the ramble.

That neighbor

2010-08-02T00:09:00.000-07:00

They're kind enough, my current neighbors. Back a couple years ago we had medical students renting the house next door. They were quiet and nerdy and smart and didn't open their windows, or shades for that matter. The year rolled by, med kids off to residency then returning early in the morning tired and dazed. They wouldn't come outside or socialize. They were here to rest their head and move on. And so they did. Gone in a day after the older Asian landlord decided to raise the rent. The med students, likely already six figures in debt, had to go.

Next up was another med student and her husband and their little girl. They made more noise than the zombie med students, but nothing abnormal. They dealt with the place, the bright blue carpet, the screwed up sprinkler system and the air conditioner that wouldn't or couldn't work. This is the 91030 so it's not slummy, but the Asian landlord who owned two other houses in the neighborhood barely made it out to our area from her perch in Manhattan Beach, but only to gather some rent or complain about property lines or make a fuss about small demands made by the people paying not just her mortgage, but most likely her Mercedes car payment, too.

The sweet young, struggling family made their way through the year and we became friends. Their daughter played with my 5-year-old son and the dad asked advice about lawn care and sprinklers and tree trimming. For a moment in those instances I was my dad only half the knowledge and a quarter of the skill, but I pressed on offering whatever advice I could albeit pretty basic at best.

Another 12 months rolled by and just as we were getting used to parkway conversations they moved on. The rent went up again and back came the now crazy Asian landlord lady barking about property lines and the height of the citrus trees and other trivial manners that I couldn't make sense of.

Now the new family shows up. A smart looking crew with two kids. He's Australian, she's Chinese and a neurologist at USC. His Australian accent is appealing and friendly and the kids are cute, quarky and boisterous. They have energy and at first it's fun. We'd exchange hellos and talk about the sprinkler problem. We escalated to problems in the world and the school system and cool places in the area to eat, shop, drink, and socialize. Soon we had a BBQ at their place, which was innocent enough until something clicked in my head: their kids are crazy. Not crazy in the sense that I wouldn't trust them with a steak knife, but in that they didn't have any sense of boundary.

This BBQ social event eliminated any boundaries from there on out. Soon a simple shuffle to my front porch found me five minutes later exchanging pleasantries with said Australian. He came out of nowhere with a "Hey mate." Innocent enough. Later on, a simple watering of my lawn recreated the same scene and the same hello. On it went. Then came their kids. Any sort of tip-toe to the grass by my son caused an echoing "Hi Luuuuuuuuuuuuukkkkkkkke" from their daughter 30 yards away on their front porch. It happened without fail for days and weeks on end. Ultimately Luke responded with a "[Sigh] Hi Name Here...[Sigh]" My socialite son was now having an issue with playing pretend on his own front lawn.

Things calmed down for a little while. Perhaps they got the message. Maybe they didn't have the "Neighbor-on-the-front-porch" sensor turned on. Maybe they just didn't like us anymore!

It returned. Luke's out front, neighbor girl comes over. Luke appeases her maybe because he can't stand it any more, or because he was surprised by her stealth ways or maybe he was interested in playing with her on the lawn after all. Nonetheless, this venture to the dark side created my biggest pet peeve imaginable... when kids decide to enter your home with asking. Our front door was open and while Luke came in to eat, in came the two wildcat kid neighbors. It happened once and while I was annoyed, I didn't think too much of it. Then it happened again, and again, and over and over. A couple times the little girl asked for a snack or water and my jaw dropped. Neurons were out of control in my head thinking, attempting to grasp the situation. One part of me admired her nerve, the other part made me despise her parents. "Where were they?" I wondered. "Why do they do this to me?" I wondered more. How do I send the message that this isn't cool without offending someone who could very well be my neighbor for years?

I was lost. Finally I just concluded that if I say nothing it may go away and they will get the signal, the picture, an idea that maybe Neighbor Tim is not down with kids just popping in the house, or on the porch.

For now it seems to have simmered down. It's unfortunate that they are "those neighbors" but then again I think that maybe they think I am "that neighbor" too. Time will tell. To this day we still chit-chat every once in a while and for the most part they are a quiet crew. Time will also tell if they hang around. My guess is the crazy Asian landlord will hike the rent and we will get another serving of the unknown.

The mindless, runaway blog entry, part 1-?

2010-06-01T16:30:00.000-07:00

Writing for me is not easy. Often I run into moments when I know there is good material to feed off, but can't quite determine how to express an opinion or elaborate on what already exists. In the past I would rattle off blog entries on just about anything, but lately I have run dry.

Maybe it's because what I do for my profession is write, handle freelancers and read material that eventually ends up in my magazine. It's similar to the chef or massage therapist or carpenter who does the deed all day then comes home and wants nothing to do with the trade.

But of late I have concluded that writing a blog helps me with my profession. When I was scratching out a blog entry every day way back when I was also writing more for the magazine. Then when I slowed to a halt on the blog, so too did the amount of words I would write for the magazine. It's a conundrum. For me, a blog is not for anyone who may read it but for me. In essence it's an exercise that helps me get down to my "fighting" weight for the thing that makes me money–my paying job.

Thinking about media...
Recently, I have been thinking about media. At a recent work-related event I noticed that there are way too many photographers and very few magazines to utilize those images. So great sports photographers are left with blogs and websites. It's a shame really, and while the magazine I manage clearly has the best cycling photography bar-none, it could never afford to, nor could it physically house all the images that are generated. And so blogs and websites have become the main depository for great images. It's bizarre to me to look at an image on a screen. Photography is meant to be printed on paper, bound in glue or saddle stitched, used as candy for an article–in a magazine.

If you ask any good cycling photographer today, they will tell you that getting their images in print is the single most important thing. It's final. It's not digital. Eventually that digital link disappears into the ether, becomes archived. Goes away. With paper, it stays. Printed. Embedded. Inked on to a surface. It remains.

Blogs are neat don't get me wrong, as are websites. And while some people think that the printed book or magazine will disappear, I fervently disagree. While blogs have created a whole new medium for the average "Joe" to put down thoughts, report on events, mis-report, assume, etc, they have also diluted the world with drivel and inaccuracies.

So what's the point of this off-kilter, unfocused blog entry? Not sure. And to those who believe that printed pieces will go away I say "blat" to you.This is the end of mindless, runaway blog entry, part 1-?.

2010-02-27T14:33:00.001-08:00

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

It's been a long time...

2010-02-16T20:32:00.000-08:00

Not sure why I haven't blogged in a while. Perhaps it's my inability to think of anything interesting, or maybe it's because I have too many things in my head that are certainly blog-worthy, but way too much effort to spit out. I guess I have been in a creative black hole. (Next action, hit SAVE and come back to this wandering paragraph).

Okay I am back. The one thing I have been thinking about lately is the 1980s. A time when I grew up, became a turd, wore clothes that were lame, listened to lame music, had lame girlfriends and some good ones, and so on. At the time, things were lame. Living in that decade was lame but good at the same time. Ups and downs, trends, clicks, cool people. (Hitting SAVE again).

Then I see my 11-year-old son in the distance. It's me! The same clothes, reactions and taste in music. He's wearing skinny jeans and surf shirts, Vans, wearing his hair similar. How does this happen? How does this Tween start listening to Modern English, English Beat, Thompson Twins, etc? I conclude that it's just part of our society. He's impressionable, but the 1980s? For him, the 1980s are vintage, which means I'm old now. I don't want to be old yet, but I am there.

Vintage for each of us means something different. For me, vintage is the 50's, 60's and maybe the 70's. It's when cars were big and bold, music was real rock-n-roll, hi-tech was a home phone and a color television. For someone like me who didn't live during that period or experience it, it seemed like a simpler time, innocent and naive.

And now that my son has "forced" me to look back at the 1980s, download New Wave tunes from iTunes, I think about the fun times, the innocence, the things I/we hid from our parents, the things they found out, the sports, the stupid mistakes a teenager makes, the moments when you experienced something new like driving and cool music and hot girls. There are certain memories I hold that I will pass to my kids. I always wondered why I became a good fielder in baseball and now know and realize that I can attribute it to throwing the tennis ball against the wall above our garage door for hours and hours. It increased my eye-hand coordination exponentially. Over and over I threw it, and grabbed it with the glove I still have in my garage until I was bored or tired or both.

I remember my dad buying a dirt bike from the local shop, bringing it home in a crate, putting it together, and how I was scared to ride it out of the garage. To me it was fierce and I subsequently wheelied down the driveway–not on purpose.

I remember being a pain in the ass when my sister brought over her first serious boyfriend named Rich. I could see the two on the couch wondering when I was going to bed. I remember the cul-de-sac and the endless games of baseball and hitting line drives off the neighbors motorhome over and over, and basketball games that went late into the night courtesy of a flood light my dad would set up next to a basketball pole that he sunk two feet into the cement.

I distinctly recall–though my mom may not–scouring the grounds of my high school searching for a misplaced report card I was supposed to show to the athletic director in order to prove I had the grades to continue to play.

I am sure we all have these stories that are stored way back in the depths of our minds. They don't come to surface without some sort of trigger. It may be a childhood friend recalling instances, or music, or a son who has found the style and music of the "vintage" 1980s appealing. For me, thinking about those days came about via music. Now I am obsessed with those "glory" days and bands like Psychedelic Furs, OMD, and even Duran Duran! Thinking about the obscure New Wave bands I liked reminds me of the two Spanish exchange students who made the most awesome mix-cassette ever! I totally wish I still had that. (Hitting SAVE).

Eleven-year-old son: Dad what's a tape?
Me: It came before the CD and after the vinyl record.
Eleven-year-old son: What's a record? Do we still have CD's.
Me: Uhh.

Love this...

2009-12-16T19:00:00.001-08:00

2009-12-13T15:47:00.000-08:00

Tumbleweeds are smarter than squirrels...

2009-11-22T10:29:00.000-08:00

It's weekend number three in a row of being out of town. Weekend one was a wedding, number two was a knockdown, drag out "fight" with a hoarding mom of a relative of mine. Number three would be a quiet, jaunt with two of my three kids and mama to Tahoe. A lazy drive through tired towns full of whimsical motels and mom and pop shops. I was looking forward to a packed car and random acts of random tunes from random compact discs picked randomly from my collection of randomness. A road trip in its purest form.

Things started off great. "Ah. Check out the cute little town. That's a neat motel," we consistently chimed. "Look at the cute cows and cute horses, etc, etc." Things were chipper, the weather was good and the miles ticked by. Our kids are used to travel, to the car, to being out and about. We never think twice about packing up and taking off. They can handle it. They've both been to Europe, around the country and the eight hours in the car would be a cake walk mixed with stops for grub and leg stretching.

Our first stop would be Bishop, CA. With references carefully constructed by my newbie-to-the-internet father we pulled into Erick Schat's Bakkery. When my dad recommends an eatery, you know it must be good. We walked into the place and immediately we were in pastry and bread heaven. They are known for their breads including the Sheepherder's style. Armed with cheese bread, the aforementioned Sheepherder, some cookies, and a couple of sandwiches we all agreed that grandpa's suggestion was spot-on.

Onward. Back in the rig and more free-spirited miles to come we continued on the 14 until we reached the death march of winter storms on the 395. Now it was dark and windy. Real windy. In fact, today the 395 and the surrounding areas would experience some of the worst winds in a long, long time. Combine darkness, cold weather, 100-mile-per-hour winds and mix in a large helping of snow flurries and soon the carefree "Kumbaya" road trip got very ugly. The flurries began in earnest and while mama and I thought it was just dirt and dust from the Biblical winds we soon discovered that the horizontal onslaught was indeed snow. Because the wind was blowing so hard it didn't stick to the car or the ground or to anything. It just flew by on it's way to nothing but the town of Evaporation.

Then relief. We came into another town and things subsided. Just the visual of motels and shops and people relieved my nerves, but soon it was back onto the lonely stretches of what is normally a beautiful, scenic drive. More horizontal madness. Driving a square SUV under normal circumstances is an exercise in concentration, but under these conditions, this box of metal makes me think negative thoughts like "This road is stupid," and "Why did Nissan put a First-Aid kit in that little nugget of space on the rear hatch of the Xterra?" Was it telling me something?

The white knuckle driving continued. Soon it was just wind and tumbleweeds. All shapes and sizes of tumbleweeds, lifting up and scurrying across the road. Hit one and it does two things: either instantly evaporates, or gets lodged under the front bumper. What's amazing is that the weeds seem to know when to scurry and when to turn back, unlike a stupid squirrel. Some tumbleweeds would time it and get across without getting squished, while others would get one-quarter of the way across and turn back. Some would bolt across like the medium sized ones. They were lean and quick and somehow saw a need to get to the center parkway. The large one's "Weebled" along, stopping when they sensed a car, then continuing. Occasionally they would get lodged or flattened but most made it. They were used to this and used the Biblical winds to their advantage.

This continued for hours: wind, wind and snow, more wind, etc., tumbleweeds, more towns with neat motels and hollowed out old gas stations. I am wondering at this point where Tahoe is. Does it still exist? Did it just vanish? White knuckles and sweaty palms, head in the windshield to see; it all made me think of how nice it would be to be at home with no wind and sun!

Eventually we made it to Gardnerville. It's the town just before our ascent up the 207, which would spill us out to the 50 for a second and South Lake Tahoe. The sign read "Chains Required." It was the end of our journey for the night. We turned back around and shacked at the Holiday Inn Express. The next morning the sign read "Cold and Icy, Drive with Care." An interesting sign that spells dread and positivity at the same time. We ramble on in the metal box, up the pass. Soon the boy from sunny Southern California has a parade of "mountain-types" behind him. I pull to the side, let the experienced drivers through and get back on path. No wind and sun means we'll make it, though slowly to our destination. We do. Pheww.

This year I have done some pretty big drives like from Italy to Austria on my own in a rented stick- shift Citroen, but nothing compared to this spellbinding, sweaty palm adventure. Now some chill in Tahoe.

Luke's Favorite Song...

2009-11-20T07:43:00.001-08:00

MC Luke Part II

2009-10-27T09:53:00.001-07:00

In this mix Luke is blazing the keyboards and sporting the JBL's. Part 2 of the reel is Luke shredding the blow-up guitar. He's destroying the thing! Makes Hendrix look like a weeping school girl. Cry Jimi, cry!

Mix Master Luke Schamber on the turntables.

2009-10-23T14:47:00.000-07:00

My 5-year-old son thinks he's a DJ. It usually happens in the early morning say 6:30am. The mix master in him takes over and while today's mix wasn't his strongest it still rivals any bit of hacking out there.

It's officially over...

2009-10-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

Why must you forsake me FB? Yep, I have become disillusioned with the mighty Facebook. Her intentions are good but for some reason FB has been clawing at my throat, strangling time, pushing my buttons. Before I made the shift to FB I was on MSP. Myspace was raw and uncertain, chaotic and boisterous. Like a teenager on a Friday night with not much to do except push a grocery cart around the streets and scream out obscenities. It's funny for a moment but then it just becomes annoying. MSP worked for a second for me, but then I graduated and moved to the more grown-up "adult contemporary" FB. In the beginning it worked. It was easy and clean and concise. I wasn't inundated with garbage, but instead I chose the garbage I wanted...I opted in!

My intentions were to use it for work, to stay in contact with the people in my industry, to stay in-tuned with the ever-changing, ever-growing "friends" I accumulated. It seemed to be going well, FB was nice to me and she accepted the fact that I didn't want everything but just the essentials. Then she turned on me. Soon I was barraged with requests and options and bugs and trash. People I barely knew back in high school wanted to be my "friend", and I accepted. Slowly, invites to random get-togethers and specific groups began pouring in and I denied every single one of them. "Hey bro, wanna hang out and shoot hoops and go to 'lame Mexican restaurant name here'?" "'Name here' has invited you to join the stupid so-and-so group for saving Praying Mantis'." And on and on the invites flowed daily. The news feed was suddenly bursting with images of people I barely knew, videos of things I don't care about, and status reports about crap that doesn't interest me. And yet with all this happening, I contributed to this mess. I too posted images and told people I was eating mac-and-cheese while watching bad television. I found myself sucked in to the Farm Town application, and joining my old high school group thing. I became a fan of random things whether it was a specific television show or rock band or food. I took quizzes and filled out surveys to see which celebrity looked like me and vice-versa, and I did so without blinking. In fact I chuckled a time or two whether I was reading someone's paragraph-long status or watching a stupid pet trick video someone had embedded into the feed.

I became part of the culture of FB, it was ingrained in my head, it was an app. on my iPhone, it was a subconscious beast that I had no clue was affecting my psyche. This beast would scratch the surface just slightly but not enough to make me itch it. Suddenly my professional intention turned to being strictly social in a blink of an eye. At the heart of FB is the social connection, but the problem I was facing was that people thought that I was the same "I" from 23 years ago.

So why did I come to this "FB No Longer" conclusion? It literally clicked with me this morning. I was thinking about my stupid farm (Farm Town) and something went "ting". I could live my life without FB. Contrary to what the social media Kool-Aid drinking know-it-alls spout, we were just fine without this form of "communication". We have now become a country of self-indulgent, me-obsessed, narcissists. Yep I said it. Why has it come to this? Why do some people think I care about pictures of their pet rat or what they ate for dinner or pictures of the "fucking awesome" weekend at Lake Havasu? Better yet, why did I contribute to this indirect method of interaction? I sipped my latté this morning pondering where I went off the rails. I weighed the odds. On one shoulder sat "Could I live without FB?" Along with "Has the Kool-Aid been forever embedded into my soul?" While on the other shoulder "You were just fine without it before, so you may miss it for a little bit, but soon it will go the way of that old t-shirt you finally let go of" sat perched with legs crossed and a wry grin on its face. Also on this shoulder are some good things like old classmates I have reconnected with and friends in New York City and Florence and all over. There are good elements that FB has to offer, but I am convinced I don't need them. So yes it clicked over an early-morning latté that social networking is more social than networking for me. I have enough friends as it is! I hope my 504 (whose counting right?) friends are cool with me leaving the planet of FB. Shit, who am I kiddin', they won't even know I left. And that's the funny thing with FB. You can disappear from something that is so "social" without leaving a trail or without anyone much caring.

For now I have officially "deleted" my FB account. What's interesting is that it won't go into effect for another 14 days. FB is a tricky chick. She will let you come in easily, but she won't let you exit without stewing about it, in your head, for 14 days as to whether you made the "right" choice. FB is nicotine, or Coca Cola, or coffee. You can quit it but you have to dig deep to find the will to stay off it. I'm good with my decision. I'll find other things to do like read or write.

