To the extent that this lowly, neglected blog has any readers left, I would like to inform them that we are officially retiring La Dolce Vespa. Yes, I still have the Vespa. No, I do not ride it as often as I envisioned. But yes, I am still happy I bought it. The problem is not the Vespa, it's the fact that the Vespa has not provided the wealth of blogging material that I originally anticipated. Most notably, I still have all my fingers and toes.
The other problem is that my evil twin, Riley Noehren, has recently started her own blog, which she swears up and down she will post to on at least a biweekly basis. (But note: She is not trustworthy! Take whatever she says with a grain of salt. Do not--I repeat, DO NOT--enter into any multilevel marketing schemes with her.) Between the two of us, there is simply not enough time or material to supply two whole blogs. So if you're interested, kindly reset your Readers or bookmarks or whatever to http://www.rileynoehren.com/. Also, Riley really appreciates the moral support and patronage you provided in response to the last post.
Final Vespa stats...
Years owned: 2+
Miles logged: 600+ (still largely driven in my immediate neighborhood on weekends)
Helmet purchases: 3
Regrettable helmet purchases: 1 (pink Ed Hardy number with the words "Ed Hardy" in 12 places)
Minor accidents: 1 (the parking garage scuffle of 2007)
Brushes with death: 0 actual; 4,217 perceived
Members of scooter gang: 0
Persons invited to join scooter gang: 25
6.26.2009
3.10.2009
By any other name...
Declan McManus, Paul Hewson, William Bailey, Tracy Morrow—why do I like these fellas so much? First, for their contribution to (in no particular order) (a) good music, (b) good deeds, (c) the completely unexpected popularization of male redheads in white biker shorts, and (d) the fusion of gangster rap with serial television programs. But more importantly, I appreciate their artful adoption of some of the best pseudonyms ever. Sometimes I wish I had a pseudonym…
On a completely unrelated note, have I told you about my good “friend” Riley Noehren? She looks kind of like me except that she wears glasses and I wear contact lenses and if you ever see a fat picture that looks like me, it is actually of her, as I am naturally photogenic while she has a nasty tendency of being snapped with red cheeks and quadruple chinnage. Like me, Riley wrote a first-draft novel for nanwrimo back in 2007. Then she edited it into a full-blown book entitled Gravity vs. the Girl. Then she sent the resulting manuscript off to four agents, but got too lazy to send it to more after that, so she decided to self-publish. Then, after spending months editing and laying out her tome to perfection, she realized it would have been easier to send it to a few hundred more agents instead.
Anyhow, Riley’s writing style is eerily close to my own, so if you at all enjoy reading this blog (and I'm not assuming you do), you might want to check out Gravity vs. the Girl, which is presently available for purchase on Lulu, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and various online book retailers, such as this one.* Soon, Riley will be starting her own blog on her self-publishing adventures. Eventually she will throw up an author’s website.
Of course, Riley and I aren’t completely alike. For one thing, our names are way different. For another, unlike me, Riley is not paranoid that writing crazy books under her real name will result in the loss of future job opportunities and political appointments. And unlike Riley, I would never, ever engage in shameless self-promotion.
* If you buy it and even relatively like it, a review posted on Amazon or the like would be greatly appreciated. By Riley, of course.
On a completely unrelated note, have I told you about my good “friend” Riley Noehren? She looks kind of like me except that she wears glasses and I wear contact lenses and if you ever see a fat picture that looks like me, it is actually of her, as I am naturally photogenic while she has a nasty tendency of being snapped with red cheeks and quadruple chinnage. Like me, Riley wrote a first-draft novel for nanwrimo back in 2007. Then she edited it into a full-blown book entitled Gravity vs. the Girl. Then she sent the resulting manuscript off to four agents, but got too lazy to send it to more after that, so she decided to self-publish. Then, after spending months editing and laying out her tome to perfection, she realized it would have been easier to send it to a few hundred more agents instead.
Anyhow, Riley’s writing style is eerily close to my own, so if you at all enjoy reading this blog (and I'm not assuming you do), you might want to check out Gravity vs. the Girl, which is presently available for purchase on Lulu, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and various online book retailers, such as this one.* Soon, Riley will be starting her own blog on her self-publishing adventures. Eventually she will throw up an author’s website.
Of course, Riley and I aren’t completely alike. For one thing, our names are way different. For another, unlike me, Riley is not paranoid that writing crazy books under her real name will result in the loss of future job opportunities and political appointments. And unlike Riley, I would never, ever engage in shameless self-promotion.
* If you buy it and even relatively like it, a review posted on Amazon or the like would be greatly appreciated. By Riley, of course.
