British Airways: Screwing Over Their Customers With A Smile.

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

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?

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!

(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

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?

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

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

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....

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

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

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.

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!

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

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

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.

Only in LA

Okay, not exactly. But more likely in LA? Absolutely.

Last weekend, we didn't do that much. Kind of laid low around the homestead. I used the opportunity to polish off the last five episodes of what I believe was one of the more underrated, under appreciated series on television, "The Shield." A couple episodes on Friday night, some less than peaceful sleep as a result Friday night (this show was intense!), and two more episodes Saturday evening. By then, I needed to get out of the house. The wife was entrenched on the computer so I went out to see "Invictus" by myself. As I stepped away from the concession counter with my Red Vines and Diet Coke, who should I see standing against the far wall, but actor Jay Karnes, a.k.a. Detective "Dutch" Wagenbach on a little called, you guessed it, "The Shield."

You know my cowardice. I don't approach celebrities, I just can't. Even when it was one of my artistic heroes, Jackson Browne, standing 3 feet away in a casual chatting environment, I couldn't do it. But in this case, the coincidence was so funny to me, I didn't even hesitate. I walked right up to Mr. Karnes and quivered a wimpish "Excuse me, sir..." Luckily, he was really, really nice. I told him I had one episode left and he said I was in for quite an ending (paraphrasing). We talked about the incredible performance of Walton Goggins in the last few episodes. I asked him about the point in the series when they had him so fascinated by a serial killer that he strangled a cat to test the waters in which the killer lived. I had thought they would continue his character down that path and so I asked him about that. He said he had feared they would take that course as well, but was relieved when they did not. I agreed that, while it may have made for a more salacious storyline, in the end, it was best to keep the Dutch Boy real. He told me about the call he got from the show's creator, Shawn Ryan, about that episode. Ryan told him the good news was that David Mamet was going to be directing a very Dutch-heavy episode, but the bad news was they had him strangling a cat. We chatted for probably two minutes, but to me it was a very cool experience to be so engrossed in a show then step outside my door and chew the fat with one of the actors. Given my shyness, I was grateful Mr. Karnes had been so personable and gracious. We shook hands, he went his way, and I went mine. Of course, I had to call Nicole immediately and tell her about the whole thing because how weird was that?**

I watched the final episode the next morning and I wished I had the chance to talk to Karnes again. When Shane commits suicide, wasn't it an odd choice to have the perspective be primarily on the cops coming through the door instead of with Shane as he was about to pull the trigger? They had devoted so much time to Shane's plight and breakdown in the previous episodes, I didn't get why the focus was not more on him in his final moments. What really happened with Lloyd, the budding serial killer? We all agreed that he probably killed his mom, but once again, the little shit had left no evidence and was playing it cool under interrogation. I think we were supposed to believe that he was going to be arrested and charged, but that outcome had no teeth as they hadn't found any new angle other than Claudette lecturing him. What's the deal there? One other thing...During Vic's confession and also when he sees the crime scene photo of the dead Shane, it definitely appeared that he was breaking down, feeling truly contrite perhaps for the first time. And yet, he doesn't say it. You see it in his face, underneath, but the world never gets to hear Vic Mackey apologize. I get why that works, but in the interest of really completing the arc, couldn't there maybe have been a little more of that? If not the words, maybe shed a tear? Maybe end on him slumped in his new personal hell, the desk job, instead of defiantly walking out of it with his gun? I am nitpicking. The ending was fine. It was good. I guess whenever a series ends, its fans are always going to have mixed feelings about it and want to imagine other endings. Pathetic as it sounds, at least it's a way of draining a few more minutes of life out of the series.

**What's even weirder is that I saw him at a movie once before, but it was a much bigger theatre and there wasn't a real opportunity to say something.

Nancy and Madeline

Don't you just love it when you "discover" an artist that everyone else has known about for some time and you feel remiss for all the time you spent without their music? I don't know how I didn't find Madeline Peyroux sooner. Actually, I did find her, but I was looking for something else at the time so I naively let her slip through my fingers. Luckily for me, I got a second chance.