Prosthetics aren't allowed in soccer

2009-09-15T21:56:00.000-07:00

It's a Saturday and while most of the planet is rejoicing in the free time away from work with family, friends, pets or other, I am headed to Alta Dena for a date with the AYSO referee school. I put it off for months pissing and moaning inside and out to be quite frank: "I played soccer for years and years. I know the rules of the game. Geez." Etc. Etc. Etc. On I go rambling and mumbling about the glory days of youth soccer when shin guards were for wussies and your socks were low. The names were different too: Rumblers, Hawks, and some obscure name from a Dutch team. Now it was filled with superheroes and cuddly stuffed animals or puppy dogs of some breed. Are the kids of today in today's over-massaged-everyone-wins-nobody-keeps-score-everyone-gets-a-trophy-world-of-soccer turning soft? Or are the parents who fear their kids will suffer if they encounter a sliver of disappointment the one's to "blame"? Hold on. I am truly over-thinking this. Soccer is different these days. I recall those days when I would play against teams who would bite into onions to get fired up and kids had longer locks than my feather-haired sister. When running until you couldn't stand it anymore was a drill and when the snack at half-time was orange slices and water and not candy and cake-like creatures.

I am reliving my past. Boo. Onward.

So it's different these days. All things in sport change. Look at a game like baseball where players make way too much money, brand themselves individually, get in way too much trouble, train too little and play for the money (mostly) than for the love of the game. Replace the word "baseball" with any other team sport and the same holds true. Except for soccer. Well maybe Beckham plays for the money, but for most I truly believe their is a passion. Even the American guys. The Euros, no question.

So soccer. Here I am on that fateful Saturday in a room full of the same people. All looking a little down but at the same time we're all here for the love of the game, err, because we had to choose an area where we could donate time to AYSO. It sounds bad, but deep down inside I had a slight desire to be a ref. The word slight became the word "no" as I sat and begin listening to the chubby, mid-50's man who began spouting bad jokes and fumbling with his presentation. This was going to be a long one.

The master of ceremonies. We'll call him Steve has been a ref for about 10 years. Cindy, his wife, was an AYSO "high-up" managing the district office. We were "introduced" to his daughter and son who were now teenagers and "really good" players. Of course they were. Smart too. Saw that coming. This was Steve's moment though, so he immediately went into the beauty of the game. And for a brief, fleeting moment he had me. He captured my imagination and ran with this for, well, not long enough. Soon Steve was knee-deep into examples of his ref skills and moments when he was calling a U-14 game and something happen. Nothing significant but to Steve an offside call in the final moments of an "any Saturday, any time" game was a mind blower. Jokes were interspersed here and there. I must say that soccer jokes aren't funny but Steve's awkward delivery and cherub-like demeanor made them bearable. Courtesy laughs were flying all over the storage space. The worksheets we were working from were also classic. They were corporate, for beginners, outlining the game and things you couldn't do on the field. Things were flowing but slowly. I was beginning to curse my decision to ref. I could've been that dad setting up the simple goal, or the one passing out snacks at half-time. Instead I went to the upper echelon and I was real uptight. At this moment. On this day. With Steve as my teacher.

Things pick up a little when the kid two seats down from me, raises his hand every two seconds. He's about 13 and is a little off kilter. He stutters and twitches as if he's completely nervous. He's ref'd before so he's knows the game. Kinda. He strikes me as a massive whistle blower with a short attention span. I think he's going to blurt a profound question about some obscure rule, but instead he recites a similar situation as Steve where the ball went out bounds but it was questionable whose ball it should be. He said it was raining and muddy all day. He said it was confusing. Then he stopped. He just stopped. We all sort of stopped. Steve picked up telling "Roger" that he made a good call, whatever it was. Who cares. This kid now bugged me. He wasn't done though, he had 7-8 more of these "interruptions". All of them were similar.

The crowd for me was a mix. You had mom's who all looked sporty, looked like they jogged a lot, had sporty sport watches and sport hair. You know the hair-do that is just pulled back or covered with a USC or UCLA hat. They are all business and they chose to be refs! The dads, on the other hand, are the typical South Pasadena/San Marino guys. Saturday is golf day perhaps so sweat pants and a USC shirt is the garb. Mix that combination with a set of Nike cross trainers or New Balance running shoes and you have typical Saturday dad who wants to be at home on the couch or on the course. So I am surrounded by aggro soccer moms and JPL or CalTech dads. Smart, keen, unaware of the beauty of the game of soccer. I can sense that.

Now Steve brings out the holy grail of ref paraphanelia: the backpack of ref stuff. Meanwhile two other refs enter the room. One is a teenager with a slight mullet and he too has a nervousness about him. He fumbles with the soccer ball attempting to show skill but doesn't have it at this moment. The other is a lurch of a man with a cul-de-sac hair head, short, thin, also nervous. Steve pulls out 4 whistles. He needs four and explains why: "Just in case I am on a field with other games around me I can choose a different sounding whistle. That's why I have four." He stomps around like Mussolini as if his 4-whistle setup is genius. It's not genius but it's smart. Steve has captured my attention again. He moves on to the cone-like bits. "I use these to mark spots on the field that may be of danger. Not to the kids, but to me! I need to know that I won't hit a sprinkler or a puddle when I am running up and down the field." God forbid Steve looks out for the little gremlins. Again he paces around. Another good tip but certainly not earth shattering. His fellow refs nod in agreement. They whisper to each other either saying Steve's a jackass or Steve stole my line. Not sure. Who cares anyway, Steve's on a roll. More things come out of the bag: extra shin guards, tape, gauze, stopwatch, etc. It's all there. Steve is certainly prepared.

More recall comes forth. Apparently being a ref is powerful. Steve has and has had the ability to stop games because of parents or aggressive play or lame coaches. I am intrigued by the power and Steve's perception of power. Steve's in it for the power. He fooled me. Steve moves on and Bob, the Chief of all refs in this area of AYSO steps forth. It's Steve's boss. Bob gives the seal of approval and begins his awkward spiel about power and certain calls and more scenarios. He recalls similar fouls and calls and results. Name dropping people in the AYSO who we don't know and who carry titles that make no difference to me. I am annoyed by Bob but his uneasiness in presenting makes me giggle. He makes no eye contact, has bad jokes, drops things, but he's wearing the black and whites stripes. He's the man in this small region of the AYSO ref world. Section whatever, district who cares. While his awkward stance makes me laugh he also scares me. I think to myself "I would not want to ref with this guy." His lack of eye contact intimidates me. I don't want him to call on me. The kookie kid a couple doors down is oblivious to Bob. He doesn't give a rats ass if Bob is the "big cheese" he's gonna give another ridiculous example of his little sisters game a year ago. Then he stops when I am expecting more. He throws Bob off. Silence. Lunch time.

After lunch we head outside with the master: Bob. The Chief of Refs essentially repeats many of the same things he explained inside. He tells us to not go "All Barney Fife on anxious and annoying parents." He giggles. I giggle. That's genius. Never heard that before. Probably never will. Touché Bob!

More examples follow. We get into a discussion about knee braces and it's a serious one. No knee braces that have metal on them are allowed. "They could tear a kid up real easy," says Bob. No arm braces either. Then the bonanza of all questions. Not from the quirky teenager with the twitch but from a USC-clad dad who asks about prosthetic limbs. "What about a kid with a prosthetic leg or arm?" We all shutter. Stop. Wrinkle our lips as if to say either: A) Take that Bob!; or B) That's a serious, though-provoking question that should be answered. Bob hesitates. He twitches that twitch as if he just saw a naked woman appear at his front doorstep or a ghost or whatever scares or shocks Bob... Maybe eye contact. Bob puts his hand to his chin, rubs it, massages it. We all stand still, wanting to go home. It's that time. But at the same time I am intrigued by what Bob will come back with. The twitchy teenager is twitching but seems to be thinking about unicorns and lemon drops. Bob has an answer, you can tell by his ref stance and his eye contact that is now fixated on the genius-question-asker's New Balance shoelace. "Well. Well. Hmm. Don't prosthetic arms usually have hooks on the end? So, uhh, no I don't think that's allowed. But, but, wait a minute. Wait a darn second. It's the kid's arm right, so we have to let him play. Oh geez, you know I am not sure quite frankly. Hmm." Then New Balance dad replies "Well is there someone you can ask?" Oh great. Game on. "Well yeah, I should ask someone, but that someone is me. I am the person to ask." Oh snap! Silence. Nervous laughter. Bob makes brief eye contact with New Balance dad and for a brief moment super-ref is human. Twitchy kid has his arm raised. Nothing comes of it. What a day.

In the end it was entertaining and come our first game I was no longer needed. Sandy the super mom who knows too much about ref'ing had someone else. I soon became assistant coach of the Rotten Banana Rockets. A flock of cute, round faced kids including my son Luke who love the game, run around in a pack, make incredible contact with each other, which ultimately makes me and the coach laugh. I love this game!

Toes meet the pedi

2009-09-06T20:56:00.000-07:00

It was bound to happen. The toes were in danger of puncturing soccer balls with their sharp edges. They have gone too many years and too many miles without a proper tune-up. You can't call a simple rip and tear by my own fingers a true act of landscaping. The cuticles too had edges not seen by the Asian girl who would work them over, probably ever. Around these parts a nail salon is a dime a dozen. Down the main drag is one every three to four storefronts. Every time I walk past one I mumble to myself "I should really get the caveman paws looked at." But I never do. Can't find the nerve to walk in with grubby, dirty feet and say "Wash 'em!". Contrary to what my inner self thinks and believes I am fearful of what the two Asian girls will think and subsequently chatter about to their colleagues. Chinese of Thai or Korean is not like Spanish where I can pick out a few words here and there and piece together what I think would be their reaction. So I never walk in. My flip-flopped feet and toes with the typical flip-flop tan lines live another day with dirt under the nails and cuticles from hell.

Let's face it, most man toes are beasts. They are big and grungy and the toes mis-shapen and well, manly. That's okay but at times I see a man toe that looks refined and polished and cut just right and think "That guy is either gay, or he frequents a mani-pedi-massage parlor, uhh, shop." I have yet to realize that men do get mani-pedis. Without question I have a big heap of metrosexual in me, but going to get the boys looked after has never been on my short list. And so it went. Walking past the nail places. Often. Not pulling me in.

Then one day it happened. Passing by a nail place around the time of my birthday recently, I bee-lined into the door of a woman-wonderland. I have never been in one before. What was I getting myself into. To the right was a counter with an older Asian man giving me the once-over. In in his real broke English he asked me what I wanted today. "Uhh, a, uhh, pedicure, I think, err, and mani, err, manicure?" Sure no problem, we have this special and that one and this type and that type, etc. I was in a blur of broken English. I am not alone. My lady and my son Luke and baby Hope are in tow. Hope's asleep and Luke has no idea where he's at, so my lady is the only one I can look to for guidance. Like a professional she steps up for the lame caveman (me) and sets things straight. Soon I am whisked away into a 1980s wonderland full of creme, light blue and peach. Where am I? Is this safe? What are these monster chairs with monster arms and a pool thingamajig at the feet? I sit down, flop the flips off and assume the position. I look to my left and my lady is knee-deep in a People magazine. Nearest my left is another woman about three monster chairs down. She looks like she's asleep, blissful, unaware of the soccer mom duties that consume her daily life. That is why ladies come here. Yep to get the nails done, but also to grab a sliver of time that is lost to changing diapers, making PB&J's and Trader Joe's. It's not a secret society, but for an hour it very well could be an escape.

This is going to be awesome. I sense it. I feel it. Shit, I hope it doesn't go sideways. The Asian ladies haven't even seen my toes yet. This could go horribly wrong. These toes are rare. They may have soil samples from 1995 in there, and gnarled cuticles that haven't been seen, well, ever. Asian girl Number 1 sits down, puts my feet in the pool thing. It feels good but when my feet get pruned the toes take on a different appearance. Now they are angry toes that look like an old-grizzled man. She doesn't bat an eye. This is ground zero for her. She may have worked on an old woman named Edith who has massive corns and bent nails that are as thick as plywood. Mine, it seems, are basic man toes. A little grungy but nothing to make her flinch. She digs in, literally, and plows out things. I can't watch. I sink into an US Weekly. Thanks Britany!

The cleaning and scouring continues and then Asian woman Number 2 steps in and goes about my finger nails. Some muttering, giggling and a fair bit of chatter ensues. They are talking about my toes I can sense it! More US Weekly. What's up with Rachel Zoe? A couple digs hurt. I know which part of the big toe she was visiting. It had yesterday's yard work in it and she didn't give a rats ass how it felt. She needed that stuff out. This is her job. Imagine Paul Pierce not going full gas to the basket? You get my point. After work she may talk about her day and the nails she buffed with her significant other. Similar to a financial analyst who may rattle on about saving a company or beating the system. She dug and it hurt. I flinched. Some mutter between 1 and 2. A quick pause. Onward.

The nail session went well. Number 2 was older and more compassionate it seemed. She realized she was working on a newbie and a man no-less. She was however, completely broken in her English. She was, in fact, beyond broken. It was unrepairable. She muttered something to me about something. I said yes. I said yes again, And then sure, and then just a nod in agreement along with a smile. I may have bowed for all I know.

In the end my nails were buffed, and had a slight shiny polish to them. Not pimping, but enough to make me wary of my manhood. Perhaps the most uncomfortable moment, aside from Number 1 digging for gold in my big toe, was when Number 1 buffed the bottom of my feet. While it seems like a soothing and relaxing affair it just caused me to giggle and hold my breathe, clinch my fist and do anything to keep me from bursting out in either tears of wild laughter. It was awful. It shouldn't have been, but it was. My son Luke laughed too. I had a partner. Phew. My lady just mouthed from across the room what appeared to be "What is it????"

Now I have done it. I get up. My nails looked fabulous as did my tired old toes. Basically the pigs had lipstick put on them and lipstick is temporary. But I could see the toes stand up taller. They were proud. No longer was one hiding under the other. At this moment they were real toes sans soil and edges. They were buffed and clean, trimmed and shaped. For a moment, a day, maybe 72 hours they were admired by the family. "Look at daddy's toes!" Luke says. "Wow honey, they really look good," says mama. A successful trip to the place I dreaded. The woman-filled grotto with snickering Asian girls was what I imagined but not the reality. Will I go back again? I may try another place. I need to shop around. Number 1 really dug into big papa on the end and Number 2 was solid, but I couldn't understand a word she was saying. I need Asian girls who will treat the pigs with more respect and who will not continue to ask me if I want a buff or shine or whatever. We'll see what happens.

For now, the toes are back to the pre-pedi-state. Too many flip-flop days in the garden, but I sense the old boys wouldn't want it any other way. This is their life. They are utilitarian extensions meant to grind in soil and walk on hot cement, and get hard, and run and jump and all that. At the same time, they want love. All the work they do should be rewarded and I suppose a pedi is the right thing to do. Just keep the Loofah away from my soles Number 1!

The DMV and riff-raff

2009-08-09T09:11:00.000-07:00

The license has expired. It's been a decade at least, and then suddenly it came. Quick. Too quick. "Shit, now I have to go to the DMV!" Maybe I can renew it online. Login. Click, clack, sigh. Sorry can't do it. Next up a call goes in to the labyrinth of hell. "Your wait will be about 10 minutes, please hold or call back at another time," was the voice on the other side. Probably from a guy who no longer works there, but Jenny in the "operations" department thought José's voice sounded perfect for the recording. Since then José has left for greener pastures to work in the jury room of the Sacramento county court house. Onward.

I wait. Put the phone on speaker, burn my shitty AT&T minutes and hope that something will come from it. Finally, a voice. Annoyed, disgruntled, flat-out wondering why I have disrupted her morning. I can hear it in her tone. I get through it, make the appointment for July 29, 2009 at 10:30 am. Sweet, an appointment. Like with any appointment this will go well. Wait, like most appointments in the real world, this means nothing, zero, zip, nada. Go the dentist for the 9:30 am on a Monday, and it soon becomes the 10:30 am. Same with the car dealership and everything else. But here's the reality: if I went by this motto and arrived an hour later it would be just my luck that the dentist, or doctor or pissed-off DMV employee would somehow, magically, by the grace of God, be on time and have the best performance day of their career. Can't use that motto Skippy. Gotta go earlier than 10:30 am, maybe 9:45. I do.

I get there at 9:45 am. Pull into the driveway and park. I head over to the line that is always there, any day, all day, all the time, forever. Why is there a line forever? Who are all these people? Why do they all look like they just fell out of bed, or jail, or came from a fight? The DMV seems to be full of riff-raff. I said it, and I believe it. I am going on the shallow assumption of initial appearance but I survey the crowd and make grand assumptions below my breath: "That crazy looking Asian kid was caught with pot, speeding and wrecked his lowered Acura," "That beat looking white trash woman lost her license because her dirty boyfriend got a DUI and she was holding the Schnapps." Everyone, in my head, has a tragic story pinned to their shirt. Likely most are here to do what I am doing, renewing my license. Others like the fresh-faced teen is getting her driving permit or license. And that old man over there with no teeth is taking a test. Where's his huge Lincoln Town Car, I wonder.

This line, do I have to stand in it? I go to the front and ask the tiny Asian dude who is the master of ceremonies. He's directing people here, there, down there, back over there and on and on. Most have to stay in line while he directs me to sit on the bench, the dirty one over there with the other people and the discarded Carl's Jr. cups and wrappers that for some reason the jackass who brought it couldn't put it in the trash can three steps away. I push it aside. We are the appointment crew. The smart one's who made the choice to get a time and not the retards who decided that standing in line was the best choice. He asks in broken English: "Wuh ime you hab pointmen?" "10:00 my friend." "Ohhhhh you too ewlee."

So I sit and wait. I make eye contact with the maestro so he doesn't forget me. He looks at me with a face that says to me, "You stupi whi boy. Come too ewlee. Naw tin clock yeh. Phhhh." Finally he orders me to a line. I head down rambling through people, jockeying for position in the appointment line where the clerk behind the fiberglass processes my information and gives me a computer generated number. I am now "G14". I sit in the dreary waiting room while people on my right wait for their own stuff: taking a driver's test. The computer screen and computer voice spit out numbers, it seems, at random: "A20, D25, G10..." There's no science to it. It's pure American inefficiency. If it were Germany the place would be organized and rebuilt from the ground up with concierge and a beer garden. Here I am in Pasadena in a run down 1970's building with build-out upon build-out. Sitting there makes me wonder about infrastructure and service. "Sure we are rich and powerful, but we can't even figure this basic shit out?" Finally "G14, window 25." That was easy. Shouldn't doubt my country!

Up to the window and 20-something Asian guy process my stuff, one finger type at a time. He must be new, or maybe they don't expect a lot from Window 25 guy. Whatever. He asks me to read the top two lines of letters to "test" my vision. It's five feet away and the type is huge. Easy. What a joke. If you need glasses to read those things, you are in deep trouble. Off to the next line where I get my picture.

Around the corner and past all the snarling riff-raff I get to the picture line. A couple people in front of me touch up faces and the old Asian man currently talking to the picture clerk can't speak a lick of English. His USC-educated son is translating. "Now you have to take a picture. A picture. A picture, dad." I am assuming he's saying this but I don't know for sure because, well, he's speaking Chinese.

My turn. I scribble my signature on the disintegrating digital pad. Do it once. "No good" says clerk. Do it a second time and the end result is half print, half cursive that looks like a 7-year-old did it. Whatever, take my picture. Snap. "Looks good" says picture clerk. What a dreadful job he has. "Four to six weeks, you will get it." What the fuck takes so long. Isn't it essentially done right there? I don't get it. Why not five weeks? Or two days?