2.19.2009
Bicoastal Adventures
I spent President’s Day weekend in New York because I needed to use a free one-way ticket I got from new budget airline Virgin America. As my little brother (Pboy), his wife (Steph) and my good friend (Wing) all live there, it seemed as good as place as any to visit, and I’m sure glad I did. I learned three important lessons while there: (1) New York is even better than everyone says it is. (2) One three-day weekend is simply NOT long enough to even scratch the surface of New York. (3) LA has made me soft. Unfortunately, this last lesson was the hardest to learn. I spent the entire weekend bundled up yet freezing, compromising my ample personal space requirements, and grimacing at the sore feet resulting from this thing they call “walking” of which they are so fond in New York.
But first, a message from our should-be sponsors. If you have not flown Virgin America yet, DO IT. If you live in one of the hundreds of metropolitan areas not yet serviced by Virgin America, then move. Seriously, Virgin America has Southwest prices yet assigned seats, a full media console for each passenger, the ability to order soda refills using your own touch-screen television, and flight attendants who wear pants and collared shirts and generally refrain from wocka-wocka-wocka humor over the PA system.
So my plane left LA on Friday night and arrived a whole hour early at 5:30 a.m. in NYC. I did not sleep a wink in between. Following the explicit instructions Pboy had given me—which I memorized so I wouldn’t have to reference them and appear touristy—I managed to successfully navigate the NYC subway system for the first time in my life and showed up at Pboy and Steph’s doorstep in Brooklyn at 7:00 a.m. After a shower and some other primping, we got breakfast at a great diner in their neighborhood, where they sure know how to cook but not how to spell, so if you’re like me and have a hard time with typos on menus and such, try not to read anything the entire time you are there. This will be difficult—there are signs everywhere. But the effort will be worth it for their many flavored butters.
After breakfast we headed (1) to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens at my request, where everything is pretty much dead this time of year, (2) to Target for some much-needed Diet Coke, (3) to Battery Park, where we hopped the ferry to see (4) the Statue of Liberty and (5) Ellis Island. Both (4) and (5) were great attractions, but I wish we had spent a little less time at (4) and a little more at (5), (5) being far warmer because it was inside, involving far more things to explore than we expected, and employing the more congenial ferry workers. When debarking the ferry at Ellis Island, we were instructed to “watch [our] step” and “take it easy.” By contrast, on Liberty Island we were screamed at to “take bigger steps!”
When we got back to Manhattan, we headed straight for Chinatown. At one point, Pboy went into a bank to use the ATM, leaving Steph and I standing on a street corner waiting for him. I soon learned that standing on a street corner in NYC is equivalent to asking for trouble. We had only been there a few seconds when all sorts of Chinatown locals tried to sell us “Hempay.” As I suspected at the time, and as my internet research has since confirmed, they meant good old-fashioned weed, although Steph and I had a laugh over the technical distinction between marijuana and hemp and the nice hippie necklaces we could construct out of the product they were offering. Even more disturbing, one young man tried to buy some from us. Having watched way too many “cooperation” themed shorts on Sesame Street as a child, I suggested that we point buyer in the direction of seller. Fortunately, Steph reminded me that doing so would violate the law.
Once Pboy rejoined us, nobody tried to sell us anything. Now, I love my brother dearly, but given his beard and the retro-Castro look he was sporting that day, I would have assumed that he appeared to be the most-likely user/seller out of the three of us. I was wrong. Later, when I recounted the whole experience to Wing, she laughed and said the only things she had ever been offered in Chinatown were fake designer purses and watches. What?! Having been paid my annual bonus last year in watches rather than dollars (long story, but totally true-- wretched economy), I was wearing a real designer watch at the time and still nobody offered me a fake one. Nope, apparently I give the impression that all I care about is the drugs. I am seriously rethinking that H&M hat I was wearing to keep my ears warm.
Although every single meal I had in NYC was fabulous, I must say that the culinary highlight of the trip was at Joe’s Shanghai in Chinatown, where they have the most wonderful pork soup dumplings (pictured above). I didn’t even know I liked soup dumplings that much until I tried these. It was love at first taste. I don’t know if Joe’s is the best Chinese food in NYC, but I will say it is the best Chinese food in LA. Even when you factor in the price of a plane ticket, it is a reasonable amount to pay for such a great meal.
Although it was still early evening, I was completely exhausted by that point. We went back to P&S’s super cool apartment and I fell asleep in the middle of CSI: Miami. They let me take a short nap, then woke me up and kept me talking for a few hours so that my sleeping schedule could get back to normal. They also fed me ice cream cake.
(The Players, from Left: Pboy, Steph, Yours Truly, Wing--who was
promised that no pictures of her would be posted on the internet without
express permission, which has not yet been obtained)
I spent the majority of the next day with Wing, my friend from law school whom I had not seen in four years. We got breakfast in the West Village (I think) and she took me on a walking tour of all the hippest neighborhoods in Manhattan. In the process, we stumbled upon a Belgian waffle hut selling French Macarons, which have replaced cupcakes as the chic treat du jour in Beverly Hills, so we stopped in to get one (or was it sixteen?). Then we went to the MoMA (my choice) and, as it goes with modern art exhibits, we saw a lot of awesome art and a lot of total crap. Seriously—a crumpled piece of paper under a glass case? That doesn’t even qualify as irony. My favorite was the “installation” of a motion-sensitive light bulb that, when you crossed its path, whispered horrid things at you in a Satanic voice. Wing and I had a good time standing in front of blank canvases while practicing our best “hmmmm… brilliant” faces. Yet our admission fee was truly earned when Wing overheard a New Yawker security guard tell another security guard, in his best New Yawker accent, “You have built yourself a false paradise.”
