badge of honor. I'm touched, guys.

--In the spirit of the great Bob Weily, I proud to announce that I am now a Scuba diver. I dive. With sharks.

--As evidence of my admitted status as a complete dork, the song I could not stop singing after said diving was "Under the Sea" from Disney's "The Little Mermaid."

--Music recommendation: Belgian singer-songwriter Milow, a.k.a. Jonathan Vandenbroeck. I don't recall whether I was lead to him by Pandora or Itunes Genius, but aren't they both Godsend technological devices anyway. I would compare him to a stripped down Joshua Radin. By stripped down, I mean less production...his voice sounds unfiltered or duplicated. Is that what they call that, duplicating? Probably not. I mean when it's two separate tracks of the same guy singing the same thing in the same key that exist only for, I'm guessing, texture. Anyway, Milow uses none of that, not that there's anything wrong with it. It's light, mellow (yuk yuk yuk), acoustic, singer-songwriter, pop rock with some nice writing and a voice that is not American Idol calibur (thankfully), but earns points for its seeming sincerity. It's probably not "fun" enough to earn my label of "CD of The Summer," but would definitely garner consideration.

--I have mowed my first lawn. That is in no way a metaphor. So it wasn't a push mower. So what. 'Twas still a vast green that I cut down to size, my friends. I had my red Joe Jost's hat, my Springsteen on the Ipod, my manhood claimed.

--Another first, and possibly last...I have flown 1st Class! Waiting in line to board in Denver, Nicole hears her name called on the PA. She gets out of line to get the scoop and returns with two 1st class seat upgrades, courtesy of the wonderful Charles (though we would not figure that out right away). Upon boarding, we were immediately asked what we would like to drink. I asked what the choices were and the very kind gentleman replied "Anything you want." Wow. So I had some wine for starters. And get this--I crossed my legs, resting the side of my foot on my other knee. On a plane, I did this!! I also reclined without the slightest hint of guilt. The whole experience was something I could definitely get used to. In fact, on all subsequent flights, I did inquire about an upgrade, but all flights were full so, luckily, the bubble of possibility was not burst by the reality of cost. Maybe next time? Maybe? No? Okay, but just maybe? One thing I noticed was that upon receiving the tickets, we didn't get back in line. We went straight to the front of the line in the priority line thingy and we didn't even think about it. What does that say about us, I fear. Ah screw it, bless you, Charles!

--First time it hit me that I am really, truly, completely married: On the plane en route to honeymoon. Getting up to ask the flight attendant (I started typing "steward...") for a Diet Coke, I explained that "My wife feels a migraine coming on." Ding! "My Wife." That was me saying that. The thing about the term "wife" is that it's so general. "Girlfriend" most likely means you have been seeing each other for 1 month-4 years, give or take. Obviously, there are exceptions. "Fiance" clearly implies where you are in the relationship and more or less when too, 7-18 months from tying the know. "Wife," however, could mean you're on your honeymoon or your 50th anniversary. I think there should be another term used for the early stages of marriage. There's "newlywed," of course, but you don't address someone as "my newlywed." One term I know I am going to get a lot of mileage out of......."Wifey."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing much, just sittin' here wif my wifey."

You can imagine the possibilities.