Two weeks later I get it. Looks nice, though I am rounder in my face and heavier in my weight listing. I remember thinking when I filled out the information: "Oh man, I would love to be 155 pounds still. Should I put that in there? That's what my old one said. Nope, can't do it." Didn't.

Two-thousand-fourteen is when my new license expires. I can bet with certainty that the DMV will have the same type of people, the same lines, the same chaos, the same dirty building and the same (well different people) type of grumpy, somber people working there.

Kids, eating out and bathrooms

2009-07-20T21:51:00.000-07:00

I have fond memories of the days before kids. Lazy weekends spent on the couch eating pretzels, sipping a frosty Sierra Nevada, watching bad television, or a This Old House marathon. In between this glorious laziness were 15-minute power naps that were complete with heavy snoring, slobbering and the realization when I woke that another episode of Huell Howser is on. Sweet days. Days that are gone.

Kid number 1 came, then 2, now we are 7 months into number 3. Numbers that add up to beautiful days and long ones at the same time. While the world is full of schedule mongers and helicopter parents, our style is loose. When is nap time? When baby girl is tired. When is bath time? When they are dirty. When do they go to bed? When it's time. Why create a schedule when it functionally messes with your life? To each his/her own.

So our life continues, though in a much more chaotic manner compared to the glory days of doing whatever, whenever. Now there's a crew in tow. Simply going to the market whether normal or flea is a process. Cole (10) is self-sufficient, Luke (5) is getting there, and Hope (7 mos) is a baby nugget. Enough said. But we do it because we want to. Simple exposure to daily life unsheltered brings experiences that they may not remember completely, but exposes them to life unfiltered, unscheduled, uninhibited.

Same goes for going out to eat. It too is an adventure and we don't do the blue-plate special schedule of 4:00 or 5:00 p.m. We go when we go. When the crew is ready. When shirts are on right-side out, the diaper is refreshed, and toys are tucked away in the bag only to see the light of night when a possible meltdown may occur. Preparation is key of course for the excursion to the local haunt. Spare diapers, wipes? Check. Cash? Yep. Onward.

While it's always nice to actually go out to dinner with just mama and I, it's not always feasible so the army of 5 hit it. Wait for a booth. Sit down. Get the Chianti rolling, the milk, the Sprite, the formula too. All set. Order the pizza, get some bread, maybe a salad. Bingo! All ordered, time to look at each other, chat, people watch. Things are rolling along fine. Luke has his cars. Cole's drawing, baby girl is giggling at the old man in the next booth... The cheap Chianti tastes like a million bucks. Here comes the bread and salad. We dig in. The cheap salad tastes like a thousand bucks. Life at this very moment is off the charts. I have restaurant high. It's similar to a workout high where you have this feeling of levitation of maybe 1/2 inch off the floor. The sweaty, springless, naugahyde booth bench can't be felt. People watching is at its all-time high. "What did they order? Why is the middle-aged couple not talking to each other? Damn this cheap Chianti is good." Then the pizza comes. Eggplant, basil and tomato. The best pizza on earth made even better by my restaurant high. Scoop a piece out for each character, mama first of course. Then the boys, then me. "Oh sweet Jesus, this fruit you bring me renders me speechless," I think. One successful bite, washed down with Chianti interspersed with cold tap water that tastes like a hundred bucks... Restaurant high catapulted.

Then it happens. "I need to go poop," says a grimmacing 5-year-old. "Grunttttt, ughhhhh, errrrr," says baby nugget. Mama and I look at each other. Default is she handles nugget and I handle the pooper. The high drops a few levels back to where I began at the beginning of this adventure. The seating situation creates another drop in the "high" level. Luke scurries out from under the table. The "cool" family out late is now the center of attention, but we never let our guard down. We have experienced this before. It happens. Shit happens. The schedule folk don't know this because they are done with the bath, reading stories, sheets tucked tight. Our mojo has a slight dent, but nothing that can't be fixed with a slight tap. The goddess of patience (mama) takes nugget, taps on her back, flips her around, gives a few sweet "Shhhhhhhhsssss" and baby girl is back to her wide-eyed, dimple faced freshness.

Meanwhile I am off to the outhouse. Single toilet, paper on the floor, the john in need of a second flush. Little Champ climbs aboard the seat, telling me to look away. I do. The moment last a few minutes. I sense a lineup outside the door. Whatever. Hold up hipster, this little fella has some business to tend to. We're done. Hands washed, stomach cleared, back to pizza. At this point baby Hope is passed out on the naugahyde, Cole's playing cars and Luke crawls under the table to his spot. The restaurant high is still flat-lined, but another slice and gulp of the sweet juice will bring it up a notch. It does. Kids are in check, doing their thing, nibbling, sipping, playing. Chit-chat about life, things, work, travel, gardening, you name it. Another slice, more Chianti. I am back up to the level I was at before things slightly unfolded moments ago. Tables turn over. An old couple compliment us on our kids, things are good.

The check comes. Nugget is still asleep. The boys are tired. I'm full, as is mama. I scoop up baby girl, Cole takes the leftovers, Luke the toys and we're off. Into the car. Back home we go. A successful outing. Not unlike the hundred other times we've headed out. We don't fear meltdowns or scowls or situations. We confront them when they happen and remedy the situation. We are all on the same playing field. Our life is not determined or dictated by a schedule. This exposure is important, children are resilient and I think deep down they are truly enjoying the adventure.

So while those days of being kidless sitting on the couch watching Norm Abram rebuild an interior wall or Tom Silva frame-in a window, the deep naps and cold pizza are long gone, there's really nothing better than a posse of 2 kids sitting on naugahyde (1 in the high chair eating mashed bananas) chowing on pizza, a fresh-faced 10-year-old giddy about a Lesney Matchbox purchase for a bargain, or the deep-dimpled strawberry blond ball of fire with a blow up guitar impersonating Pete Townsend at the local concert in the park. These are priceless, unscheduled moments that will be brought up in conversation on the front porch days later and perhaps years down the line. "Remember that one time..."

Waiting for the moment my 10-year-old says...

2009-07-12T21:00:00.000-07:00

While there are so many things I am anticipating my son Cole saying in the next few years, the one phrase I have thinking about constantly is this: "Umm yeah, I'm kinda done playing with my little brother." He's been the perfect brother (Cole), though he lives with us part-time. He has accommodated his little brother Luke and his baby sister Hope seamlessly. Certainly the boys have their moments, but Cole has dug deep and when he is with us has been the perfect playmate. While I see boys and girls Cole's age getting into more complex things, Cole has maintained this beautiful balance between becoming a tween and staying a little kid. He still finds playing cars with his little brother interesting and appealing. While he may not like the cartoons or shows that Luke likes, he still sucks it up and accompanies him most of the time in front of the television. He helps his brother accomplish things and fix things and get dressed if he needs the help. At the park he will pull his brother and his brothers' friends in a wagon, around the park, for hours.

In the small room they share it's clear they have their separate spaces, but they ultimately end up playing together on the rug in the middle of the room. And so all of this works, and aside from the normal turmoil that can be expected when a 5-year-old and a 10-year-old with different personalities clash, the living situation is pretty darn nice.

But the day will come when they separate. Not physically but mentally, emotionally. I can see when Cole is, say 13 and Luke will 8. What will Cole be into? Girls, sports, himself, all of it? What will Luke like? Video games, sports, his own friends? The age difference is significant enough to warrant this separation at some point. Maybe it comes later when Cole is 15 or 16. I fear the day that he may not want to come up from his mom's house in Dana Point because he may have a chick or his buddies want to go out. I hope it never gets to this point, but teenagers are teenagers.

For now I relish this time these two buds have together. They are like an old married couple in a way. Bicker, fight, separate followed by play, be pals, ride bikes, go nite-nite. I can sense the loyalty that Cole has toward Luke and the admiration that Luke has toward Cole. I know that in any given, uncomfortable situation at the park or wherever, that Cole will have his brother's back. I know that when they are out riding their bikes together, ahead of us, up the street, that Cole watches his brother's every move. Making sure he's safe and in line. I know that Luke is watching his brother and how he rides his bike, the turns he does, the way he stops, the sounds he may make and is storing it in his little head.

It's a beautiful thing to watch: two brothers growing up, in crazy times, together half the time. My hope is that this connection will maintain, that while both will grow and spread their wings, that they will still come back to the connection they have as brothers and roommates. I think they will keep this bond no matter what, through time, forever. There's something there that I can't necessarily see but can sense. Even through the tempers and attitude, they still come back to an innocent place that is blissful and accented with the sounds of Matchbox car horns and make believe security officers.

Meanwhile little sister Hope is sitting back with a binkie in her mouth thinking "What is wrong with these guys?" It's poetry in motion.

The little blue bike

2009-07-08T22:31:00.000-07:00

My five-year-old is a mysterious boy. Forget the fact that he truly is an old soul or that his imagination is miles apart from most little kids I know. He has this trigger that will engage when he feels it's the absolute right time to pull it. Essentially he's that kid who likely knows how to do something but clearly wants to do it on his terms, at his pace, on his schedule. It has worked this way for everything, from letting go of his thumb sucking, wiping his own butt, riding his scooter, swimming, and now bicycling.

The journey begin with the wooden bike, the one with no pedals, made in Germany... The one I could sell the shit out of to local hipsters and Calabasas MILF's. Anyway, Luke never used the bike for a year. He looked at it, touched it, walked by it to get to his tricycle. The "cool" wooden bike that all the parents dig, was simply a wooden bike he didn't feel like riding. It went this way until finally the stubborn little man got on, coasted off and begin understanding the feel of the bike with no pedals. He did it for a short time, and now that I think back, I realize it was his intention. He likely thought the bike was cool all along, and probably wanted to jump right on that thing and take off, feet in the air, howling at the blue sky. But his "Cool Hand Luke" persona kicked in and he showed just enough to make me grin and kept the rest in the vault of his tiny little head until the day he was 100 percent fired-up to ride the wooden bike again. So he propped the bike back up where it belonged, pulled out the tricycle and screamed down the sidewalk.

This played out in the same manner for some time, little-by-little he would ride a bit longer, put it back, get in his big plastic car and zip down the street. I always wondered how the circuits were firing in his head. I was beginning to wonder if he would just never get it, not give in, be too fearful of crashing, whatever. Was he just thinking that he would just toy with me for a bit longer until I promised some plastic reward like a Playmobil character, Matchbox car or banana split at Fosselman's. Was this "hold-back" a calculated move on his part that will last his whole life. Will he be that kid who had his hands on his hips on the soccer field, but had talent in the end? Or that teenager who never studied for anything but somehow pulled it off? Perhaps he's that same guy in college who had the same study high school habits, but by sheer last minute will and a few Sierra Nevada Bigfoot Barleywine Ales somehow wrote decent things. I don't think he will be that guy because I think he's smarter than that. He's witty and imaginative, compassionate and loving, outspoken and shy at the same time. He just does it on his own terms... everything.

So ultimately Luke got on the wooden bike, took off with his feet in the air, howling at the sky, full of life, piss and vinegar. He stopped at the corner, waited for me. We crossed together. He scooted over, made room for people walking by, imagined he was a motorcycle rider or policeman or security guard chasing down a bad guy. It was instant, in the moment, it was his method. I shook my head likely saying 'that little fucker!' and basked in the moment he made the little wooden bike look like a play toy. He went from unsure to certain in a glimpse, as with everything else. He went on to master the wooden bike and soon began to grow out of it. The seat was raised to its limit and it was clear it was time to move on.

My mom bought a 16-inch bike at a yard sale and my dad delivered it. Luke's eyes lit up when he saw the selfless grandma's purchase perched against the wall. It's a blue Trek with fenders, and padding and a coaster brake. It's the first real step to a traditional 20-inch bike. He wanted to ride it right off. So we pulled it down to the sidewalk, buckled his helmet to his head and perched him on top of the saddle. It was about the right height for his skinny-tall body and I grabbed on to the back of his shirt and away we went. I ran and he pedaled for about 10 feet all-the-while letting go to see where he stood. He was firm, assured with a slight wobble but nothing to fear. Back and forth we went several times, each pass with a longer "let-go" on my part. He understand the braking and steering and seemed comfortable with the feeling. Ten minutes went by and he stopped, dragged it up to where it was originally perched, took off his helmet and went inside. We exchanged "high-fives" and hugs and that was it.

Later in the day we revisited the little blue bike for a short trip/ride to the park up the street. We followed the same procedure, which consisted of me running next to him, letting go, grabbing back, letting go, braking, pushing, starting, riding. Within five minutes it was just him, the little blue bike, the sidewalk, the air. He braked, stopped at the corner, waited for me, then we crossed and he took off again. On the way back it was less of me helping and more of him riding, on his own, in his own head, imagination running wild as a police officer catching bad guys. He's now a true bike rider, skipping the training wheels, and doing it on his own terms.

For me I waffle between being proud of his quickness, and it not being enough of a struggle for him. Part of me wanted him to pick it up and take baby steps until he got it. I wanted him to have a tough time with it so he knows how great it is to accomplish something as complex as balancing on two wheels, while being aware of your surroundings, and steering at the same time. I vaguely remember learning to ride a two-wheeler but it couldn't have been this easy for me! At the same time, deep inside, I am doing back-flips, saying "fuck yeahs!" over and over, because of this grand achievement from a little boy who does things on his own terms with his feet in the air, howling at the sky, full of life, piss and vinegar.

Tale of the clipboard

2009-07-03T09:32:00.000-07:00

It's a typical evening in the 91030. Kids playing on the grass, couples walking by on the sidewalk, Jackaranda's dropping purple flowers. Americana through-and-through. Then the buzz is killed with a cute little red-haired hippie girl carrying a clipboard. You know the scene. It has happened to you. You see it coming but you don't. It's slow motion. You quickly try and exit stage right, behind the gate, under the car, act like your talking on the phone, whatever. I like using clipboards, but I hate seeing them appear 10 feet in front of me. Normally it's some droopy looking teen looking for magazine subscriptions, or a cute little munchkin selling candy bars or wrapping paper, but this time it's serious. The planet is in peril and I can be the touchstone for making the turnaround.

I'm standing there with a hose in my hand, a wet car, soap suds in the bucket yacking with my neighbor. We both saw her at the same time. I'm hoping, praying, that she corners him first, then I could prepare my exit strategy and land at the far reaches of my backyard pretending to clip a bush, trim a limb, feeding a California Condor. You get the point. But he has his dog on a leash and he's in the safety zone known as the sidewalk. Clipboard holders won't bother you if you are in that spot. It's off limits. Perhaps it's a policy. Somewhere in some conference hall when all the solicitors meet for their annual meeting, they ponder the sidewalk policy and always conclude it's not good to corner people on public property. So it's laid in stone, in writing in the manual of solicitation.

My neighbor says he's going to help me. He knows my past with solicitors. I've told him. It usually goes like this: Droopy teen knocks on door lightly. Tim (me) waits, freezes, drops to the ground. Droopy teen knocks more and louder. I stay frozen. Droopy teen now punches the door, annoyed, persistent. She's not leaving it seems, so I get to the door, act as if I just woke from a nap. She goes into her spiel. I stand frozen, contemplating how to get out of it. This inability to react in this situation makes the spiel continue to a point where I can't interrupt because A) I have nothing; and B) It's beyond the point because I will feel bad and she will be sad or mad or both. I am drawn in, but not. It's a tough spot so I let it play out. She gets to the end of the awkward presentation. I know what's coming. We all know what's coming. Droopy teen says "Would you uhh like to uhh donate a bajillion dollars to my youth group that will uhh allow me to do cool things like uhh get a job or something uhh or learn to type?" I say "Umm, I don't have any cash." "We take checks too and credit cards," says Droopy teen. In the end 70% of the time I give in with the minimum, get on some lame email list, kick myself, rehearse what I should have said, and urge my psyche to play it differently next time.

So that's what happens... usually. This time around with red-haired-hippie-girl (RHHG) things were going to be different. While my neighbor said he would help with the exit strategy, he froze rendering him useless. I blocked him out and focused on her. Slight red dreads showed me she was serious about the environment. Great. I start off first saying I already gave to a different guy a couple months ago. She asked what program he was from. "Uhh." RHHG is up 1-0. She starts in. I listen. She continues. I begin drying my car. My turn now: "I'm wasting water right now, right? I'm washing my own car when I hear I should be taking it to the car wash." RHHG comes back not buying it. She's quickly up 2-0. I continue on the car wash thing: "If I go to the car wash, I have to drive there, burning oil. The car wash says they recycle the water. I doubt that. The towels they use they have to dry, so they use energy. And the guys who work there have to drive their cars to get to work so they burn oil. You see my point?" RHHG is silent. I am on the board and bring the match to 2-1 with RHHG still in the lead. At this point she goes into Obama's policy, lobbyists outnumbering her organization, etc. Meanwhile my neighbor is glass-eyed wondering when this will end. I notice he's beginning to take steps back towards his house, which is next on RHHG's foot path. I just get to the point after 5 minutes and tell her "I am not giving you any money today." RHHG cocks her head and tells me "The guy down the street gave me a $100." She went there. My turn. "Well he's rich!," I say. It's clearly 2-2 now. Clipboard carriers should never reveal who gave what. It's an act of desperation.

The "discussion" is over and the clipboard reveals itself out from under her right arm. It's a beat looking board with plenty of miles. There's the typical environmental brochure. Looking to move ahead I say "That's printed on recycled paper right?" "Uhh, I think so," says RHHG. I move ahead 3-2. She should know this and she know what kind of ink is used. My next question would have been "Is it soy-based ink?" I didn't have to go that route but it would have put me up 4-2.

She asks if I could sign it. I do of course and near the end, confidence in hand, I pass over the phone number line. "I don't want you guys to call me, I hate that," I say. Now I am clearly up 4-2. Shit, I gave my email address. It's now 4-3. I better end this thing now before she asks for more. I sign it and quickly turn to my car to continue drying. My neighbor freezes. He knows she's heading to his place: the one with "No Soliciting" signs plastered on the windows and door. RHHG looks past the signs and begins her thumping on the door, then more, then harder, then punching. She gives up and moves to the next. Did I rattle her? Nope. Do I feel good about my performance? It's getting better.

IMAGE ABOVE_That's a tree growing sideways like that. It's massive and unreal.

Mouse poop, wood rot and the organizing of my garage

2009-06-28T20:52:00.000-07:00

I have come to dread the garage. Where once it was my "Man Cave" it has since become a hall of shame. Where once things had their place, now they stood unforgotten and lonely in a dark corner of the abyss. At one point she was in good shape. My lady had taken the time when I was away on business to sift through the rubble and make sense of the forsaken pieces and parts and remnants of life both from the past, the present and the future. Things were organized in bins and stuff we had no use for was discarded or donated. The labels on each bin had positive titles like "Beach Fun" and "Biking Gear" and "Camping Stuff". It was corrected, the mess of a cave, but soon, slowly, after time, and accumulation of stuff people thought we may need, it turned its cheek and relapsed into the jumbled, mixed-up, disorganized locker of waste. Rather than get back into it, I put it off, preferring to curse at the stacks, and shimmy sideways by the piles of randomness. If that didn't work I would simply scoot the stack to a new spot, wipe my hands clean, nod with acceptance as if I just did an important piece of work.