After the MoMA, we got real NYC hot dogs for a late lunch and cruised around Central Park. In actuality, it was only Wing who was “cruising”—in her leather boots, no less—while I was “hobbling” along in my sneakers. Eventually we met up with Pboy and Steph in the East Village for some Thai food. The food was great, but the 1980s easy listening soundtrack made it even more memorable. During a Richard Marx song, Steph confessed that she had childhood crushes on both Richard Marx and George Michael. Strangely, the very next song was Wham’s “Careless Whisper.” Only it wasn’t George Michael singing, it was as if someone in the restaurant was singing Karaoke. The restaurant was empty except for us and the employees, none of whom appeared to be singing to Steph. After “Careless Whisper,” the music returned to normal. We never did solve that mystery, but after encountering that demonic light bulb at the MoMA, I can’t help but wonder if it was the fixture above our table serenading us.
By this point, I was dead on my feet once again. Regardless, Pboy, Steph and Wing dragged me to Times Square just so I could say I saw it. I did. It was fun. We all debated the need for an entire store dedicated to M&Ms. Then we went home. That was also fun but not as electrified.
On Monday, Pboy had to work (heresy), so Steph and I set out for some bagels, some shopping, and some Brooklyn Bridge crossing. I was pretty much freezing the whole trip, but being atop the Brooklyn Bridge with all the wind took the cake. Still, if you go, you have to do it. We also ran into Tom Hanks and Colin Hanks at a store in SoHo, but I will let you read about that on Steph’s blog cause I’m getting tired of typing and Tom Hanks really only talked to her and not to me. And no, he did not try to sell us any “Hempay.”
After recovering from our unexpected celebrity sighting, Steph and I met Pboy near his work and went to lunch at a place called The Burger Joint, which is literally a shack tucked out of sight in the lobby of a five-star hotel. There was quite a wait, but it was well worth it as the burger and fries were fabulous. After that, it was time for me to head back to Brooklyn, pack up, and get myself to the airport.
Back in LA, the only public transportation I took was the shuttle from Terminal 4 to Parking Lot C (for you Angelenos, it was too late to catch the Flyaway bus). Then I drove my car the eight miles back to my house. An entire Jeep for just me and my backpack seemed like an embarrassing excess after a weekend of cramming into the subway with other people. And that, my friends, is how LA makes people so soft.
2.04.2009
Now taking requests
Oh sweet Sara. Thank you for the shout-out and request for commentary on a recent LDS Midsingle Activity that we both attended. Since I have quite a few non-LDS friends and readers, I’ll have to do a little back story, and then, in my usual long-winded nature, I will probably spend far too many words on far too little substance or laughs, but here goes:
Ahem.
Times are tough for the LDS Midsingle. If you do not know what this phrase means, then you are either not LDS or not single or neither, in which case your life is eons better than mine because, as every Midsingle knows, nothing is worse than being a Midsingle, not even an abusive spouse or a terminal illness or addiction or living in third-world poverty. As you may have guessed, we Midsingles are more than a little self-absorbed and often self-pitying. But it’s not our fault, you see, as we have spent our entire lives being the most important person in our entire lives. Isn’t that sad? Do you need a Kleenex yet? No? Then you are a soulless monster, probably with children.
To better explain, Midsingles are those members of the LDS Church who are unmarried and generally between the ages of 31 and 45. Singles under 31 are called “Young Single Adults” or “YSAs” and, in larger metropolitan areas, the Church has organized entire congregations of YSAs to encourage them to socialize with one another, get married and thereby avoid—you guessed it—the pitfalls of Midsingledom. Singles over the 45-ish range are just called “Single Adults” or “Old People.” Ironically, my research has shown that Midsingles are more likely than YSAs to refer to Single Adults by the more derogatory phrase.
Generally, if you turn 31 and are still single, you are expected to leave your YSA group and attend and participate in a regular congregation (referred to by almost everyone in the Church as just a “Ward” except for Midsingles who, caving to their incessant need to point out their self-perceived outsider status, call it a “Family Ward”). This transition is rougher on some than others, but I am not going to get into that as it is a personal thing and I only know my own experience. Except that I do want to point out that it was not rough on me. I braved it like the champion transitioner that I am. I expect my Bishop is going to call me to the stand any Sunday now and publicly bestow upon me some sort of new and colorful medallion the Church has made and named in my honor, namely the “La Dolce Vespa in Action Personal Progress and Accountability with Integrity for Choosing the Right Ward Award.”