We were sitting at a place called Bar Mut in Barcelona, not far from the apartment, having a very nice lunch of tapas, wine, and beer. I guess it was a place that had been there forever but recently been refurbished. What remained was the perfect blend of old charm and upscale modern elegance. It was the type of place you feel good just sitting in...and then the wine and food comes and you feel even better. Anyway, this was also the type of place that had a great jazz mix playing in the background. Using my best broken Spanish, I asked our waiter what it was I was hearing and he came back with Madeline Peyroux. I had looked at it online casually since returning home, but hadn't pulled the trigger yet. Then I made my second great find of the weekend.

This second discovery counts as even less as such as it was a hit Hollywood movie, still in theaters everywhere. Hardly a hidden gem. However, I think anytime you find something you really love, whether it was hidden under a rock or plastered on posters all over town, you feel like it's a discovery for you personally. The movie was "It's Complicated." What a wonderful return to form for Nancy Meyers after that waxed figure of a movie, "The Holiday." This was back into "Something's Gotta Give" territory and as much as I loved that one, I think "It's Complicated" has a shot at dethroning it on my personal queue. Only after repeated viewings will I know for sure, but the performances of Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin and the smooth, rhythmic writing made this movie play like a song nonetheless.

In the Nancy Meyers movies I don't like, the worlds she creates are too over the top. Like a towering piece of chocolate cake that's just too rich for more than two bites, the sets/settings of movies like "The Holiday" are too rich to be taken seriously as real dwellings and the characters that inhabit them become nothing more than paper dolls, shallow, one-dimensional caricatures that are secondary to the clothes they're wearing. BUT! When Nancy Meyers gets it right, she takes you right to the edge between realism and fantasy, to a place where everything is tasteful and entertaining, but does not feel completely out of reach either. In movies like these, and for me "It's Complicated" was one of these, she creates that chocolate cake that is just sweet enough to be seductive, each bite begetting the next, ultimately, pleasurably intoxicating. Ironically, these Nancy Meyers movies remind me how rich life can be even if I'm not spending the weekend at my beach house in the Hamptons, Christmas in a quaint English cottage, or fretting with my architect about the new addition to my Santa Barbara ranch house. They remind me that life can be as romantic as you wish it to be. Even a modest apartment can be a Nancy Meyers movie when the smell of fresh bread fills the air, when the soft light of candles pool, when a glass of wine opens up with a swirl, when the steady pluck of a jazz bass makes you tap your toes, and, most importantly, when you have someone to dance with.

To me, Madeline Peyroux is the soundtrack to life lived like a Nancy Meyers movie and I snatched it up as soon as we got home from "It's Complicated." I have been listening to her album, "Careless Love," ever since. It's been raining all week and as much as I would love to be at home with a pair of sweatpants and a movie fest, but listening to this album with a cup of coffee and writing this entry, make being at work a little more tolerable.

Can You Hear Me Now?

For all those following this riveting story, I am back online. Got out of the jam at the reasonable cost of a new $30 Nokia that should last me until Apple's big unveiling.

Waterlogged

So I'm out kayaking on a beautiful Southern California morning, my ass soggy in the seat, when I realize, "I think my cell phone is still in my pocket. I wonder if it's getting wet." I brace my oar across my mostly seaworthy vessel and reach in to check. Hey whatdya know, it sure is wet. It's practically underwater. Greeeeeeat....But it's an older phone and the beauty of these old beasts is that they are resilient, tough as nails. I turn it on and it seems to be okay as it starts up. Then what should appear but the two words no phone owner ever wants to read, "Insert Smartchip." Uh oh. I turn it off, thinking it just needs to sleep for a minute and it will awaken stronger than ever. It then starts making musical, chirping noises despite being turned off. That can't be good. So I take it apart and place in a sunny section of my craft to dry out. It has never powered up again. I've charged it, I have tinkered with it, I have seduced it. Nothing. My hope is that the battery is just fried and I can get out of this on the cheap. My worst fear is that the phone and the smartchip are totally shot and not only do I need a new phone, but will starting totally from scratch. Thanks to the generosity of the fellas and their birthday and Christmas gifts, I will be getting a new iphone. But I had already decided to wait for the new version to come out in June. I remain steadfast in that decision. So now I am at the mercy of AT&T, hardly the most compassionate of cell phone carriers. They have been less than understanding of my previous issues with neglect. Maybe they can fix it. If they can't, maybe they will give me some crappy phone they have laying around that will tide me over. Maybe I will have to pay 30 or 40 bucks for it. I must also allow for the possibility, however, that maybe I will be phoneless. Can a modern man live in the world of today and tomorrow survive six months without a cell phone? I hope I don't have to find out, but if there were ever a man to take on such an endeavor, I think I might be such a man. Stay tuned, my friends.