Look, I am not a lazy person, but the thought of tackling a chaotic garage slips down the list somewhere near getting a pedicure, going to a Yanni concert or seeing another movie with either Sandra Bullock or Keanu Reeves or both in it. Let's just say it's way down near the bottom of the aforementioned list.

The garage is supposed to be that special place where things like garden tools, bikes, more bikes, random things and holiday gear reside. Perhaps I am "scarred" by my childhood and the garage I grew up with/in. Maybe it is just a case of rebelling against my father's garage (not really but I need to make this impactful). I have fond memories of that garage, my dad's "Man Cave". It was a good size with rafters carefully organized and bins labeled. It had cabinets to the side and a bunch behind a wall where the water heater, and washer and dryer sat. The workbench was spotless and had just the essentials. The tool box too housed quality tools both new, and from my grandfather. It fit two cars comfortably and you can bet parking the cars in the garage took precedent over anything else. Bikes hung from the beams, a clean lawnmower sat on one side, Farrah Fawcett's (RIP) infamous bikini poster was properly tacked on one of the walls, and empty Yuban and Folgers coffee cans were recycled to store nuts, bolts, washers, nuts, etc. (properly labeled of course). Perhaps the greatest element to this childhood garage was the floor. It was infamous. It was polished concrete, shiny and new looking. The running joke was that you could eat off it, and in all likelihood, you could. My dad washed the cars on it (eliminates water spots caused by the beating sun) and when he did, the floor became an ice rink. It was slippery and dangerous and you had to walk with care for certain. We still tease him about that garage, in particular the floor. I suspect it's envy.

His current garage, at a different house is similar to the one of my childhood. It's smaller but incorporates the same care as the earlier one. Things are organized, there's still the shiny floor and coffee cans and two cars in their right place, polished as usual. Now he has sheds to house the garden equipment and yep those are dialed in also.

So you see my "pain". I am certain that my garage will never live up to the old man's. It's just not possible. I lack the will to dig in and discard. My organization skills waiver between decent and lame, and my ability to "just say no" is ridiculous. So onward I go, organizing the best way I know how, which can be considered just tidying up. I still question why we have so much lumber or old glass knobs or cd's, but I can't bear to discard them.

After a day of pushing things out, getting rid of randomness, and pushing it all back in to shiny new spots, the old girl has a slight facelift (maybe just a dose of Botox). My hope is that this slight cosmetic surgery sticks and doesn't end up like Joan Rivers all beat and not funny.

Now I like waltzing around in the space. Where's my bike helmet? Oh here it is, in the bike helmet section. Where's that power tool? Over here in the power tool box. Sweet Jesus it's organized. Not old man organized, but she's dialed in enough to cause a smirk rather than cussing, and sighing, and moping.

A tent, chowder and a car show

2009-06-24T21:42:00.000-07:00

I haven't been camping in a while, let alone shacking in a tent with my two boys. The offer came up and the family shipped off with a car full of stuff, three nuggets stuffed in the backseat, my lady in the front, and a bike rack stuffed in the hitch. We were off for Father's Day weekend in Pismo Beach where we would meet up with my parents and their big RV and my sister, her husband and my nephew and their fifth-wheel trailer.

Oh Pismo. What can you say about it. If this was your first visit to Pismo Beach then you would truly freak out. It was a bit of Mad-Max mixed with an episode of Twilight Zone. Car shows can be a interesting study of people. You have such a cross-section of folks ranging from the wealthy old guys who have enough dough to sink into a Mercedes Gull Wing, to the blue collar guy who bought an old truck already polished, to the Cholo who has a nasty Impala dropped to the ground, and finally the white trash redneck who has decided to sink more cabbage into a '69 Camaro than into his single-wide mobile home.

The people that attend a car show of this size is actually more interesting than the presenters. The white trash level was high as was the range of mullets and muscle shirts. I saw more Cholos with bar codes inked on their neck than I would see on a Friday evening in Echo Park (not that I go there, but it sounds good). I am an extreme people watcher. I get it from my mom who is a professional at it. I mixed in well because perhaps I have a bit of white trash in me too. I mean I split a foot-long corn dog with my family. My son Cole still has the stick to prove it!

Camping in a tent in a camp site at the beach with family is an exciting thing. It's an opportunity to sit around a carefully groomed fire (thanks to my dad), talk smack, tease, joke, catch up on things, etc. My mom and dad usually camp on their own in their big RV so when the normal two-person site became 10, it put my dad's camp senses into overdrive. He's perhaps the greatest camp site organizer the planet has ever seen. Laying the turf, grooming the dirt, surveying the local dumpster for discarded objects like what appeared to be (according to my dad) a stand for a cooler. "All I have to do is take a wire brush to it, sand it a little, oil it, and paint it flat black." It's this mentality that has brought me many-a-treasure from random places. Things like a train set that the boys still use, plenty of sweatshirts from used cars and garage shelving racks that were left for dead.

My mom is the matriarch of the camp site. She's clearly the boss and if you are a bunch of Cholo guys who plan on blasting gangsta rap at 7:30 in the morning be prepared for the most gutsy woman ever to waltz to your site and let you know she doesn't feel like hearing it. A 25-year-old Latino tough guy is no match for my mom. In the camp my mom maintains a chair that turns her normal powers into superpowers. Suddenly, instantly, as if the camping chair with the cup holder released powerful energy, chores are shouted out in a mild-mannered tone. "Dick (my dad) can you get the tomatoes?", she says. "I think we need another log on the fire." It's poetry really. My mom's Italian blood needling my father's German genes. Somehow, someway, after all these years and all this time together it still works. Pissy in the one moment and loving in the next. It's a study in tolerance, patience, persistence, obedience, romance (maybe?). It's classic to watch.

Camping is also a time to indulge in all sorts of behavior. Eating smores every night, bringing out the Jiffy Pop (yep, they still make it) and not showering for four days. Camp fires too isn't something you make often if at all unless you camp. It's a time to unleash your inner-pyro and burn sticks and paper. Camp sites also provide for some excellent people watching including the lame-asses who blow $500 on a cooler scooter, or the aforementioned gangstas with bad taste in music and judgment.

It was a great bunch of days spent at Pismo and while the car show was a bit chaotic, the last evening was pretty sweet. The crowds had all but cleared out and the quaint, semi-edgy beach town returned to its true spirit. We ate good chowder, strolled around and had yet another carefully constructed epic camp fire. The next morning we packed up and hit the road, but not before my dad cleaned out in between the planks of wood that make up the top of the picnic table. I think he found some bottle caps and 26 cents.

IMAGE_CAPTIONS
Image_1: One of the many cool old trucks at the car show. I dig the primer color and faux rust look.
Image_2: Cole ready to mack down on a smore. They came out of his braces eventually.
Image_3: Luke: The kid who never seems to pose "normally" for a picture. Love it.
Image_4: Baby Hope was mesmerized by the carefully constructed camp fire.
Image_5: My nephew Tyler. He wants to be a fireman.
Image_6: I think my dad found 26 cents.

Being cool

2009-06-18T22:35:00.000-07:00

The car in the picture says MO MNY on the license plate. We were on our way down Los Feliz Boulevard near the Greek Theatre and it donned on me after seeing this plate... What's with vanity plates?

We are a vain society and likely even more so in Los Angeles. Vanity plates say "Look at me, read my plate, guess what it is. Isn't that cool? You like it?" I must admit some are pretty smart and I don't mind ones that have family references on them, but most are just lame. This one bordered on lame, arrogant, retarded, with a spritz of WTF?. Here this guy rolls along in a C55 AMG, a car that is likely close to $100,000. The letters AMG on a Mercedes Benz automatically signify that you have money. Adding the vanity plate adds insult to injury. Saying "Look peasants, this car belongs on the Autobahn but I choose to drive it in the gridlock of Los Angeles. Blat!"

Bumper stickers are a notch down from personalized plates. Sort of the poor man's vanity plate. I especially enjoy the stickers that say FREE TIBET. Sure Tibet should be free, but for me that particular one has become way too fashionable or "cool" (see below). Rolling along in your Volvo with FREE TIBET equates to saying "Look Tibet is screwed, and I wish they would be free because the Dalai Lama is a 'cool' dude, and I so want to visit the place and get some prayer flags, but I have a mani-pedi I have to bust out in 15 minutes." You can't free Tibet from your Volvo 760 Turbo. Another crowd-pleaser is SAVE MONO LAKE. That's a classic and it runs in the same circle as FREE TIBET. You can't save Mono Lake if you are behind the wheel of a, well, Volvo 760 Turbo. So bumper stickers are exactly that, stickers. A vanity plate in a sticky form that eventually wears out and is replaced by an even better one that says "My kid is student of the month at Mono Lake's Tibetan academy." I have no answer for that one.

This brings me to the whole concept of cool. Inside I laugh when people say this or that is "cool." What makes it cool? What's cool to you may be lame to me. I am guilty of it often after I meet someone: "That guy seems pretty cool," I say. Am I cool? If he seems cool and I indeed think I am cool what will bring him up to the level of coolness I apparently am at? At the same time, this guy I think "seems cool" may think I seem cool, or he may just think I'm a dick. It's a discussion that is best had in your own mind. That is if it's a cool enough subject to ponder.

Jumbled thoughts on my local park

2009-06-17T22:59:00.000-07:00

Today it was daddy day. Mama went to her private practice and dad (that's me) took control of the balls of energy known as my kids. I'm not the stereotypical dad of yesteryear who would be a crazed mess if this situation happened upon him, I'm current dad who can handle the kids. I know how to change diapers, feed babies, snuggle, soothe, discipline, control, etc. I don't need a reward or a gift certificate or a pat on the back. If you're a dad and you don't contribute, you're a dick.

The park is the perfect place to kill time; get some fresh air and, did I say, kill some time? A 5-year-old with crazy energy and imagination to match can take a couple acre park and turn it into his own private Wonderland. We have one just up the street. An old park with old trees and wide open, sprawling lawns. In the middle is the jungle gym area where the man commands the stage. He's no longer ambivalent about meeting kids in the sand, as now he seems to have become a social butterfly, sometimes standing in front of a group of kids or following along until one finds his shadowing intriguing enough to play with him. Most of the time the game is predictable. Tag is involved, as is a sword and a pirate and some sort of thunderous crashing.

While he's involved in some sort of crash-tag-world-war-drama-fest, his sister and I sit on the sidelines. Hope is laughing at kids in swings and slobbering or gnawing on both fists, while I scope the setting assessing whether babies are cute or not, or why the kid with a mustache insists on wrapping the swing over and over the top bar.

"That baby is really ugly. That one has no hair. Nice outfit on that one," I say under my breath of course. "She's definitely a nanny with a kid with white hair like that." It's bad I know, but we all do this in some way or another. I watch women look at other women. You can see that they start at the shoes and move there way up. Men I think start at whatever area appeals to them most and move around the ball park.

Anyway. Parks are a great place to see parenting at its best or worst. Dakota throws sand at Logan. Mom of Dakota looks the other way. She's a hipster more concerned with the cuffs on her jeans. Logan's mom is vigilant and confronts Dakota. Wrong move. Suddenly hipster mom leaves the cuffs and moves in to see what the deal is. Things are settled easily but not without some interesting moments. You see I am convinced that parks are just excuses for moms (mostly) to let the kids go wild while they chit-chat with other hipster moms. Nothing wrong with it, moms need a break too, but you can keep an ear peeled or an eye out for your hipster-influenced kid at the same time.

Then I think and ultimately conclude that the wild kid without manners is a reflection of the hipster parents. Some hipsters parents are cool, but some think they are too cool. You shouldn't breastfeed your 3-year-old child just because of some "cool" article in the LA Weekly said so.

All this while I sit watching my "cool" kid impersonate a pirate or a mummy or a crazed police officer. Oh shit! I think I am a hipster. Meanwhile, baby Hope is likely thinking in her small little head "Parents are lame, and yes dad I am going to Burning Man when I get older."

Long live the local park and all the weird things it makes my head think of.

The Jury Duty Files

2009-06-16T23:00:00.000-07:00

It came a while ago. That slip of paper that causes dread and profanity when you open it. No, not the high school reunion invite or that mysterious, possible, probable ticket taken by a hidden camera in the town of Lucca, Italy, but instead the summons for jury duty. I looked at it, turned it over, held it up to the light to make certain it was real like a 100-dollar-bill. Sure enough it was real. There are two routes to take for this: A) Do you "civic duty" and go on the date it shows; or B) Postpone the mo-fo until another time. Bingo, "B" it is. I call the number, tap in "June 15, 2009". Perfect, I have time.

Time comes so fast when it's "duty time". Those two months flew by and sure enough the same scowls and moans of displeasure came to the surface when I had to actually depart and go to the court house. "Shit! I so don't want to go!" I would rather go to Calabasas to get a pedicure than go to jury duty [what?]. I kept thinking of ways, at this the 11th hour, to get out of it. Nothing.

I make the 2 mile trip in no time. Go through security. "Nice belt" says the security guard. "Thanks" I say. "Have fun" she says. "Screw you" I say (under my breath). Oh this is not good. Bitter already and I haven't even stepped through and into the Jury Grotto. Snap out of it Self. Leave the bitterness, sarcasm, and all that other baggage at the door. This is your "civic duty." Okay, think positive. Maybe the jury room will be epic. Maybe it will have foosball, and a pool table, and a fridge full of Horchata and a Carnitas bar, and a massage table for when you wait for all those hours. Close your eyes tight, maybe it will happen. Tighter. Tighter. I open my eyes to ratty old chairs, a snowy television, and old magazines with the address labels ripped off. I am one of many, of course, who is at this dreary place. Everyone has the same sad look on their mug. It's me, a couple retirees, a bunch of older Asian ladies and a mix of others.

The dreary voice comes over the static speaker: "Welcome to jury duty (scratch, scratch, scratch). If you need to postpone or if you are going out of town in the next 7-10 days (scratch, scratch, scratch), please come to window 2 (screetch, scratch, chirp)." For a moment my right foot stepped forward. "What are you doing Self? Self step back, endure the pain." Self wanted to march in there, scribe out an excuse like "Going on a long trip to Istanbul," and march out with head held high. I would sign my name with an "X" and snicker under my breath "Take that J-Du." I didn't do it of course and waltzed in with the other members of the slumping herd.

It's on! I pick a spot in the corner, away from anyone who may be "chatty" (I have "chat" radar). I get a good spot and immediately survey the crowd and wonder who may get rejected. "That guy has too many tattoos, he's out. She looks too mad. That old guy is in for sure. Sleepy Asian women has drool running down her mouth," and on and on.

Aside from the long break, bad-corporate-jury-duty-drink-the-KoolAid-civic-duty-video, and the transfer for everyone to the East Los Angeles court house, the wasted day of my life went okay. Finally at around 2:00pm they call names. "Sandra Sanchez, Wang Chung, Old Man, Old Lady...". About 9 people in I am mashing my teeth, curling my toes, praying to the Saint of Jury Duty (whoever that is) that they don't call my name. "(Screetch, scratch, scrunch) Would those names I called please report to Room 'whatever, whatever'." I am free for the moment. There must be more names coming, has to be more. Right? Not for the moment. I laugh inside as does the old Asian women who is sitting too close to me. "I hope we go home. Soon. Maybe. Yes?", she says. "I do too ('Move your purse' I say under my breath)."

A half-hour rolls by and people trickle in and out. People who were called on that first round leave. "Oh shit!" I think. I know I am next. I have to be. There's 15 people left in the room. I'm that guy. They need me. I hope they don't need me. I hope the kid passes over my name. It's a hard last name to pronounce, maybe he'll be too embarrassed to say it and move on. Please Saint Jury Duty, let me live!

Nothing for another 5, 10, 15, 20 minutes. Then "(screetch, scratch, chirp)." Damn, the reckoning is here, right? "(screetch, chirp, shrill) The case has been dismissed, you are all free to leave." The old Asian woman next to me cheers. Others follow suit. This system, right now is awesome. I am in the moment. I stand, smile, toss my badge in the tray and walk quickly out before they change their mind.

I'll be back in a year. I know that. It happens to me. The jury Gods find me somehow like clockwork. I will likely post this very same blog entry next June. Look for it. Mark your calendar.

Twitter VS. Facebook, or I have nothing to blog about

2009-06-15T20:42:00.000-07:00

Once I was a nay-sayer of Facebook and while I am still a bit annoyed by Twitter, I see it has its moments. Consider Lance Armstrong for a minute. He has more than a 1,000,000 followers and growing! All he basically talks about is how great his life is, how much he rides or plays kickball or listens to the "coolest" music. Just 140 characters that causes people from every walk of life to comment as if they know him. It's extraordinary really. I would venture to guess that if you get a single mention in one of Lance's Tweets, your follower number will bump up significantly purely by intrigue. In many cases it has become a quest for followers. Someone I know is constantly monitoring the number. "Up 25 today!" or "This week I gathered another 120." Nevermind the fact that most of the jargon that riddles the landscape is nonsense. It's the American way to think more about quantity than quality.

Facebook for me has become fun. I was Anti-FB at one time and then I started gaining "Friends". The weird thing is that I know perhaps 50 percent of the people. Most are work-related but more and more are people from my childhood. Initially I wasn't much into "hooking" up with people from elementary, middle or high school, but I have slowly become fascinated by their stories. People I have known for more than 30 years have "come into" my life. A high school friend who lives less than five miles away. A childhood-elementary school friend who I would likely never cross paths with in "real" life has suddenly become a friend again in, well, real life. A high school mate who I "discovered" on Facebook was where I spent two days in Italy with the family. I would have never see him again without Facebook. There are also the train wrecks. People from the past who have taken strange paths.

I have used Facebook extensively for work, whether it be interviews for the magazine or learning of new products coming down the line.

There are still people who think Facebook is lame. It has almost become cool to hate it. Snide remarks like "Facebook is stupid" abound, but it's one of those cases where if you aren't in it you don't know. Besides what make you think you are so cool? K*I*T. Have a bitchen summer. Like fer-sure.

2009-06-15T14:56:00.001-07:00

They know more than we do...

2009-06-14T11:10:00.000-07:00

It's a typical drive home from Los Feliz after a night evening with my sister- and brother-in-law. The baby's already asleep in the back and Brett Dennen is on the player. My son is chiming on about this or that mostly involving crashing of some sort. If he were a teenager you might be worried about his constant referrals to crunching and crashing, but he's five and it's funny.

Then things come up most notably how Stefanie and Luke have this love-hate relationship of late. They are modern day "Archie and Edith". Similar to an old married couple. He refuses to brush his teeth when asked or make his bed or pick up his things. At the heart of his rebellion is his free-spirited nature, and that he wants to do it on his own terms. His hard-headed, stubborn existence can be attributed to the fact that a fair bit of his being is German. That should explain most of it, but another element is that he just likes to aggravate his mother. The arguments are entertaining no doubt. And then they are found snuggling 10 minutes later.