So I haven’t been a Midsingle long enough to know how long this has been in the making, but Midsingles around the world are beginning to unite and revolt and demand YSA-like activities and meetings for themselves. And they’re having conferences. Lots of them. Where they talk about being Midsingle. And play silly games. And dance to Depeche Mode. Some more enthusiastically than others or, more accurately, most more enthusiastically than me. Let’s just say the new Church medallion for “Duty to Praiseworthy Two-Stepping and Just Can’t Get Enough Weasel Scout Award” will have to be named after someone else.
I have tried my best to support this new Midsingles movement—really I have. But there is something holding me back from getting super excited about it. Maybe it’s because I don’t like to practice self-pity. It’s certainly not for the lack of good company. Lest I have made us sound too pathetic, I must state that most of the Midsingles I personally know are awesome individuals with stories, travels, accomplishments, professions, and viewpoints that are downright inspiring. Take Sara for example. Although she’s still a YSA, she was trying out Midsingledom for the night, so she counts. She’s a fancy CPA working for a fancy accounting firm that sends her on fancy business trips to places like India where she spends months at a time. But despite awesome people like Sara in the crowd, the minute someone gathers us all into a meetinghouse and starts spinning Depeche Mode and screaming “Let’s play kissing rugby,” the group dynamic takes a nasty, self-pitying nosedive which causes me to watch every second tick by on the clock and do deep-breathing exercises in order to restrain myself from banging my head against the cinderblock wall until I pass out.
I know I am not alone in my reluctant approach to Midsingles activities, but I have yet to come across anyone who has a real answer to the problem. Perhaps, given the aforementioned stories, travels, accomplishments, professions and viewpoints our demographic has to offer, our time together would be better spent on things other than 90s music and 80s games. What such an activity would involve, I’m not quite sure. Group therapy is just one suggestion.
So back to Sara and our recent activity. I had the inside scoop on this one and happen to know there was a lot of time, effort and thought put into it. Still, it is what it is--a Midsingles activity. The group dynamic was not perfect but it was far improved and for that I am grateful. We did play a number of “getting to know you” games, including one where we were required to “sew” ourselves to an entire team of people by threading a long string up and down all of our clothes. Nothing says “getting to know you” like tying yourself to a total stranger and then helping him partially undress so you can get to the knot under his shirt and free yourself from the tether thereto. Next time someone should probably bring scissors.
And so I must conclude that the activity was a success in that I ate some good food and met a few new people and generally refrained from entertaining too many self-pitying thoughts. But I guess it was a failure in that I didn’t get engaged by the end of the night. No really, I double-checked my ring figure a couple of times afterward and, wouldn’t you know it, nothing there.
Oh well, back to doing whatever I want whenever I want and spending my money however I want and riding my Vespa if I want and taking spur-of-the-moment trips to NYC for President’s Day Weekend without having to book a babysitter and sleeping through the night every night and generally being the center of my own universe. Not much cause for self-pity in there now that I think about it, but what do I know? I’m just a Midsingle.
(oh, and we are in the process of deciding on a new look for this blog, so please ignore the mess in the interim. apologies for taking the links down, but they need serious updating.)
Ahem.
Times are tough for the LDS Midsingle. If you do not know what this phrase means, then you are either not LDS or not single or neither, in which case your life is eons better than mine because, as every Midsingle knows, nothing is worse than being a Midsingle, not even an abusive spouse or a terminal illness or addiction or living in third-world poverty. As you may have guessed, we Midsingles are more than a little self-absorbed and often self-pitying. But it’s not our fault, you see, as we have spent our entire lives being the most important person in our entire lives. Isn’t that sad? Do you need a Kleenex yet? No? Then you are a soulless monster, probably with children.
To better explain, Midsingles are those members of the LDS Church who are unmarried and generally between the ages of 31 and 45. Singles under 31 are called “Young Single Adults” or “YSAs” and, in larger metropolitan areas, the Church has organized entire congregations of YSAs to encourage them to socialize with one another, get married and thereby avoid—you guessed it—the pitfalls of Midsingledom. Singles over the 45-ish range are just called “Single Adults” or “Old People.” Ironically, my research has shown that Midsingles are more likely than YSAs to refer to Single Adults by the more derogatory phrase.
Generally, if you turn 31 and are still single, you are expected to leave your YSA group and attend and participate in a regular congregation (referred to by almost everyone in the Church as just a “Ward” except for Midsingles who, caving to their incessant need to point out their self-perceived outsider status, call it a “Family Ward”). This transition is rougher on some than others, but I am not going to get into that as it is a personal thing and I only know my own experience. Except that I do want to point out that it was not rough on me. I braved it like the champion transitioner that I am. I expect my Bishop is going to call me to the stand any Sunday now and publicly bestow upon me some sort of new and colorful medallion the Church has made and named in my honor, namely the “La Dolce Vespa in Action Personal Progress and Accountability with Integrity for Choosing the Right Ward Award.”