Hello, 2010!

I'm back, baby! Back in the New World and back on line! Wow, what a friggin' holiday. I tell ya what....I still don't feel like everything is back to normal, which is kind of good. Everything feels kind of new, slightly different. Kind of like the first day of school.

Barcelona was awesome. A truly great trip that I'll never forget. It's all still a little overwhelming to think about so rather than give a blow-by-blow with all of the 1,400 pictures I took, I thought I would just post one little nugget for now. I think I'll have to use one of those online picture gallery sites for the photos anyway (suggestions for ease of use are welcomed). Not to mention, Conrad is the most regular reader and he was on the trip so I figured I'd post a couple things from the day after he left.

If you didn't know, Conrad and The Doug arrived in Barcelona a day earlier than me and left a day earlier. I had to book it that way because of the Denver trip and it was also vastly cheaper using those dates. Anyway, so there I am in Barcelona all alone on my last day. Early in the evening, I was making my way home after a long day of walking but I wasn't quite ready to be inside yet so I decided to go have a beer (when in doubt, have a beer, I say). I was sitting at the bar at the Cerveceria Catalunya, which came highly recommended by the good people at Fodor's, sipping on an Estrella and finishing up my last few postcards when I overhear the guy sitting one stool away from me talking to the bartender. He was clearly American (or Canadian). After a few minutes, I began to look his way, trying to catch his glance so that I could strike up a conversation. He was sitting 3 feet away and yet it really seemed to me like he was purposely avoiding eye contact with me. Of course, this gets me thinking which is never a good thing. He was a young man, my age or close to it, with a scruffy beard and a Rastafarian headband. I began moving toward the conclusion that despite us being two fellow Americans happened upon each other in a foreign land 6,000 miles from home that he was discriminating against me because I was wearing a button-down shirt and a coordinating sweater. I was in high school again where skaters and band geeks are as awkward as black panthers and skinheads due to their differing clothing labels. It was a near tragedy that I was so close to letting this idiotic, immature insecurity and madly neurotic idea rule the moment. I was resigned to sit there and say nothing. Then, I kid you not, I thought to myself, "What would Cruiser do?" At that point, I quickly got over myself and offered a friendly "Hola." What do you know, he replied. His name was Tim.

As it turns out, he was not only American, but from California. Southern. San Clemente. He went to Wilson freakin' High School in Long Beach, a few miles from my alma mater for crying out loud. Small world, huh? The guy wasn't shunning me, he was just shy. Did we become the best of friends? Of course not. Did we sit there for another three hours drinking and regaling ourselves with stories from the homeland? Unfortunately, not. We talked intermittently for ten minutes before he got his check and headed home (see I scared him off). But who knows, maybe I'll take him up on his offer and stop into his restaurant some time. I was really just taken by the small worldedness of it all and the risk of it almost never happening because of my own head. Lesson learned.

Of course, I did then wonder if he had still been avoiding me, not because of my clothes, but because he actually recognized me from the high school days. I'm trying, folks. Baby steps.

P.S.

Why is it that when you're riding in a car, the people in the front seats are overly considerate of the comfort of those seated behind them (Do you have enough room? You sure? Because I don't mind, I will put my knees right into the dashboard), but on an airplane they don't give two shits if they put their chair back in your lap? Without fail, I always get the people who recline their seat to the fullest for the entire flight, even pushing it so far as to wait for the flight attendants to ask them to raise it back for landing. Not only that but they slam themselves into it trying to get every last millimeter out of it, like it's not an economy class airline seat ramming into someone else's knees, but a 5-star hotel bed that's just not quite soft enough.