Other than the discussion of the daily ritual of arguments we were having a conversation about movies. Somehow the word "documentary" came up and somehow in some way the five-year-old in the back who was a second ago blabbing random noises, uses the word in a sentence in the right context as if he was listening to the conversation we were having in the front. I froze, turned down the music, and inquired about his sudden fascination with documentary. "How do know what a documentary is?" I ask. "I just do, hello!" says he. Kids say words they hear others say the word but have no idea what the word means and you brush it off as they are just repeating. "Okay, what's a documentary?" I chirp. "It's a movie about real people," he says. At that moment I turned the music back up, looked ahead, took a gulp and marveled in my head about the simplicity of his definition.

Later that evening it was story time and then bed. Tonight's feature was "The Giving Tree" by Shel Silverstein. A classic. A quick read. At the end based on the earlier exchange on the drive home, I ask him questions about the book. "Why did the man cut down the tree?" I ask. "Because he needed it to get away," says Luke. "But he cut down the tree. Did the man not like the tree?" "He loves the tree," he says. "Why did he come back to the tree?" I ask. "Because he loves the tree. Duh!"

Once again I was stopped in my tracks. Adults could go on about the meaning of "The Giving Tree" and give analogies and childhood or adult examples, but a five-year-old boy could sum up the situation and message in simple terms that says so much. In its simplicity is complexity. In its complexity is a general understanding of what it is... a timeless story no more than what may be 250 words.

Eventually, the five-year-old will give in to the complexity, lose the innocence, simplicity and instinct that defined "Documentary" and the meaning of "The Giving Tree." For now he has his crazy imagination, his uninhibited attack on life. It's funny, frustrating, fruitful and will remain deep in his being, this I am certain. This kid is an old soul and my guess is that he will tap this wonder from time to time as he gets older.

It's hard doing a blog...

2009-06-13T11:05:00.000-07:00

Here I sit putting pressure on myself to try and express into words some sort of blog entry. It's been a while given that the "Donut Adventure" was more than two months ago. I keep searching for topics, looking out the window thinking 'Hey a blog about why my street hasn't been repaved might be good.' 'No it wouldn't!' I conclude. 'What about one on junk mail or flossing?' 'Seriously, that's all you got?' Then I wonder why I had so many ideas before. I was a blog-whore at one point. Things were flowing freely. I didn't have to think about it. This "flow" helped me with my job too, when I had to write for the magazine. Tapping away on the keyboard allowed me to free my mind and get into a rhythm. Then it dried up.

Of course I write this for me and the three people who stop by occasionally. You know who you are. And even they have said to me 'You need to update your blog.' I have concluded that my 'blog' has become a 'bog'.

When I came back from Europe I was ready to blaze the keyboard about how great Europe was/is and how every time we/I come back we/I want to turn around and move there. I tapped away for 30 minutes and came up with some prose, but it wasn't working. Can you get writers block even though you A) aren't a writer, and/or B) just have a little shitbox blog? Whatever it was I still have, sort of. Maybe I have blog material in some pocket of my brain that houses this type of stuff. Maybe my life isn't as eventful as it was say three months ago. Maybe our adventures have slowed. Whatever the situation is I am working through it. Look for future blogs on "Stacks", "That area of your house that accumulates crap", "Why the VERSUS channel sucks", "How come we don't have beer gardens", "Why America should not have roundabouts", and my personal favorite that's been haunting me for a while "Why 'The Housewives of New Jersey' shouldn't claim they are Italian". A very inside source told me that there was or could be a "Housewives of Calabasas". I will keep you posted on that one.

For now, this blog entry is not really an entry per-se but an explanation as to where my creative energy has been or not. I am figuring ways to tap back into it. This creamy latté certainly helps. Shit, I think I did one on creamy lattés. Erase that one from the list.

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2009-05-31T09:37:00.001-07:00

Click here to view these pictures larger

What would you do for a donut?

2009-03-27T17:18:00.000-07:00

It was a Saturday night and I made a brief mention of having donuts Sunday morning, the following day. Usually Sunday's are for my "world-famous-po-dunk-no-two-are-the-same" pancakes, but after a date with Huell Howser which took us to Stan's Donuts in Westwood, I had a hankering for the fried little nugget. Donuts to me are what smack is to a junkie. Offer it up at any time, whether I am fit or not and I will eat it. My self discipline is non-existent when I sense a donut at work, at home, or wherever I may be.

So the plan was set for a quick morning trip to the local donut shop.

Sunday morning, and I look up donut shops on my rectangle of glass (iPhone). The typical Winchell's and Dunkin Donuts pop up, but I wanted something original, something "mom-and-pop." A shop that had flavor and character and was "manned" by a sleepy old guy or perky Asian woman who barely speaks English. I wanted authentic, not uniforms and definitely not a chain.

So I found it. It was a donut shop and bakery about 2.6 miles from our house. Turn right, veer right, stay left, u-turn here and presto you're there in about 5 minutes' times. Simple enough if you drive, but the 2.6 miles became a walk, an outing for the family. Baby in stroller? Check. Luke, Cole, you ready? Yep. Mama, you have everything? I think so. Good. We're off on foot and we tear up the first 1.5 miles and make the right. Suddenly the landscape changed. Gone were the beautiful old Craftsman's and in to view came chewed-up sidewalks, trash, bars on windows, and graffiti. We were certainly out of our element, but this is what we do. We venture to places we may not be comfortable with and I bitch about why we are doing this and my lame wife says "It's all about the adventure!" I say "But there's graffiti on the damn sidewalk! Who tags the sidewalk?" It's my usual barking and while I was continuing to wonder where we were, the boys were loving the beat up old cars and random bits of trash and because Luke was on his bike, he was loving the undulation of the sidewalks. Cole, on the other hand, is a junk collector and would marvel at broken, abandoned things or hubcaps or whatever.

The 2.6 miles by foot, with 2 boys, and a munchkin in a stroller is, in reality, a 2-hour walk.

Eventually we made our way to this supposed bakery-donut shop and I was a bit surprised at what we found. It did have the token middle-aged Asian woman and the random filthy guy downing a cup of Joe, but the posters for the sex pills and various Mexican bands playing around town took the prize. All over the windows these posters were plastered, but in the end I didn't care. I was the junkie with a singular focus of a real soft, delicate sprinkled donut.

The boys ordered their favorites and my wife got her apple fritter and then we set off back to home. At some point we had to stop to sample the delicate fruit (donut) and did so in front of the local library. Here was a family of 5 chowing on donuts in the wrong part of town, but we didn't care. We continued on to home taking in the local character that included a sweet 1970's station wagon and a bike shop that had more bars than a jail.

Eventually we made it back and while the adventure, as my wife calls it, was to a part of town we would never normally go to, it was just that... an adventure. This is what we do, and this is what I did for a donut. As they say "the journey is the destination."

Why I am beginning to hate Facebook and Twitter...

2009-03-21T10:23:00.000-07:00

Don't get me wrong I think the idea behind social networking is brilliant and for the most part it seems to be used in a decent way. Companies can exploit it to show their wares, while others can promote their widget or band or expertise or whatever and on and on...

At the same time it's become a place for lonely people and narcissists (in my opinion) to tell everyone what they are doing at that very moment: "Just went to Starbucks", or "Drinking wine in Santa Barbara, any takers?". These are the things that really bug the shit out of me. I have been guilty of the same thing (in my own mind) and though most of the time it's deliberate for the sake of mocking the whole situation, at times I do want people to know that "My baby girl just barfed all over my new shirt." And the cynic in me wonders why everything that everyone posts is always so positive. I never ever see anyone post: "This was the most fucked-up day in my life, I feel like slashing my wrists!"

What is it about this "networking" that has gripped most every person between the ages of 12-120? The very word networking is being abused in a sense. It's a word, really, that should be used to connect yourself to others and vice-versa, but now it has just turned into conversation, indirect at best. It's conversation with typed letters, IM's, chatting, and all that. So why am I involved with it? Why do I Twitter and have a Facebook page and blog here. Who the "F" knows. I have yet to truly figure it out. That's what this stuff does to you. It draws you in, or you are drawn in by people who say "It's awesome!", or "Social networking is it man." Is it peer pressure? I have yet to gather any information that has truly enhanced my life or work life. None of these social networks has yet to give me information that is indeed mind-blowing. Perhaps it's because many of the Twitter postings are mostly just forwarded messages, and Facebook is just enhanced or updated pictures of family, etc. Initially, Twitter was interesting to me but my interest has depleted because of the mostly mindless babble and banter between people. In fact, I have now eliminated many of the people I was following because I couldn't handle the random "Just took a nap", or "So and so just won the race," which is followed immediately by someone else forwarding the same message of who just won the race. The duplication and nothingness was driving me crazy, and what's weird is that I opted to "follow" these people. Now I don't. They may not know who they are, but I do and it feels great to "eliminate" them. "I have 3,500 followers!" Snore.

Facebook too was something someone referred me too. I made quick "friends" based on other peoples friend list, and my initial focus was to use it for work. Chat with cyclists and create web content for our ailing website. At some point I began accumulating friends from the past: from high school, former places of employment, elementary school! Connecting with people from the past was exciting and interesting. Seeing what they were up to, where they worked, who they are now. What the high school athlete now a fat retard? Was the hot chick now some crazy religious freak? Was the seemingly normal girl, now crazy and on meds? All this intrigued me and for a while I was loving it until I truly saw the dark side of a few people and replayed the drama on the "walls" of Facebook. "Hey, what ever happened to 'so-and-so'?" "She went nuts, over the deep-end... We're no longer friends." Plenty of divorce and religious conversions, and everything you can think of. As well, there's plenty of good things like an elementary school friend who is still artsy and funky and lives a stones-throw from me, or a friend who now lives in Italy that I will connect with in May.

I can honestly tell you that social networking for me is a classic case of a love-hate relationship. Either way it has drawn me in and I can't get out! Someone help me.

Pleated Shorts and Collared Shirts...

2009-02-28T12:13:00.000-08:00

We're in Palm Desert and loving it. After 10 days on the road for work, I came back, reformatted, and then we blew off to the sun. Every year Stef's dad and stepmom reserve the timeshare in Palm Desert and we go down for 4 days. It's the best time for weather, in the mid to high 80's, the pool is half empty, and there's still plenty of blue hairs for your people-watching pleasure.

In the San Jacinto and San Gabriel mountains sits snow and in the valley of sand, Mabel from up north is so tan she's orange and lubed, and Stan from out Oregon is geared up for some rounds of golf, a good 4:00pm steak and a Tom Collins... remember those. It's a study in World War II generation. Limping old men with golf hats and golf carts waking up at 6:00am, reading the paper, pondering the economy, wondering where their pills are and finally having some breakfast... And it's just 7:00am. These are weathered old vets who have done more hard work in their lifetime than I will ever do, seen more of this world than I will and are entertaining as all get-up to watch manipulate the greens at Shadow Ridge. They're grizzled and tan with white sneakers and a Lincoln. Times are still good for this generation.

Go to the College of the Desert Street Fair and it's a documentary waiting to be made. Row after row of shoes and socks, kooky hats, bedazzled resort wear, bad art, more bad art, giant wrap-around visors, gadgets for your bad back, cheap sunglasses, cheaper t-shirts and sweaters for your Lhaso Apso. It's a sea of gray hair with tacky clothes, but it's awesome. Old folks as far as the eye can see, bargaining for over-designed tops and sweats. Each year we think maybe their will be a secret nugget of a booth that sells some real slick 50s-60s trinkets or Bing Crosby-style hats or something, but each year we see nothing that we must have. It's mostly about watching the fogies.

GOOD FIND: the Haiwaiian shave ice with the ice cream at the bottom.
NUTTY CHARACTER: on the side street where we parked a nutty white trash local insists that you don't park anywhere near his mailbox. He'll put a note on your car threatening to have your car towed. Saturday mail is important to him. He gave us the snake-eye so we moved.
POSSIBLE GOOD ART: If you have a retro lounge or finished basement, there is an artist there who paints some killer rodeo, cowboy scenes. My favorite was the bucking Bronco in brown and tan.

FRESH MUSIC_the boxer rebellion...

2009-02-17T19:52:00.001-08:00

FRESH MUSIC_bon iver...

2009-02-17T19:50:00.000-08:00

Test product: the baby bucket

2009-01-27T10:08:00.000-08:00

With a baby just eight weeks old, you start wondering to yourself: "It's only been eight weeks!" and "How can I make this little jelly roll fit into my chore schedule?" Quickly I harken back to the two previous nuggets now 10 and 4 and remember quite fondly how my left arm became stronger than my right, more tone and quite frankly cut. The right arm lingered a bit, stayed fit but had a different appearance. It was the "doer", the one that somehow made the coffee, emptied the trash, typed on the keyboard one finger and one letter at a time and ultimately the one that got all the glory. In the world of appendages it was top dog, while left arm was the behind-the-scenes workhorse that did the holding of said nuggets. When the right arm was called to action to hold a baby and it's wobbly head, it immediately felt awkward. The forearm was okay with the task, but his neighbor above had issues figuring out how to cradle the neck. Ultimately, the right arm gave up, claimed it had "work to do" and transferred the task to señor left arm.

All this time I never recognized the baby sack. You know the "backpack" that you wore on the front that either had baby facing outward like it was some sort of growth coming from your abdomen, or the reverse where the chiclet buried its fragile head into your body. I refused to use any of them for the first two guys and was firm in the notion that I would never use it for baby three.

We have two such napsacks: one being the bohemian-hippy-hipster (BHH) version where it looks like an eco-bag that wraps around your neck while the baby lays sideways against your tummy, and the other aforementioned bucket that allows her to face you. The BHH sack is better looking, seems to draw less attention, but folds the baby up into a pretzel-like form, which I wasn't sure was good for her. It's possible there is a twist or a tug we missed, but we moved to the more traditional pack.

While my wife parades around the house juggling pots, making the bed, folding clothes, talking on the phone quite easily with the pack mounted, I instantly concluded I couldn't pull it off. Part of it was my pre-conceived attitude that I refuse to give in to the yuppy pack, and the other was my inability to figure out how to easily get nugget into the "pockets" and openings. It looks uncomfortable to me. Is it? Baby can't answer of course and most of the time she just falls asleep so it must work... for a little while until she probably realizes that she's stuffed into a nylon bag.

After watching this for a few weeks, this morning I gave in to the baby bucket. I can't make lattés with one arm so I strapped the bag on and put her in. She gave a squeak and a groan here and there, but then silence and the sound of a squished, sleeping nose. My two arms were now free to make lattés, navigate the web (albeit standing up), open things easily, etc. I then took it a step beyond: sitting down to read a magazine, and go to the bathroom. Sitting down with a baby bucket is not in the manual, and the wife even said she's never attempted it, but I was wiling to take the chance. And so I went to the bathroom and baby contorted a bit more than normal but was still fast asleep. So to the hipster moms and wine-tasting dads out there, you can sit down with your baby mounted to your chest. Will I wear the bag in public? Baby steps my friend. Baby steps.

The weather outside...

2009-01-19T17:30:00.000-08:00

It used to be that we would follow the weather through our local television channels, though in Southern California the weather never changes and the differentiation between today and tomorrow is a matter of a couple degrees and perhaps a threat of early morning cloud cover. We know it's going to be hot in Woodland Hills, windy in Porter Ranch, and mild in Pasadena. Guys like Fritz Coleman and Dallas Raines would keep us updated with Doppler, or Doppler 7000, or even Doppler Mega. In high definition and with computer graphics that seem like they should be better, it seems that we should be pinned to the television, but we aren't. Are we? The web and my iPhone provide everything I need and in what seems real time. The 7-day forecasts are usually wrong on television and when a threat of rain comes on to the radar, you know Raines and Coleman crack their knuckles and get to work early. And sure enough some correspondent will perch themselves on the corner of Ventura Boulevard and Van Nuys near the deepest part of a pothole, waiting, yearning, hoping that some sap will hit it just right so as to splash a 6-foot wave of run-off on to the sidewalk. Golden!

Since we are more concerned with traffic patterns and morning drive time, the weather is now insignificant to us. It's like how NBC posts "Kath and the Kim" (the worst show on television) in between "My Name is Earl" and "The Office"... It's just there and I will likely watch it just so I can get to "The Office". It's purely an example as I don't watch any of these shows, but you get the idea. And for all of you "Office" fans, the US version pales in comparison to the UK version. I digress.

So this brings me to why, all the sudden, the weather on my local channels now intrigue me. It's the women. Yep, plain and simple. I think the network people have concluded that the weather is insignificant to the people of Southern California too, and that they had to spruce it up. It's also the only position on the local news that involves movement, meaning that the talking head actually has to interact and move around the set (blue screen). The people who "report" the news sit or stand behind a table or desk, but the weather person is at one with the wind patterns and cloud movements and the happy face sun and sad drizzle graphics. They bend and swerve, look at you, look sideways, make endearing gestures, click the tiny remote in their hand and slide from one end of the map from Santa Clarita to Big Bear all the way over to Ventura and back again to Burbank. It's Nintendo Wii and it looks better when it's a hot little Asian girl or blonde-headed hottie doing the deed. I look forward to it now!

So what was the process for making such a move from "crusty old dude" to "hot young woman"? The aforementioned interactive aspect is certainly one thing and of course the fact that the weather is insignificant to us is the other. There's no debating these 2 concepts. The interview process must have been interesting too. I could picture a lineup of hotties mixed in with a few male weather dorks and the contemplation of the upper management when determining who would become the next weather person. Done deal: hot woman rules out over square, boring, crusty guy named Chip or Garth.

Is it sexist? Nope. See the pictures and the sweet video below. Who cares if it's 75 degrees and clear tomorrow!

My snooze time is like a flight to Europe

2009-01-06T21:15:00.000-08:00

Of late it seems that my life is about analogies like Christmas and sushi and now cross the pond flights and shut eye. My night life or sleep time can easily be compared to a flight to Europe from Los Angeles. The situation is the same in that the shut eye periods have the same cycles and the distractions are equally similar too. Like a flight to Europe, I tend to have fits or bouts or moments of sleep, then I am awakened. On the plane it's the flight attendant who plays my newborn baby. The people passing down the aisle could play my sick 4-year-old son, and the random noises such as intercom announcements or the noise of the clanging food and beverage cart could play the part of my annoying and oft loud refrigerator.

And so it goes, I am in the terminal bound for Italy or Germany or Switzerland. The bed time analogy is that of me getting in my PJ's, taking control of the remote and watching something, anything, perhaps House Hunters on HGTV. I am anxious, wondering if the security zone will be packed. Similarly I am curious whether Hope will sleep for 2 hours or 3 and will she be grunting in between. Soon I make it through security and through an hour of sleep by Hope. It seems that this flight/sleep will be smoothe... this time. Maybe. Soon I am on the plane and we are set for lift off. Likewise in bed I am on to the History Channel for the Battle of Stalingrad... My wife's favorite epic battle (not). Then it hits. The annoying German guy next to me begins grunting as does my refrigerator. Why must he snort so loud? Is it just a German thing? I am convinced it is! It has happened way too many times. Do they not believe in Kleenex? Didn't they invent tissue paper? They seem to lay claim to everything else. Onward. The fridge groans and shrieks. It's made in New Zealand and is supposed to be good. It is in fact, but look up Fisher Paykel refrigerators on the web and what's the biggest complaint? They're loud. So German guy and Kiwi fridge groan and snort off and on.