So I haven’t been a Midsingle long enough to know how long this has been in the making, but Midsingles around the world are beginning to unite and revolt and demand YSA-like activities and meetings for themselves. And they’re having conferences. Lots of them. Where they talk about being Midsingle. And play silly games. And dance to Depeche Mode. Some more enthusiastically than others or, more accurately, most more enthusiastically than me. Let’s just say the new Church medallion for “Duty to Praiseworthy Two-Stepping and Just Can’t Get Enough Weasel Scout Award” will have to be named after someone else.
I have tried my best to support this new Midsingles movement—really I have. But there is something holding me back from getting super excited about it. Maybe it’s because I don’t like to practice self-pity. It’s certainly not for the lack of good company. Lest I have made us sound too pathetic, I must state that most of the Midsingles I personally know are awesome individuals with stories, travels, accomplishments, professions, and viewpoints that are downright inspiring. Take Sara for example. Although she’s still a YSA, she was trying out Midsingledom for the night, so she counts. She’s a fancy CPA working for a fancy accounting firm that sends her on fancy business trips to places like India where she spends months at a time. But despite awesome people like Sara in the crowd, the minute someone gathers us all into a meetinghouse and starts spinning Depeche Mode and screaming “Let’s play kissing rugby,” the group dynamic takes a nasty, self-pitying nosedive which causes me to watch every second tick by on the clock and do deep-breathing exercises in order to restrain myself from banging my head against the cinderblock wall until I pass out.
I know I am not alone in my reluctant approach to Midsingles activities, but I have yet to come across anyone who has a real answer to the problem. Perhaps, given the aforementioned stories, travels, accomplishments, professions and viewpoints our demographic has to offer, our time together would be better spent on things other than 90s music and 80s games. What such an activity would involve, I’m not quite sure. Group therapy is just one suggestion.
So back to Sara and our recent activity. I had the inside scoop on this one and happen to know there was a lot of time, effort and thought put into it. Still, it is what it is--a Midsingles activity. The group dynamic was not perfect but it was far improved and for that I am grateful. We did play a number of “getting to know you” games, including one where we were required to “sew” ourselves to an entire team of people by threading a long string up and down all of our clothes. Nothing says “getting to know you” like tying yourself to a total stranger and then helping him partially undress so you can get to the knot under his shirt and free yourself from the tether thereto. Next time someone should probably bring scissors.
And so I must conclude that the activity was a success in that I ate some good food and met a few new people and generally refrained from entertaining too many self-pitying thoughts. But I guess it was a failure in that I didn’t get engaged by the end of the night. No really, I double-checked my ring figure a couple of times afterward and, wouldn’t you know it, nothing there.
Oh well, back to doing whatever I want whenever I want and spending my money however I want and riding my Vespa if I want and taking spur-of-the-moment trips to NYC for President’s Day Weekend without having to book a babysitter and sleeping through the night every night and generally being the center of my own universe. Not much cause for self-pity in there now that I think about it, but what do I know? I’m just a Midsingle.
(oh, and we are in the process of deciding on a new look for this blog, so please ignore the mess in the interim. apologies for taking the links down, but they need serious updating.)
1.02.2009
Vespateers in Training
When it comes to future members of my scooter gang, I like to start them young. Real young. In some cases, before they are able to fully string together a complete sentence.
Enter the awesome motorized Christmas presents I got for the niece, Miss Dub (age 2), and the nephew, Lil' Gee (not quite 2), which are showcased below. They both immediately figured out how to drive, but their steering could use some improvement, as could their focus on things in front of the moving vehicle as opposed to those on the side, behind, or--in the case of certain doggie doo unfairly attributed to golden retriever Asher--underneath.
Enter the awesome motorized Christmas presents I got for the niece, Miss Dub (age 2), and the nephew, Lil' Gee (not quite 2), which are showcased below. They both immediately figured out how to drive, but their steering could use some improvement, as could their focus on things in front of the moving vehicle as opposed to those on the side, behind, or--in the case of certain doggie doo unfairly attributed to golden retriever Asher--underneath.
(The munchkins' real names have been bleeped out of the video, but Asher's has been left in as he is looking to increase his Internet presence.)
In addition to driving around like maniacs, the kids were kind enough to demonstrate the following scooting techniques:
Looking into the turn
Turning the scooter around like Aunt G does when nobody's watching
12.03.2008
Jaw Jacking
So, I will get down to doing a real post one of these days, but in the meantime, here are a few recent events I've thought about posting about. I have no idea why they all involve driving. Oh, except that I spend my entire life in the car. Seriously, I should have been a trucker. Then I could have gotten paid for it. And learned all that cool C.B. lingo. Alas...