Next comes the beverage cart and in wanders my 4-year-old son who is coughing and snorting. Not like the German guy but more like a cute little 4-year-old. "It's 2 am lil' bro," I say. "I can't sleep," he says. "Vould you like somesing to zrink," Elsa says. "Arghh, groan, umphh" says me. Now the baby wakes up because she's either gassy or hungry or hungry and gassy or annoyed that the Battle of Sicily leveled such a beautiful place. Here comes Elsa again to hand out warm towels... well not really, but she's bugging me, us, everyone about something. You get the point. She's around again, and again, and again. Now it's 4 in the morning and I finish Sicily and the baby is zonked and Luke's back in his bed and Stefanie is in a coma. I pass out too, but in an instant it's 7:00 am and my flight touches down and the sun rises in the window and lil' bro creeps in and asks if he can have his lollipop from the night before. Seriously? I have become Ben Franklin to a certain extent. I have now conditioned myself as I have on the flights to Europe to sleep in weird positions, get very little shut eye and get used to the noises. And it seems to be working! Each night is a mystery, and it's kind of fun. Kinda. Maybe.

Sushi + Christmas

2008-12-27T10:21:00.000-08:00

You can compare sushi to Christmas. Here's how it works: if you aren't a sushi chef, and I am assuming you aren't, and you attempt to make sushi at home (which most of us don't) you will know first hand that it's nearly impossible to make. Don't get me wrong, you can do it but the process is labor intensive and the finished product is usually decent at best. In the end, the rolls that took you most of the day to make are gobbled up in 3 seconds.

Making sushi is a condensed version, a replica, a 1/64 scale of Christmas. Hours, days and months are spent determining what your family member wants. Scratching down ideas, picking up on hints, doing the necessary research of where to get it, and on and on. Like making sushi, you don't want to start too early because tastes change (sushi goes bad), and prices vary. You don't want to wait too long either because of crowds and availability, shipping time, and the chances someone else already got the pajamas is great. Wait until the last minute to make an eel and avocado roll and, well, you won't have sushi.

So comes Christmas day and the moment you are ready to eat the fresh cut rolls. Looking pretty in bows and decorative paper (the presents under the tree), the kids tear into it. Every year you want to make the act deliberate and measured. "Stevie you open 1 present, then let your sister Cindy open 1," mom says. "Okay mom," says Stevie. For 1 or 2 presents the new method works, then chaos breaks loose and the attention span of a 4-year-old clicks from "I can do it" to "Uhh no." And in an instant, that fleeting moment of controlled chaos becomes a mass of wrapping paper, cardboard, plastic, and drunken toy joy.

The sushi experiment is the same way. Buy the paper, make the sticky rice, get the freshest ingredients, shop all over town for the equipment, labor over it, roll it, make it look pretty, cut it like your local shop and present it. Like opening presents you attempt to maintain some self-control: eat a roll, rest, sip some Asahi, clean your palate with ginger, and dive back in. For 1 roll it works, then you refer back to the uncontrolled state and rolls disappear with blinding speed. Next thing you know, the rolls are gone and you sit in that same drunken stupor that unwrapping presents creates.

So in a weird twist of imagination Christmas and sushi are the same. Both are hard work, both get you drunk and full, and ultimately you do both all over again.

Long live Christmas
日本語長く生きているクリスマス

"Happy Trees" at 5:15 on a Saturday morning

2008-12-20T10:05:00.000-08:00

Baby Hope is restless. She's either feeling the ill effects of the burrito wrap/straight jacket contraption that she sleeps in nightly or she's craving some early morning television. In some cities and for some lifestyles, this time of day is considered late night, but for me it's prime sleepy time. I usually am up late anyway getting my fix of Charlie Rose or something on the DVR, and this night/morning was no exception but 3:30 a.m. for me is pushing it.

Soon it was 4:00 a.m. and the little nugget was having "issues". Twitchy, stretching, squeaking. I've been through this twice before so for those who offer up the usual "That's going to happen sometimes," I know that already. Rub her back, feed her boob (not mine), tuck her tightly in. Nothing. So I make the management decision to get her up, and go to the living room. On goes the plasma and we settle in to what could have been some rough television: Infomercials, public television, lame crafting or quilting shows on HGTV (who watches that shit?).

Instead, because I was tuned to PBS when I switched the television off the previous evening, we watched pure glory: Bob Ross! "The Joy of Painting" is likely the greatest art show ever made. It enjoys a cult following even to this day, and I remember years ago watching it every once in a while. While I never could understand how someone could possibly follow along and paint the brilliant landscapes he painted, I was more mesmerized by his language, the sweet afro, and his soft-spoken delivery. "It's your world, so you can put happy trees anywhere you like," is something similar to what he would say and then "boom" he would brush in a brilliant Evergreen. This particular segment he did the usual mountain scene, perhaps early morning, snow on the ground, trees both living and dead, and plenty of wonderful light play.

While my daughter faded off to sleep, I watched until the end and found myself wanting more of Bob Ross. "Should I put him in the DVR schedule?", I wondered. Why isn't Bob's show on later in the morning so that kids can enjoy the master of landscape and his own "wet-on-wet" technique. Bob died in 1995 at the age of 52, but his legend and cult status continues. Long live Bob Ross!

5 COOL THINGS AT BOBROSS.COM
1. Hoodie sweatshirt that says "Happy Trees" on the front
2. Tons of DVD's and VHS copies of his show including one showing you how to paint a giant Panda
3. Kid package that includes paints, an easel, and a t-shirt
4. Bob Ross lunch sack
5. 1,000 piece puzzle called "Mountain by the sea"

The chair that could

2008-12-15T21:35:00.000-08:00

"It's not that bad" I said. It was a response to a question or maybe it was an exclamation made by my wife about a chair that was destined either for the scrap heap or local thrift store. "It's kind of cool in a 70's, err, 80's kind of way" I said with head tilted and eyes squinted as if the obscured view and awkward angle would turn it into an Eames lounger. It was a hand-me-down from a psychotherapist's office that my wife used in her practice and now was deemed un-cool and un-comfortable by her and her office mates. Back when it was made it was likely super-stylish in an office kind of way. Imagine it placed near the coffee table standing tall, equipped with a fair amount of padding, a generous headrest, and the ability to lounge it back and forth. Now place a mustache'd, curly-haired "analyst" offering opinions decked out in his Earth shoes, brown bell-bottom'd cords, a macrame tapestry on the wall and shag carpeting on the floor. No doubt there's a ton of miles on this chair and while it has stood the test of office time, it truly was never designed for home-living room use. But on that fateful day when it seemed that the leather lounger with the wood base was on its way out, I stepped in and rescued it. "Come check it out" my wife said. "We're tired of it and just want to get rid of it" she continued. So I did and instantly placed it in my head on the wood floor in our living room, next to the old bench my wife found on the street. I quickly visualized the remote on the arms and lazy Sunday afternoon naps. While the style was still in question, I saw it fitting nicely and filling a void in our now "modern" living room. So I lugged it home and plopped it down and it worked. It actually fit the spot and complemented the space and furniture. While my wife shrugged and gave out a few "ehh's" and "If you like it..." it stood strong. I used it often, propped my feet up on another freebie known as a footrest and basked in the glory of my interior design senses. But the boss wasn't convinced. I could see it in her eyes, and in her actions: she never sat in it and pushed it close to the wall as if to make it disappear... kind of. It was quickly becoming my "Archie Bunker" chair. A perfect view point to the television on the wall, a comforting cream leather that was cold yet cozy (after 5 minutes of sit time) and that 70's modern look made it fit into that category I refer to as "So bad, it's good". It's the same category that every Patrick Swayze and Chuck Norris film fits into. Several months went by and then my wife gives birth to Hope. Now, the kookie therapist chair with thousands of session miles on it has become the nursing station. It's soft seat, overall comfort, the ability to recline and ease of use has turned the once landfill-bound chair into a gem, a treasure, a great "find". Checkmate!

Do you want it tucked or untucked...

2008-12-11T13:00:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since my last entry and boy have things changed! Now along comes a girl in my life called Hope. She's the new baby nugget in my life and while it's nice to have masculine energy in this household with the 2 older boys, it was ripe time for some fem vibes. Out she came before the scheduled C-section... 6 days early in fact. All babies that come out of the womb either look like: A) they aren't yours; B) an old man; or C) they were probably more comfortable inside than out.

BACK IN TIME
The pregnancy period is great. Sure, your woman is pregnant and sometimes uncomfortable, but the reality is that the baby is still inside and not out. Being inside, for parents, is "easy". Mom obviously feels the pains and discomfort, but dad still does his thing: Mow the lawn, wash the cars, take naps, watch boxing, etc. Even 7 months in, the baby still has some time until it comes out. Same with 8 months and for that matter 9 months (or close to it).

Then she comes out, and instantly your world takes a left turn. In that moment, the defining millisecond between "Baby In" and "Baby Out" is remembered, ingrained, stamped into your memory. Now it's on. "Baby Out" means so many things not only in the moment, but for the next 18+ years or so. Instantly my mind jumps to "How to handle the rag-doll neck," to "Where the hell are my diaper changing skills at this moment?," to "Sleep? Umm. No.," and "When she's 16 will she call me from "Burning Man" to ask if it's cool she goes topless the whole time." [Yeah I know. She won't ask]

And so with all of this in mind I began my rigorous "Baby Out" training. In my head I replayed the bygone days (4 years ago) when my diaper changing skills were stuff of legend. My ability to wrap a dirty diaper into a tiny ball made me smile and do imaginary high-5's to myself. My ability to stay up late is already in place considering I frequently pull all-nighters for work. My bottle feeding skills were also solid as that technique never seems to get lost. It's like riding a bike really! And so it seemed that all of the skills from 2 older kids were polished for the most part, until it came to time to swaddle.

"Take this part and make a triangle, then take that part of the blanket and wrap it over her right arm, but under the left shoulder... Then take this segment, twirl it, roll it, wrap it, tuck it and then voila, a perfectly wrapped tuna hand-roll." Huh? Are you kidding me? No matter how hard I try, the whole burrito wrapping thing still eludes my comprehension. Male swaddling comprehension is in the same category as our inability to want to ask for directions or follow directions when constructing some obscure child's toy, or reading the manual for your Kenwood. Nonetheless, my skill-set is way off and now I must resort to practicing on a fake doll. Yes I have hit swaddling rock bottom! The nurses in the delivery room swaddle with Bruce Lee-like speed. You can't see their hands when they tuck, swirl, fold, and wrap. I aspire to be in such ninja-like swaddling company.

In the end aside from my swaddling skills, having another woman in the house is pure joy. We'll see if the swaddle practice pays off.

Visit your local hole-in-the-wall

2008-11-23T08:25:00.000-08:00

Who needs to frequent a big chain restaurant when you have a hole-in-the-wall or 2 or 3 that serves better food, is cash only and sports some of the best décor around?

Stop 1 was the Thai restaurant in Eagle Rock, CA. Thai Spirit sports a great name and likely some of the best naugahyde around. Nineteen-seventy's green "hyde" was the rage back in the day and with rips and tears abound, it always makes me wonder what may have happened. Did a hot plate of Pad Thai hit the spot and disintegrate the man-made miracle? Who knows, but if a place has a deep, half-moon booth with a crumbling laminate tabletop, it's a guarantee that the food will be good. Exterior lattice on the interior of the restaurant is another sure bet too. Fake plants? Yep. If the place has them it's a bonus. If the plants are dusty, even better. The last element that assures the place is good is not the "A" or even "B" rating, but the tiny Asian kid taking a nap on the seat in the booth across from us. Apparently he's the owners kid and was real tired.

Stop 2 is also in Eagle Rock, CA. Casa Bianca is without question the best pizza, bar-none. It's a landmark for kitsch and of course cash only. Red naugahyde adorns this joint too along with bad wallpaper and those sweet overhead lamps you normally see in Uncle Bubba's paneled basement above the pool table. The walls in the entry have framed pictures of the B-celebrity variety, and the people who own it have done so since the mid-1950's! The cash register is still the old "typewriter" style and the female waitresses kick ass. We've watched many of them grow up! Another tip for judging a place: If the bathroom is a shithole, the food will be good. Oh yeah, the lineup is always out the door... another good sign it's good.

Stop 3 is our favorite little sushi place in Korea Town (Los Angeles). Noshi Sushi is also an institution and also cash only. Please note that if you are "whitebread" you will stick out like a sore thumb, but they don't care. This place serves the basic sushi. No jalapeno-cream-cheese-sour-cream-candy-yuck-hipster rolls, but instead the tried-and-true bits and the rolls are big. About the only thing super-progressive is the Dynamite. Everything but the kitchen sink (or including the kitchen sink) has been thrown into this casserole-type dish. It's hot and gooey and will likely give you heartburn, but when you eat something like this you don't contemplate the consequences! It's the equivalent to going to Tommy's. You know it's "bad" for you and that you will pay dearly for it, but it tastes so damn good. "The journey is the destination" my friend. Noshi sports green naugahyde and the bathroom is also nasty. The kicker to this place is the old Asian guy who acts as the security-parking patrol in the parking lot. He's usually kitted out in the usual security garb and on occasion sports a pistol that resembles that of a child's cap gun. He's a great dude, always smiling and directs you to a open space.

Go ahead and seek out your local holes in the wall... They're there!

To recap some requirements for what makes a dump a true dump with great food:
1. Must have naugahyde. The more ripped the better.
2. Cash only.
3. 1970's style lighting.
4. Laminate table top, preferably the crumbling variety.
5. Booths that have seating that have nothing left in terms of padding or springs.
6. Stucco and/or lattice on the interior walls.
7. Massive iron security gates that keep the place tight when it's closed.
8. ATM machine inside.
9. Napping Asian kid in the booth across from you.
10. Pistol packing (on occasion) parking guy.
11. An "A" rating is okay but it's always better if it's lower, or if the rating sign is obscured.
12. A crappy bathroom.

Bon appetite!

That early morning sound of yard work

2008-11-19T08:33:00.000-08:00

It's 7 in the morning and the cool chill coming through the bedroom door feels great. Snuggled under the down comforter, it's a typical morning until the hum begins. First it's the chatter of workers, then the sound of the mower starter. Yep, it's Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday, etc., and the yard work begins. Gone are the days when dads would wake up on Saturday morning and do yard work. Next comes the other guy with an edger and then the dreaded blower. All are gas-powered of course, none good for the environment, but it's always been that way. Prior to my electric mower that my sis-in-law donated to me, I had the gas gobbling, fuel burning front throw mower and the gas edger (now electric through a donation from my dad).

My point is this: Where are all the dads doing yard work? Am I the only one? Am I just a throwback? My hunch is that the dads of guys my age didn't teach their sons to do yard work or wash their cars or change their own oil, or even clean out their rain gutters! Now I am not saying I am some masculine macho man, but the lessons I learned from my dad regarding hard work and yard work and all that, have stuck with me. While some dads claim it's too much, they are wussies and for those who say it takes time away from being with their families or kids: whatever!

So the buzz of mowing and edging break out in full force down my street, and I get annoyed. Why do they start at 7:15am? Why do they use gas? Isn't that outlawed? I have the same reactions every day, every week, all the time. It's predictable.

When I get out there with my mower, blower and edger (all electric, mind you) I get blank stares from the workers, from people driving by and others. "What's he doing?" is what I assume they are thinking. "Mommy, is that a rake?" says the little girl (maybe).

Edging the lawn is a fine art. I remember my dad showing me the finer tips of the "art" of getting a straight line. At the time, it was annoying, but today I attempt to apply those same rules and methods. "Mow this way, this week, then mow that way next week." Whatever dad. Now I do the same thing. These lessons I learned are being passed to my 10-year-old and soon to the 4-year-old.

So I am the only one on my street. A rebel, outcast, revolutionary(?), maverick. No not a maverick, I hate that word... been exploited too much. I get a great sense of enjoyment and pride from manicuring my yard, adjusting the sprinklers, replacing PVC pipe, swapping our sprinkler valves and trimming trees. Getting the hands dirty, having finger nails full of mud and dirty shoes all excites me. Me caveman? Naw. Throwback? Maybe. Satisfied? Yep.

Where's my bailout?

2008-11-12T08:52:00.000-08:00

MY AMATEUR FINANCIAL SOAPBOX
So let's get this shit straight. It's no longer a bailout but instead an investment. Initially it was going to be used to help out banks and it seems it has... a little. And it was also supposed to be used to help out folks with bad mortgages (more on that in a second). Ultimately it was going to bailout, yes bailout, financial institutions and now it will likely change. The Big 3 automakers are now bleeding, no erupting, money out the front door and need help. Meanwhile the likes of Toyota, Honda, etc., seem to be doing okay. The Big 3 are dieing a slow death because, in my opinion, they have been off the back for so long. Rather than making economical cars and pursuing hybrid technology, they continued to make "Bummers", Escalades, and Suburbans like it was going out of style. Now they are in trouble, behind the times, and look to us the tax payer to help them out. Many financial experts believe that we should help them, while others think we should let them fail. It seems that the only way for someone (in this case a company) to change or evolve is to hit rock bottom. The Big 3, it seems, have been on standard operating procedure for way too long. Would they change their ways? Since gas is relatively "cheap" will they be aggressive with hybrid and alternative fuels? Maybe we should let them fail, reorganize and come back leaner, meaner, more aggressive, and perhaps creative. You can't teach an old dog new tricks but perhaps bankruptcy could change them.

MORTGAGE
Buying people's bad mortgage is a bad idea. I say this because I, along with millions of others, went the appropriate route. My eyes weren't bigger than my wallet. I didn't buy a $700,000 with no money down. Nor did I state I made $100,000 a year when I clearly didn't. I asked questions. "What's my mortgage payment now?" Or, "What will it be in 5 years?" So to the people who went that crazy route and thought things would be sweet, even though common sense would tell you it would eventually suck after a few years, don't expect a gift. I mean another another gift.

And so it goes. The American way to "cure" a problem: Throw as much money as possible at a problem and hope it gets better. Put a Band-Aid on a gaping wound.

CONCLUSION
So look, I can fill out the 2-page application for money. I would love to have an extra $2,000 to do stuff around the house, get my teeth whitened, get a pedicure, buy some socks, and get a 1 terabyte firewire external hard drive.

Stacks, packaging and junk mail

2008-11-09T16:27:00.000-08:00

CURSE OF THE STACK
I don't know about you but stacks have become a normal part of my life. They infiltrate my home, garage, office and sometimes my car. How do they get there? Why can't I get rid of them. Without question stacks are my doing. I get things in the mail, bring things home from work, accumulate things.