Late November
Two weekends ago, I witnessed an accident while driving on the 10-West. Traffic was cruising around 50 mph and all of a sudden everyone’s slamming on their brakes and I see a car a couple of vehicles ahead spinning in circles across several lanes, driving the wrong way head-first into a wall, bouncing back, and bumping a minivan in the process. When the whole thing ended, I had like second-row seats to the affair. I pulled out my cell phone and called 911, sure that the driver of the spinning car was seriously injured. I have done this once before (to report a driver that was either drunk or completely asleep at the wheel in the middle of the day, and who had turned the packed freeway into a bumper-car course of sorts) and it’s creepy because 911 knows where you are and automatically patches you into CHP. I told them about the accident and all. Then the driver of the spinning car, apparently fine, gets out of her car, starts throwing a Jerry Springer worthy fit about the accident and shaking her fist at the poor woman in the minivan. This is about the time that I, and the rest of the freeway, lost all sympathy and concern for her and began driving off in droves.
But post-crash etiquette is not the point of this post. Rather, for the next half hour, my cell phone periodically gave off this weird ring/alert I had only heard once before—the last time I called 911 from the highway (I swear, I don’t do this every day). Does anyone out there in blogland know what this is? Was CHP keeping tabs on my position or something? Just wondering.
Thanksgiving in Phoenix
In LA, the speed limits are kind of a reference point. The reality is that you are permitted to go as fast as traffic will let you. Usually, this is far below the speed limit. But on a good Saturday morning, where no wildfires or bikers or landscaping trucks or other accident-prone vehicles have managed to mess things up for you, the flow of traffic generally averages out at around 80 mph. As long as everyone is going 80 mph, and as long as you’re not doing anything too stupid while going 80 mph, you can drive right past a cop at 80 mph (who will also be going 80 mph) without any real worry.
Given this background, I’m sure you can appreciate how very frustrating it is for an LA driver to be in the greater Phoenix area on a holiday weekend where the traffic is light enough that one could easily go 80 mph but be forced to drive 65 mph instead. When you’re able to drive 80, 65 seems like a snail’s pace. But that’s just what they’ve done in Phoenix—taken the joy out of driving by placing a whole robotic committee of ground-triggers, radars and an entire photo studio complete with fake books and oversized “Class Of” letters and other stupid props at five-mile increments on all the freeways in town. This committee purportedly records your speed and snaps a picture of your car and then tickets you by mail. What, no e-mail tickets? No tickets asking to be my friend on Facebook?* Sheesh. Get with the times, Phoenix.
So even though Dave and Mary warned me about the new and ruthless traffic regime in the Valley of the Sun, and even though there are signs posted everywhere telling you about it, I still got noticeably flashed on the night I drove in and then, while leaving town, I spaced and did it again. So now I am biting my nails every day as I open the mailbox, waiting for not one but two speeding tickets to jump out at me. And the worst part is that I wasn’t even going glorious 85, only like 72 or so. So it wasn’t even worth it.
Thanksgiving in L.A.
SoCal’s holiday rush hour started a mere seventy miles from the Arizona/California border this year. It took me three hours to drive from the Fantasy Springs casino to the Cabazon Outlets. Previously, I always considered the two to be adjacent to each other. Oh wait, they are. There was a meltdown of sorts. I’m still experiencing PTSD as a result.
Yesterday
Yesterday I was sitting in traffic after work, which was even heavier than normal due to something going on at the Staples Center that warranted Batman lights and helicopters flying all around, and I see this kid walking on the side of the freeway, pull out a can of spray paint, and begin to tag a concrete wall right then and there. In rush hour. The freeway was packed. A cop was bound to drive by eventually. That’s some real moxie, people.
Now, I don’t know what this says about LA and the jaded nature thereof, but all of the drivers in my lane, including yours truly, had the exact same reaction at the exact same time: pull out the celly and snap a grainy picture of this young hooligan in action, because nobody’s going to believe it otherwise. Seriously, the lights on our phones all went on in tandem. Alas, it was dark and we were under an overpass or five, so the grainy picture is not worth posting. Neither was the kid’s graffiti. I can see why he’s willing to risk life and limb to get some practice in. His handwriting wasn’t even good.
There you have it, folks.
* No, I don’t do Facebook and I won’t be your friend.
Late November
Two weekends ago, I witnessed an accident while driving on the 10-West. Traffic was cruising around 50 mph and all of a sudden everyone’s slamming on their brakes and I see a car a couple of vehicles ahead spinning in circles across several lanes, driving the wrong way head-first into a wall, bouncing back, and bumping a minivan in the process. When the whole thing ended, I had like second-row seats to the affair. I pulled out my cell phone and called 911, sure that the driver of the spinning car was seriously injured. I have done this once before (to report a driver that was either drunk or completely asleep at the wheel in the middle of the day, and who had turned the packed freeway into a bumper-car course of sorts) and it’s creepy because 911 knows where you are and automatically patches you into CHP. I told them about the accident and all. Then the driver of the spinning car, apparently fine, gets out of her car, starts throwing a Jerry Springer worthy fit about the accident and shaking her fist at the poor woman in the minivan. This is about the time that I, and the rest of the freeway, lost all sympathy and concern for her and began driving off in droves.
But post-crash etiquette is not the point of this post. Rather, for the next half hour, my cell phone periodically gave off this weird ring/alert I had only heard once before—the last time I called 911 from the highway (I swear, I don’t do this every day). Does anyone out there in blogland know what this is? Was CHP keeping tabs on my position or something? Just wondering.
Thanksgiving in Phoenix
In LA, the speed limits are kind of a reference point. The reality is that you are permitted to go as fast as traffic will let you. Usually, this is far below the speed limit. But on a good Saturday morning, where no wildfires or bikers or landscaping trucks or other accident-prone vehicles have managed to mess things up for you, the flow of traffic generally averages out at around 80 mph. As long as everyone is going 80 mph, and as long as you’re not doing anything too stupid while going 80 mph, you can drive right past a cop at 80 mph (who will also be going 80 mph) without any real worry.
Given this background, I’m sure you can appreciate how very frustrating it is for an LA driver to be in the greater Phoenix area on a holiday weekend where the traffic is light enough that one could easily go 80 mph but be forced to drive 65 mph instead. When you’re able to drive 80, 65 seems like a snail’s pace. But that’s just what they’ve done in Phoenix—taken the joy out of driving by placing a whole robotic committee of ground-triggers, radars and an entire photo studio complete with fake books and oversized “Class Of” letters and other stupid props at five-mile increments on all the freeways in town. This committee purportedly records your speed and snaps a picture of your car and then tickets you by mail. What, no e-mail tickets? No tickets asking to be my friend on Facebook?* Sheesh. Get with the times, Phoenix.
So even though Dave and Mary warned me about the new and ruthless traffic regime in the Valley of the Sun, and even though there are signs posted everywhere telling you about it, I still got noticeably flashed on the night I drove in and then, while leaving town, I spaced and did it again. So now I am biting my nails every day as I open the mailbox, waiting for not one but two speeding tickets to jump out at me. And the worst part is that I wasn’t even going glorious 85, only like 72 or so. So it wasn’t even worth it.
Thanksgiving in L.A.
SoCal’s holiday rush hour started a mere seventy miles from the Arizona/California border this year. It took me three hours to drive from the Fantasy Springs casino to the Cabazon Outlets. Previously, I always considered the two to be adjacent to each other. Oh wait, they are. There was a meltdown of sorts. I’m still experiencing PTSD as a result.
Yesterday
Yesterday I was sitting in traffic after work, which was even heavier than normal due to something going on at the Staples Center that warranted Batman lights and helicopters flying all around, and I see this kid walking on the side of the freeway, pull out a can of spray paint, and begin to tag a concrete wall right then and there. In rush hour. The freeway was packed. A cop was bound to drive by eventually. That’s some real moxie, people.
Now, I don’t know what this says about LA and the jaded nature thereof, but all of the drivers in my lane, including yours truly, had the exact same reaction at the exact same time: pull out the celly and snap a grainy picture of this young hooligan in action, because nobody’s going to believe it otherwise. Seriously, the lights on our phones all went on in tandem. Alas, it was dark and we were under an overpass or five, so the grainy picture is not worth posting. Neither was the kid’s graffiti. I can see why he’s willing to risk life and limb to get some practice in. His handwriting wasn’t even good.
There you have it, folks.
* No, I don’t do Facebook and I won’t be your friend.
10.16.2008
Targeteer
Better to blog poorly than to not blog at all.
If you are one of the many blogsnobs who disagree with that statement, you should probably stop reading here.
Things that have been going on lately:
Life as usual. Meh.
Politics. Have you heard there is an election coming up? Well, not for me as I already voted by mail weeks ago. Yet the fact that my vote is “spent” has not stopped the entire universe from perpetually pestering me for my vote and/or my assistance in pestering others for their vote. Never before has the phrase “I’m over it” rang more true. That said, I am grateful to Governor Palin for providing an easy Halloween costume this year. Despite our difference of opinion on many issues, we apparently share a love of ¾-sleeved business suits, peep-toed heels, pearls, and mid-length brown hair. I’ll pretty much be able to go to any Halloween festivities straight from work without doing anything other than teasing my half-do and switching my regular glasses for a rimless pair I bought online for $14. Ooh-I hope they come in the mail today.
The McDonald’s Monopoly Game. Unfortunately, I have been plagued by a lifelong gambling addiction. Fortunately, my strict religious beliefs frown on gambling and have therefore prevented said addiction from getting me into any major trouble. Unfortunately, commercial sweepstakes have never really been characterized as “gambling” when, in reality, they kind of are (I mean, you pay in with the hope of getting an even bigger payout despite strong odds against you). Thus, twice a year I consume 4000% more McDonald’s food than normal in a foolish attempt to secure the winning Monopoly game pieces. Anyone need an Oriental Avenue? I’ve got about 400 hundred of them. Also, I thought we weren’t supposed to say “Oriental” anymore. “The Orient” is a proper noun/place, while “Asian” is an adjective, right? Hey, if you’re of the Asian persuasion, why don’t you contact me and we’ll file some sort of lawsuit against McDs and Parker Bros., insisting they change it to “Asian Avenue” and also that they give us, say, $10 million for our trouble. It’s probably a surer payout than playing the dumb game and considerably less fattening. Cause did I mention that I am dressing as chubby Gov. Palin for Halloween this year? I would sue McDs for making me fat, but I hear that’s been done.