My "purge" process is simple really: Do an initial "weed" through and move the stuff I don't want into the "trash" stack. Next I take the stuff I want and make the "keep" stack. That "keep" stack is then moved to a place such as the location above. There it sits for days on end. Lonely, heart broken, yearning to perhaps be filtered again and maybe moved to a better spot. After a week the "keep" stack should be considered trash shouldn't it? Not in my world. I filter it again and make yet another stack, which then is joined by other pieces because by this time, new material has been brought into the situation. Pick it up, move it, move it back, add new things, and on and on. It's an evil cycle an eventually all of it gets thrown out because of frustration. Then, of course, a couple days after I chuck the remnants of the "keep" stack I usually find myself looking for something that was tossed.

LOOK AT THE HIPS ON THAT BOTTLE
Look, as a graphic designer I love packaging. I am not alone either. How many of us have bought things based on the packaging? Yeah, I thought so. I'll buy a bottle of wine because of the cool label! I am convinced that if the label design is slick, the product must be good too. Look at all the toiletry products with crazy bottle shapes. I guess you have to somehow differentiate your "insert aromatherapy crap name here" from your competitors since most of it is the same, using the same exotic herb from some mysterious place. I buy a tiny, portable stereo for my iPod and the packaging accounts for most of the girth. There's the box of course, the plastic adult-proof sealed thingy that you must machete through, the cardboard protection, the manual, the registration sheet, the remote control and the cardboard box it came in and finally the foam sheet liner that keeps it all in place. The carbon footprint on this $39 electronic bit is mind-boggling.

JUNK MAIL BLUES
"Hey, here's a sweet website you can go to, to get your name off the junk mail-catalog list," says a tree-hugging friend of mine. "Sweet! I'll try it out" I say. I did it. Checked off all the catalogs I get and don't want, all the catalogs I don't want but get and everything in between. Sure enough, I get even more and I still get the ones I supposedly checked off. I half-way think I signed up for more in some mysterious, marketing way.

So now I have too much junk mail, way too much packaging that I throw away (gets recycled... hopefully) and islands of stacks that have just become a part of my life. Funny thing is that I am not alone. Multiply my situation by millions of others and we have a crapload of, well, crap.

Fresh_sounds: U2 October (1981)

2008-10-26T16:23:00.000-07:00

This is the first installment of CD reviews and my approach is quite random. I have about 500 CD's sitting in a giant library-dresser type thing in the garage. Due to its proximity to the living room I rarely dig into it, and when I do it's usually to hear some mad-beats in the garage or backyard. I was a firm believer that CD's would never become obsolete, but with the advent of digital files, the Licorice Pizza's of the world are no longer with us and the CD's gather dust.

And so it goes. My random drawer pick drew U2's "October" CD. I remember the first time I heard U2 way back in the early 1980s at a junior high dance. Me, the wallflower, wondered who they were and soon searched for the tape. By this point U2 "War" was out so that's what I bought first, then I got "October" and "Boy". While "War" was the one they broke through with in the US, it was "October" that intrigued me most. It's much more of a soulful, spiritual album that's as raw as "Boy" and less studio than "War". Plenty of spiritual overtone mark this album from start to finish but it's not in your face because the accompanying music is spectacular with great changes of pace and the refreshing use of piano on a number of tracks.

The early stuff is awesome because this is when they were literally "garage". The Edge's guitar playing is rabid and un-polished, Larry Mullen, Jr's drumming is succinct and loose, and of course Bono's tone is more "garage" than he certainly is today.

There's plenty of "New Wave" pace in it but it's not the caramel, keyboard, Euro stuff but instead more progressive licks byway of guitar and drum. While most of it has the traditional U2 sound and pace that's similar to "Boy" the real standouts for me are the slow one's like track #4 called Rejoice and track #7 the albums namesake, October. The knee-jerk choice by most is track #1 Gloria, but I favor track #6 Tomorrow and track #9 Stranger in a Strange Land.

Sophomore albums are notorious for lacking the energy of the first and such is the case for this one compared to "Boy", and at the time "October" got shelled though some of it is similar to "Boy". By the time "War" hit the streets, "October" was forgotten and if you ask any mild U2 fan what they know of "October" they won't have a clue.

While I haven't listened to this CD in a long time, it was refreshing to hear the early U2 again. And when you compare it to their new stuff or even something like "Zooropa", it becomes an immediate reminder of how "garage" these guys used to sound. A part of me wishes they would return to that for just 1 album.

RECORDED: 1981
TIME: 41 minutes, 8 seconds
LABEL: Island
OTHER SLEEP CD: U2 "Wide Awake in America". The track Boy is incredible.

Why pro baseball kinda bugs the crap out of me...

2008-10-19T20:33:00.000-07:00

The remote and my tv as seen from nap level.

WHAT ANNOYS ME...
I have always been an athlete. As a child I played many sports including the traditional soccer, basketball and of course baseball. Other sports have interested me too including golf, hockey, tennis and of course cycling. And while I admire the professional players I have grown to despise or grow bored with the professional game. Is it the ridiculous salaries? Perhaps. The over analyzing of chatty commentators? Yep. Or maybe it's the new super-parks that have chain restaurants and $10 beers. I definitely know that fake grass and lame rally caps and mohawks are on my shit list. I am especially annoyed by the fair-weather Hollywood-types who all the sudden become fans of the LA Dodgers. Watch any game of their playoff battle and you will find some hipster chick wearing big sunglasses sitting in the rich seats fumbling with her Blackberry not aware of what a two-seamed fastball is or that a foul ball counts as a strike. She's there because she got the tickets for free from some super-agent. All of this annoys the hell out of me.

WHO SO MUCH SPIT?
A quantitative content analysis of any Red Sox-Rays playoff game of the number of "loogies" would likely show an average of 15-100 spits per inning... All captured on film. I kept wondering why they always spit and here's what I have concluded. First, baseball players are just spitters. The game is on "grass" so it allows for it. Kobe's not spitting on hardwood, or Federer on clay. Second, this game is slow. Most of the spitting comes at moments when there's nothing to do. Every bench player sits for 3-5 hours with nothing to do but drink, chew, munch on sunflower seeds or all 3. With this habit comes spit. It has to go somewhere! Finally, maybe it's cool to spit. We men are freaks as you ladies know. Essentially we are dogs, cavemen at best and baseball players are closest to cavemen of all sportsmen. They scratch, tug, don't shave, chew, make a mess of the dugout, and ultimately spit. Unlike cavemen, they make obscene amounts of money. The random guy on the bench who just hit the top of the dog pile (another caveman characteristic along with the high-5) makes middle 6-figures. Way more than Joe the F-ing Plumber!

WHY I EVEN WATCH...
I don't watch professional sports of any kind such as baseball or the others until the playoffs. Today I watched my first full game in it's entirety. I can't remember the last time I have done this, but it wasn't a "clean" watch, quite the contrary. Here's my stats of the 9 innings:
- NAPS (3. Most were about 10 minutes each)
- BEER (3/4. Hefeweizen with a splash of white grape juice. Very un-caveman-like indeed)
- VERBAL ASSAULTS AT THE TV (Countless. Commentators bug the shit out of me and I am convinced that hey are afraid of silence)
- PAUSES (Thank God for the DVR. Allowed me time to stretch the legs and spit)

IN THE END...
I was hoping that it would end with the Dodgers and Redsox in the World Series, but instead it's the Phillies and Rays. Nothing against the 2 teams but I am a true ballpark person. There's no 2 better fields than Fenway Park and Dodger Stadium. How great would that have been to see more Pat Sajak and Ryan Secrest at Chavez Ravine and Joe the Plumber-likes in Fenway. What a dichotomy. True blue collar versus Hollywood. Now we are left with 2 great young teams with great athletes. Wonder if the television ratings will be any good? How much is a large orange juice at Tropicana Field? Will I watch? If I am really, stinkin' bored.

It's official: I have voted.

2008-10-17T09:53:00.001-07:00

My mind was made up many moons ago when it came to deciding who I want to be the next president. Going back I have voted for Clinton and Kerry and now Obama. Not to sound cheesy, but when I filled in the bubble I felt a sense of relief: A) that this long, drawn-out process is over; and B) that it is a historical moment. We keep hearing that this is the most important election in generations, if not ever. That this moment will determine not only my future, but my kids' future and their kids too. Will it? We always hear that shit will change and grand ideas will come to fruition but usually it never does. I just want it to be stable.

I sat in front of the television for the 3rd debate and sighed and barked at my plasma, at the old man trying to pick a fight, at Obama for not sticking it to him. I couldn't be president, I would get all fired up. I can't even buy a new car without getting upset. I get pissed when my sprinklers drip or when my white adidas kicks get smudged. So while I wished he would've kicked the old geezer in the nuts, I was more impressed with his composure and explanation of his policy, his doctrine.

But I also fear that some people who may like what he's about will decide not to vote for him because of race. This certainly is a weak excuse, but while many Americans say they are accepting, they also get confused when they close the "curtain" behind them and punch the ballot. In that instance people could turn the switch and vote based on nothing more but color. It's absurd that for more than 20 months of watching, reading, and listening that someone could go that route.

I'm confident it won't happen and that people will vote for true change and a new direction. My soapbox is creaking, better step off. Oh wait, maybe that's my water main. Better call Joe the Plumber. More on him later.

Make sure the tubes are tied... To the right section

2008-10-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

"You probably have a vapor lock," says the sweet thing from Starbucks' customer service department. Vapor lock? It sounds similar to that special coating the car salesman tries to pressure you to buy. My first instinct was to believe-assume that this was simply a distraction, that it was read from a pre-printed list tacked to the cubicle wall. The manager telling his herd in a pre-clock-in meeting that "If the Barista owner bitches that the pump is not working, immediately go to #6 on the list: vapor lock." The crew nods in agreement and shuttle off to receive panicked calls from jackasses like me.

Damn I hate when I'm wrong! I thought for certain my call would be re-routed to India, where I would have to rattle off the 16-digit serial number. This exercise would last 30 minutes because the person on the other end would repeat the numbers back to me 5 times and get them wrong all 5 times. Instead I was talking to Angie here in the US! I explained my predicament: that life was shallow and depressing because my said espresso-latté-cap machine was not operational. The tiny screw wasn't coming out of the section that housed a filter, which gets clogged, which then renders the machine useless. This little screw no longer than 1/4 inch long that was causing grief and hardship was determined to stay lodged-fixed-stuck. A trip to the hardware store fixed it with the purchase of an extractor set. With certainty I believed that the machine had been fixed, but I got nothing.

That brings me back to the first line in this particular blog entry. The vapor lock sounds more hardcore than it is. All it takes is a few runs through the steam wand and the actual drip itself. Do it for 6 minutes, let it cool. Over and over. Nothing.

A couple days go by and this time I speak to Claudia at Starbucks. She has me open the machine back and check all connections. This is where my lameness gets magnified. At some point after I began un-hitching hoses, cussing, and then re-assembling hoses, the machine truly stopped sucking... water that is. Nothing. No steam, no drip, no sucking (water). "Um, do you have the hoses hooked up right?" says Claudia. "Claudia, seriously?" I say. "Just making sure that you do, you know sometimes it happens," says Claudia. After a semi-detailed discussion about hoses going here and bending around there, and hooking to the mushroom-looking-thingy, it was concluded that a hose was out of place. Now you may be thinking that their must be 15 hoses bending and feeding, sucking and pulling, releasing and such, but instead it's just 3 that go A) here; B) there; and C) right there. One hose out of place. One hose caused grief for 2+ weeks. One hose I pulled from here and assumed it went there. One hose now in its right place because Claudia rocks.

Gone now is the French Press and the Mukka to the deep, dark bowels of the lower cupboard. Back is the automated machine with a new screw replacing the chewed up old one. The morning mood is better, spirits are high, smiles are taller.

MORAL OF THE STORY AND LESSONS LEARNED?
- Don't put your hose in the wrong place.
- Sucking is good on an espresso machine.
- The mushroom-thingy needs a hose.
- Starbucks customer service is rad.
- Starbucks customer service is in America, which is super-rad.
- Small screws can cause grief.
- My fix-it skills are sucking (not good sucking).

The temporary death of my latté machine

2008-10-05T20:32:00.000-07:00

A while ago I was raving about the brilliance of Starbucks Latté/Espresso maker. How it made the best cup of "Joe" ever and how my mornings became the equivalent of a scene from the "Sound of Music". Things were rolling along just fine with few mishaps. Oh sure, the strength on some days was weak at best and my feeble attempts to substitute true espresso with traditional ground coffee was a pure rookie mistake.

Then it happened. The mother of all F-ups. I pulled the upper screen to clean out the "muck" and screwed it back down. As per usual, I likely tightened the poor guy way too tight. In it went. Secure and snuggly. Too snuggly apparently. Suddenly the poor machine stopped producing the frothy goodness, and my sad self being wondering what my next step would be. As a male I struggled to open the manual. Who needs a manual, or instructions or directions? Reluctantly I went to the "troubleshooting" section for advice. Needless to say, the suggestion was to remove this formidable screen. The aforementioned screw needed to come off. However, the screw no longer resembled a screw, but instead a car wreck, or quite simply a screw that had been screwed by an aggressive Phillips head screwdriver attached to fix-it wannabe. Nonetheless, the operation was hopeless. This guy wasn't budging and operation-latté-fix was knee-deep in frustration and going nowhere.

A call to father-fix-all was my last resort. My dad can fix anything, even stuff that is truly unfixable. He came locked and loaded with an assortment of screw drivers: big, small, short, beefy. None worked and while the years of experience that my dad brought to table was quickly halted in a red-hot minute by his son's ridiculous sense of what's tight and what's too tight, he offered up plan B and C. Plan B is in action now: WD-40 and if that doesn't work then some sort of rust killing mix. Plan C is drastic and may involve replacing parts or drilling out the said screw.

For now I have gone back to the French Press and my friend Mukka. It's an awkward alternative, but for now it's all I have! I am struggling here to get into a rhythm. The Mukka lacks the control of the true machine. I have taken 2 steps backward. I have come to recognize that I am a latté elitist. I fumble through the motions. I had buttons before and now all I have are instincts. But my instincts are unpolished, out of practice and downright minor league. The first 2 attempts failed miserably resulting in a liquid mess equivalent to Valdez. Number 3 comes tomorrow morning and I know I will strategize vigorously prior to sparking up the burner.

For now the Starbucks machine sits on my work bench, upside down with a helping of WD-40 in it's "tummy". We'll see.

The left side of my face is numb

2008-10-02T11:13:00.000-07:00

The dentist is always a daunting place for me. I wasn't blessed with the best set of chompers nor am I any good at maintaining them. My caveman approach of eating, drinking, gnawing on sunflower seeds and chomping on my fingernails has sort of, well has, caught up to me. Turns out my teeth are getting flat (unlike my stomach) and they are in need of some deep-cleaning. Whenever the dentist himself does the cleaning, you know it's much more serious than the hot little Asian dental assistant applying some polish and picking at your gums and chit-chatting about USC.

Numbing. Back in the day I had to get a bridge. The numbing process at that time was horrendous. Shoot me a couple times in all the right places and presto-magico I'm numb and slobbering like a Springer Spaniel. Also back in the day my worst fear came true when doing a root canal: I felt a fair bit of it. I thought for certain I would be permanently cross-eyed. "Do you feel it?" the dentist said. "Uh do you see my right eye looking at you and left eye looking at the opposite wall?" Pop, ping, sizz... another shot goes in the mouth, and off-shore drilling commences. "Do you feel it?" he asks again. "Do you see the hand prints on your assistants neck from my struggle to defy pain?" More numbing juice ensued to no avail. Onward to the specialist who pricked and poked and bingo I'm numb within seconds and the root canal is finished.

This time around it was mild. A needle insertion here and there and I'm numb, but the memories came ashore. I tighten up and brace myself for what turns out to be a deep-cleaning and a mild filling behind my front tooth. All the while the dentist continues to insist on me flossing and to stop biting my fingernails. I reply with an "I know, I know." If he only new the amount of Red Bull I drink and god-awful energy gels and bars I eat when I ride my bike. Shh. The right side deep-cleaning is tomorrow. On a side not: my insurance sucks.

I can see Pasadena from my house...

2008-10-01T22:23:00.000-07:00

So I sit here on the eve of the vice presidential debate wondering more about what the "F" Biden will say. Sure, my knee-jerk is to ponder the skills of Palin, but I have thought about that too much and have been reminded too often by the media of her downfalls and inability to elaborate on complex topics like the bailout or what to do with Pakistan. I've seen it over and over and the blue-eyed boy Anderson Cooper has mentioned it way too much that I have grown weary and jaded. I am at the point now where she could very well surprise us all and come off "normal" and smart and (gulp) savvy! Now I turn to Joe Biden. He's never shy about anything and is such a part of Washington that it initially made me notch up a victory immediately for him. But Joe also says wacked stuff from time to time, though it gets no press, and now I am a bit worried that he may come off too strong, back her into a corner, and be seen as picking on the woman. Is he too DC? Is she too "Aw shucks"? Will mid-America go for "Aw shucks"? Is DC too cap. hill gangsta? Too inside?

My hope is that Biden tells it straight. Talks to me. Tells me this crap is all going to work itself out. Tell me how we're gonna get this country back on track to where it was, whenever. I liked the 1990s. We had surplus and Nirvana. I don't want bad country music and NRA and off-shore drilling crap. Who cares if you can see Russia from your house. My hope is that Palin gets all balled-up and answers questions in a way that shows her inexperience. Nothing against her, but she should have said no to McCain.

3:10 to the Broken iPhone

2008-09-14T10:21:00.000-07:00

My "old" Samsung. The way phones should be made. This guy has bounced off floors many times with no issue and still works.

My broken rectangle of glass that I have been using for the last 2 weeks has become a case study in patience. I have patience for some things but not for others and this is one of them. The glass is shattered like a web and while the actual screen itself stayed in tact though was legible.

As the days went by, the screen began to morph into simply horizontal lines similar to an Etch a Sketch. Day by day the Etching grew until my text messages became a guessing game.

EXAMPLE: "This shitbox phone is worthless at this point. Need to do something about it quick", became "This shift phon if word st the poubt..."

I was hitting letters that were in the vicinity of the letter I really wanted. Suddenly the A was neglected because I couldn't see it, while cussing became out of the question. My text world became a mess and the people on the receiving end were probably like "Wut thw fuxk?"

Fast forward to a few days ago and part 2 of my fruitless encounter with American Express. "It's beyond the 90 days after purchase," said the kind AMEX woman a while ago. "Can't you make an exception?", said guy with broken glass rectangle. "Sometimes we do, but not on the glass rectangle," said AMEX woman (well she didn't say that, but she basically said no.

So my plan was then to use my sister-in-law's boyfriend's "old" iPhone. Before I resorted to that, AMEX sends me a note saying they credited my account for $250, roughly the cost to fix the glass rectangle. I shipped the old girl out yesterday to Apple's facility and in return I will get a brand-spankin-refurbished-glass-rectangle of the same variety as my "old" one in the mail in 3-4 days... hopefully.

In the meantime I have bought a new rubber case for it with some serious grip and while this thing will always break when it hits the floor (a real weakness of the phone), I am psyched that i can get back to my impersonal text messaging.

Moral of the story? Raise hell with your credit card companies and glass breaks.

The 'Genius Bar' Chronicle

2008-09-06T11:04:00.000-07:00

So going off of my last entry of the broken rectangle of glass (iPhone), I made my appointment with the concierge for the 'Genius Bar'. Unlike normal bars, you can't just walk up and say 'Hi Skippy! Can you help me figure out my broken iPhone?' Nope, you have to make an appointment similar to one you would make at the DMV or to get your tires rotated. It was a Thursday, and the only opening was for the following Monday at 10:30 am. So I did. Why appointments? Is is that packed? What does it say about your product if the fix-it stand is backed up? It's like that auto repair place on the corner that has 25 cars sitting on the lot in various states of undress and disrepair. One is missing wheels and on blocks, another has the hood up with spider webs dressing the underbelly of the hood, and on and on.

I came back on the Monday, 15 minutes early of course, because you have to be early for some reason. If you are late, you are F'd because Skippy will, well, skip you. So I sit for 15 minutes and observe the shop. The Apple store is a great place to people watch. Some people futzing with the new iMac, some checking out over-priced iPhone cases, a group of 5 out-of-towner dudes buying the 3G phone. The best are the nerds sitting in the area of comfy chairs doing their own thing. They aren't there for any other reason but to be at the Apple store and feed off the free wireless. It's 10:15 am, shouldn't you be at home on your own wireless, sipping coffee, enjoying the morning? Whatever.

Oh, by the way, I do this for 25 minutes while my wife looks around and my son plays children's games on an iMac. Oh, by the way, it's now 10:45. And the smart guys at the 'Genius Bar' are helping a woman with her dated laptop, and some guy is wondering why his iPod is skipping.

Now it's my turn and the bed-head kid with glasses doesn't smile. I'm screwed. 'How's it going?' he says. I reply 'Not so good, my iPhone is broken.' His reply: 'Bummer, that will be like $250 to replace.' I proceed to tell him that the phone is not worth that much, which sparked a trigger in him that spilled out dribbles of the Apple Kool-Aid he drinks every morning: 'What do you mean, just the software alone is worth that much!!' Game over. Once you get an Apple-ist fired up about the shortcomings or what you think the shortcomings are of an Apple product they proceed to reach deep into the section of their brain that holds the Apple bundle of nerve endings. I had no chance. I got zero compassion from Skippy and had no answer to his Koo-Aid-induced reply. Before I left, I got in one last line: 'It's a mobile phone, it should be stronger than this.' 'Next in line' was all I heard.

Do I spend the $250 for a replacement? In the end my expense for this phone would be about $750. Is it worth it? Hold on, let me take a sip of the Kool-Aid. Yes my friend, it is, it really is.

For now I hold back and use the spider-webbed, glass rectangle. Text messages are hard to read and typing them is even harder. I am not sure what I am typing, so the word 'shit' turns into 'shut', etc. I roll with it now.

BREAKING NEWS...
My brother-in-law has upgraded to a new 3G phone so he is giving me his 'old' 2G phone. I still may get mine fixed though ad sell it on craigslist for a crazy amount. We'll see.

Piece of China Meets The Bull

2008-08-30T21:35:00.000-07:00

I am not a big tech guy when it comes to cell phones. I recall the day I went to the T-Mobile store to inquire about a Blackberry Pearl. I waltzed up to the counter to chat with the "emo-ized" slacker twenty-something to get the big picture. He told me about what it did, how it worked, why I should have it, how you can send text messages and IM with your BFF and on and on. Glassy-eyed, I accepted his corporate style sales-pitch knowing full well that the sale of a Blackberry could help him out with a new exhaust or ridiculous tail fin for his Honda CRX (remember those?). He asked what I used now as if we were from some strange cellular brotherhood comparing notes. Me, being competitive no matter the situation, and perhaps a bit over-confident, pulled out my slider Samsung. It twinkled with a Pong-like pixel graphic that was the wallpaper as I gently placed it on the counter top. At the last moment I pulled a Clint Eastwood-like move and pushed the slider open like it was a scene in a spaghetti-western. I thought for sure emo kid would give a nod (a touché if you will) of approval, but instead he gave that smart-ass grin like "Oh I remember those." Sure enough his reply was "Oh I remember those." Touché indeed, reverse style! It was as if my phone was from the early cell days when you carried a battery pack over your shoulder and the receiver resembled the type you saw in Vietnam footage. In the end I passed on the Pearl and kept the slider.

Fast forward a year later and I decided to make the iPhone plunge. Not the 3G line but the second generation in a 16gb size. Look, let's get one thing straight, I like tech stuff. I have a couple of Mac computers at home and one at my office. In the past I was a PC guy until I was turned on to Mac. Far better, more stable, you get the idea. Needless to say, this marriage between me and the iPhone was bound to happen at some point. I knew it wouldn't be the first generation, I am just not a "Gen 1" type of person, but the odds were pretty good that I would jump at "Gen 2." So I did this past May and while the price was high, I was comfortable with it because it was, well, an iPhone. Take a cool company, make a cool product, make cool ads, have cool design, and we, err, I will eat it up.

Everything worked easily. The setup was a snap, the contract a breeze, the learning curve simple. What is the iPhone? We all know of course, but it turns out it's a wafer-like rectangle heavy on design and sleekness and extremely low on durability. The durability factor plays with your head. Here's a $400 phone with a piece of glass on the face, no ergonomics, slick, shiny, slippery. That plays into your mind when you handle it, especially if you don't wrap a case around it. For the first couple of weeks I handled the naked phone with care. Got used to it. Bonded with the shape. Practiced my hand hold, my grip, the way I dialed, and the way I deposited it back into my pocket. I was an iPhone Ninja moving swiftly from white belt to black with ease.

Soon the $6 rubber case went on and the Ninja continued to master his craft. However, the false sense of security of a rubber case caused Ninja to lax his grip. The deposit to the pocket was beginning to fumble. Things were not unraveling, but the black belt was a bit loose.

A couple weeks later Ninja got a heavy duty case from otterbox.com and immediately snapped it on, in and around the fragile china. Quickly the false sense of security went to volume 10. The Otterbox is an awesome case, and will withstand even the most aggressive of soccer moms. Bang it against the Escalade driver side door and MILF will likely break a nail before the iPhone gets hurt. The case made Ninja sloppy though. My handling became clumsy, I had occasional 6 inch drops on the counter top, and my pocket deposits were ridiculous. I became a lazy Ninja because of the Otterbox.

Otterbox, while bullet proof, is also big. The iPhone widened and became heavier and valuable pocket real estate was reduced significantly. Lint was screaming for more room. After a couple weeks of Otterbox, I free'd the iPhone to breathe and show its sexiness again. My phone came out of the closet! Things went well for 2 weeks until a couple days ago. My lazy Ninja attitude was still present though the tough case was tucked away in a dark corner of a real closet.

The scene goes like this: Ninja reaches in for the iPhone. Grabs it with hand. Pulls the phone out of pocket to show onlooker something slick. The shiny rectangle with a glass front slips out of Ninja's hand. It twirls the most beautiful twirls and twists Ninja has ever seen. Ninja is in shock. The scene is in slow motion. Ninja's reactions are slow, too slow. Before Ninja can blink, iPhone smacks face first on concrete driveway no more than 2 feet below Ninja's pocket (I was wearing cargo shorts for some reason. Very un-Ninja like). Ninja is frozen, iPhone is weeping. Ninja can dance on top of bamboo stalks but can't dive for base-jumping rectangle of glass and slickness.

Ninja's horrified by web-like shattered glass. Ninja thinks design is cool looking but not too cool in real world. Phone is working but Ninja has to read between lines of shattered glass. Ninja shocked that such a phone would burst into tears not far from ground. The sinking $400 feeling sets in and it turns out that to fix this "problem" that seems to occur quite often (search on that thing called the Web for 'broken iPhone glass') it may cost $250. Ninja ponders next move which is undoubtedly encountering another emo at the Apple Store.

LESSONS FROM THE NINJA
- You may be able to drop your phone that isn't an iPhone and things will likely be ok, but if you drop a glass rectangle, things will go sideways. Guaranteed!
- Hey Apple. How about including a case of some sort in the package so Ninjas like me can have a slight sense of security.
- Use something other than glass for gosh sakes.

In the end, this sad Ninja should have had a burly, military like case wrapped around the glass phone. I will keep you posted as to how this all pans out when I visit the "Genius Bar" this Monday.

An old door and a tween...

2008-08-24T20:46:00.001-07:00

My son turns 10 on the 29th and while I grimace at the thought that he is closer to his teens than my youngest son who is 4, I admire his "ballsiness" (that's not a word of course). There are many cases when I just think to myself 'How the hell did he come up with that?' or 'Holy crap, he just didn't say that, did he?'. I can go back many years and think of things like telling people to 'chill' or most recently when I put an old indoor door out on the curb for free. It was out there 2 days with no takers, but this evening we had a taker. Me, the sarcastic pessimist, with a big helping or realist mixed in for good measure knew that things could go sideways when trying to give an old door away. I said to my wife as the guy pulled up in his van and began prying the cat door that was mounted into the door off: 'I bet that guy takes the door, prys off the cat door and the hard ware and brings the door back.' My wife, of course, is the optimist and said 'No way!' Sure enough back comes the slacker, opens up the back of his van, begins pulling out the old door with the intent of setting it against the tree. My wife says to me 'Go out and tell him he has to keep it!' Me, the 'all talk' wuss said 'Me, why me?' 'Because you're the man,' lovely wife says. No sooner did I wimp out that my 10-year-old son marches out the door with a home made sign in his hand that said 'No Givebacks!!!!!' Down the driveway he marched and met the man near his van. He held up the sign and the reply from the slacker was 'It doesn't fit.' My son had none of it and a stare down ensued with a 10-year-old intimidating a grown man. Off the slacker whimpered, back into the van with the old door shoved back inside and off he sped.

What is this message? That my son is 'ballsy'? Yep. That our youth hopefully gives the old 'f*!ks' some hell when this country needs to get turned around. I sure as hell hope so! That a young boy is tougher than his dad? Hell yes!

And so while I hate the fact that in a few years he will be a teen and full of gumption, and bull, and attitude, my sincerest hope is that he maintains his loyalty and sticks up for his brother and soon to come sister and doesn't stomp me in basketball. For now, he's a 'tween' and that rocks! I better brush up on my skyhook!

The Flea Market Chronicle

2008-08-03T18:09:00.000-07:00

Dateline Pasadena, CA: My wife and I haven't been to a flea market in a year or so. Today we decided to take the kids to the Pasadena City College (PCC) flea market to see if we could find a piece of art for over our couch. We aren't newbies to the "scene" so we always know what we are in for. The City College flea market is far different than the Rose Bowl swap in that it costs nothing to enter and it has "junk" rather than a mixture of "junk" and new gear like the Bowl version. It's also smaller and less crowded and the hipster index is low too.

We have bought plenty of things in the past from both the Bowl and PCC including a few pieces of furniture, clothing, art, and garden architecture. However our taste has changed significantly and no longer are we "shabby/bohemian" but instead we lean toward modern... Hey wait, we're hipsters! Damn it!

Flea markets are flea markets pretty much and what I enjoy best is when I have a single product or two in mind before I enter. Have a mission, a quest. Like a Dennis Gonzalez cd, a pair of Puma California's, or a piece of art. While I failed on the first two I succeeded on the art. It had to be long (about five feet) but not "tall". It's usually a tough task unless you like weird pictures of a wacked-out clown or a bad portrait of some unknown aunt painted by a beginning water color artist. At last though, I found a painting of an unknown city scape from the 60s-70s that only borders on semi-bad art. It's one of those that may be bad but good. You get the idea. Either way, the colors are perfect as is the style.

My kids never have a goal in mind, which is why a flea market to them is like a candy store. My youngest brought $10 and spent it on a few old dump trucks and a Matchbox car; my oldest son brought $15 and bought six Hot Wheels/Matchbox cars and the hat you see above. Both kids have a passion for cars and hats with an emphasis on the Trucker variety. Back in the day Trucker hats weren't hipster cool, but instead just known as the basic Little League cap. I had a ton of them. They would probably sell today for about $10 each the Rose Bowl. Should have held on to them.

The best part of a flea market is the crazy stuff you can find: plenty of military stuff, crazy paintings, 70s furniture that the hipsters (aside from me) love for some reason, etc. My guess is that they get the ugly lamps home, set them up, live with them for a while and then conclude that they are indeed ugly. Same with the faux wood side table and pleather side chair. Cool at the time, but in the end just plain ugly. That's why most of the stuff from the late 60s and 70s (the whole decade) is for sale at a flea market. Knock-knock. Who's there? Ugly. Ugly who? Ugly stuff you bought.

Another fun thing to do is people watch, especially the folks who sell the stuff at the flea market. An idea I have is to bring my camera and take portrait shots of the wacky vendors, as well as shoot the people who buy the stuff, with their products in hand. Set up a white backdrop with some lights and get some intimate portraits of the hipster with his side table, or the woman with the "vintage" dress, or the old man with the giant sombrero, or the weathered, old, toothless woman selling old dolls. Plenty of material for a coffee table book. Hmm, maybe I should use the 35mm Ricoh camera I bought from the swap a couple years ago. I wonder if it works. Damn, I should have check before I bought it.

The Making of a Latté

2008-08-03T10:22:00.001-07:00

It's funny but I never liked coffee when I was a teen or in my twenties or even early into my thirties. The same goes for onions and tomatoes. The reasons are simple really and engrained somewhere deep into my cranium. My mother was and still is a huge fan of the onion and she made it known with practice. Every meal she made incorporated onions. Most notably the meatloaf that had not small but large chunks of the yellow or red variety throughout. I would ask if there were onions in the meatloaf and she naturally would say "No honey." The same thing happened with tomatoes. The coffee thing just came out of the bad taste. Perhaps it was the Folgers, Yuban or Sanka that was in our cupboards as a teen. I quickly associated coffee with a stale taste.

Later on though I discovered that onions and tomatoes are good and that coffee doesn't have to be instant. I now grill my onions and eat raw tomatoes and dabble in different coffee (espresso mostly) from around the globe. While I used to frequent the local coffee joint I eventually began making my own, granted it's not the old-world manual press, but instead an old Krups my wife got as a wedding present years and years ago. Simple and industrial, the thing was a workhorse and eventually I was in a routine of making lattés and/or espresso shots every morning: one for my wife and one for me. It became ritual and still is to this day for the past two years. I retired the Krups in favor of a Starbucks Barrista. Before you give me a shakedown on Starbucks, it's actually Saeco and made in Italy. Oh snap!

This new chapter of a new, more modern machine is about a year old and I couldn't be happier. It steams wonderfully and makes a fine shot or two of espresso. I love this current machine and made the wise choice. At the time I searched five different stores and none of them had the model because they were discontinuing it. Eventually I tracked one down and got it for 60% off! Though the Krups was older and less fancy, it clearly made a stronger shot for some reason.

Fast forward to now. This is where I get melodramatic. Yes I love the machine and what it does, but I am growing tired of the latté. I end up leaving about one-quarter of a cup in my mug and the taste has become too familiar. I have deduced that the reason I continue making lattés is because I like the process. I like the morning ritual: climb out of bed, go to the bathroom, get the milk and espresso out, turn on the machine, and on and on. I like steaming and presenting the mug to my wife and getting the praise she delivers after the first sip. I like the way it makes the house smell and how it signifies the opening of a new morning, a new day.

And so my "predicament" has caused me to be jaded in a way, but I have now figured that my next homemade latté may be a Yerba Maté Latté.

Zen and the Art of Flying Coach

2008-08-02T14:51:00.000-07:00

I have come to despise, no hate, flying. Back in the day prior to 9/11 the task was easy. It was like you saw in the movies with friends and family pulling up to curb, parking it and hanging out, people moving freely through the airport and seeing you off at the jetway, bringing whatever the hell you wanted on board, and on and on...

Of course things have changed and the times have changed even more. Now my 4-year-old son gets patted down, and my flip-flops are examined. Because all American airports (especially LAX) were and still are not equipped to handle the stress, our airports and the grumpy security people who man the place, have become shit-holes. Compare any European airport to any of ours and the differences are extreme. The Euros know how to handle security because they've been doing it for years. We got cocky and cheap and as usual, without something tragic happening, we/American industry usually doesn't seek to progress. The most current examples are: the mortgage industry, and the sudden turn to "green" technology. Now all of the sudden the banking community has tightened down on loans, and American car companies are suddenly bypassing the praise of horsepower and have moved to highlighting fuel efficiency. I digress...

Airlines too have determined that screwing the customer is the best way to save money. Now or soon, you will pay for your checked bag(s), which means people will try and stuff as much into that one bag as possible. Be careful of course because the bag still has a weight limit and they have become more stringent on that. In the past they would "look the other way" if it was too heavy, but now the extra $25+ is golden. You want something to eat? Nope, it will cost you $7. My advice, bring your own food. We did on our way back from Hawai'i recently. It's better food and people around you tell you how smart you are. Perhaps there is a new industry arising: buy enough food to sell some on the plane. If someone will buy a hot-dog cooker from SkyMall while in the air, they'll surely be open to purchasing some hummus and crackers from you for $5.

With all of this uptight flying, the class difference has grown even wider. First Class folks don't feel the strain. If you are able to fly first class, you aren't bothered by the hike in price or the fact that the exit row has now become an "upgrade". You don't care. The cheese tastes the same, the silverware is just as shiny, and the legroom still borders on the size of a walk-in closet.

So I am stuck in Coach. I am fine with this. I am an excellent flyer and frankly would rather spend my money on finer things than use on an upgrade. My preference is the window because I can snooze without being bothered by seat mates. Though the aisle has its strengths including the freedom to roam, and for making a quick dash to the can before that grumpy old woman from Tulsa t-bones you, it puts you on call. On the aisle my snoozing becomes lighter, even one-eyed because I know the minute I doze, Cindy from DC will tap me on the shoulder so she can touch up her mask. Plus, the aisle offers no place to rest your head.

The middle seat is the worst and people who occupy the space have this sense that they own both arm rests. On my recent flight from Maui, a women sat, immediately bundled up with blanket and pillow and stretched out, spreading both arms on the rests and then proceeded to widen the elbow a couple more inches so that she was now 3 inches into "my" space. With an elbow in my gut, I had no choice but to apply pressure and back her off an inch or two. This pressure lasted four hours, and when I departed the plane, I made a vow that I will never sit on the aisle.

The window is where I am most at home. Plop the "pillow" that is still free against the window area, drape the blanket that is still "free" but for some reason are scarce, across my legs and nod off. I can go eight hours without moving, talking or going to the bathroom. I am what you call a "air travel survivalist". It's a crew that is becoming few and far between but we are out there and we don't need your $7 "meals" or snotty flight attendants. Give me a window, and a drink (they are still free) and leave me the hell alone.