My new career as a multi-sport athlete. In addition to compulsive gambling, I have been beleaguered by a lifetime of taking a joke too far. Like, I’ll say I’m doing something silly or outrageous just to get a laugh out of people, but then when they respond exactly as I expected them to—i.e., by saying something along the lines of “How hilarious,” or “You will not,”—I get all huffy and belligerent and “I’ll show them!” And then I do it. Maybe not well, but I do it. The thing I was only kidding about doing. Even if it takes years and changes the course of my entire life. Like that one time when I joked about going to law school.
So remember how after the Olympics I joked about winning a gold medal in archery in 2012? Well, guess who’s been going to archery practice two times a week for the past month and a half? Guess who spent her birthday money on a leather quiver and an armguard and a finger tab? Guess whose left arm is covered in bruises because said armguard does not cover her hyper-extended elbow? Guess who was talking to a “traditional” archer at the “range” the other day when he compared the rules of his “trad club” to those used at “Ren Fairs”?
In case you’re really dense, it’s ME. And I have to admit that, after that last scenario, I seriously questioned the specific course of life events that led to the moment when slang such as “Ren Fairs” was being thrown around in my presence. (FYI, I have no interest Robin Hood type archery or bow hunting or attending said fairs or even faires). But aside from that, it has been a ton of fun and I’ve actually seen some real improvement.
But then I worried that “just archery” wasn’t athletic enough. After all, it's not the most cardiovascular of sports. (Have you seen all those heavyweights at the Ren Fairs?) So I decided to start training for a (distant future) marathon, too. There has been improvement in this area as well, but it has been a lot slower and a LOT less fun to come by. I still love my Nike+ gear, though.
So, what with all the living and politicking and McDonald’s eating and Asian client courting and target shooting and running till I nearly kill myself with the accompanying huffing and puffing, guess who has had absolutely no time for blogging?
(Duh, it’s still ME. In case you haven't caught on yet, this blog is kinda all about ME.)
If you are one of the many blogsnobs who disagree with that statement, you should probably stop reading here.
Things that have been going on lately:
Life as usual. Meh.
Politics. Have you heard there is an election coming up? Well, not for me as I already voted by mail weeks ago. Yet the fact that my vote is “spent” has not stopped the entire universe from perpetually pestering me for my vote and/or my assistance in pestering others for their vote. Never before has the phrase “I’m over it” rang more true. That said, I am grateful to Governor Palin for providing an easy Halloween costume this year. Despite our difference of opinion on many issues, we apparently share a love of ¾-sleeved business suits, peep-toed heels, pearls, and mid-length brown hair. I’ll pretty much be able to go to any Halloween festivities straight from work without doing anything other than teasing my half-do and switching my regular glasses for a rimless pair I bought online for $14. Ooh-I hope they come in the mail today.
The McDonald’s Monopoly Game. Unfortunately, I have been plagued by a lifelong gambling addiction. Fortunately, my strict religious beliefs frown on gambling and have therefore prevented said addiction from getting me into any major trouble. Unfortunately, commercial sweepstakes have never really been characterized as “gambling” when, in reality, they kind of are (I mean, you pay in with the hope of getting an even bigger payout despite strong odds against you). Thus, twice a year I consume 4000% more McDonald’s food than normal in a foolish attempt to secure the winning Monopoly game pieces. Anyone need an Oriental Avenue? I’ve got about 400 hundred of them. Also, I thought we weren’t supposed to say “Oriental” anymore. “The Orient” is a proper noun/place, while “Asian” is an adjective, right? Hey, if you’re of the Asian persuasion, why don’t you contact me and we’ll file some sort of lawsuit against McDs and Parker Bros., insisting they change it to “Asian Avenue” and also that they give us, say, $10 million for our trouble. It’s probably a surer payout than playing the dumb game and considerably less fattening. Cause did I mention that I am dressing as chubby Gov. Palin for Halloween this year? I would sue McDs for making me fat, but I hear that’s been done.
My new career as a multi-sport athlete. In addition to compulsive gambling, I have been beleaguered by a lifetime of taking a joke too far. Like, I’ll say I’m doing something silly or outrageous just to get a laugh out of people, but then when they respond exactly as I expected them to—i.e., by saying something along the lines of “How hilarious,” or “You will not,”—I get all huffy and belligerent and “I’ll show them!” And then I do it. Maybe not well, but I do it. The thing I was only kidding about doing. Even if it takes years and changes the course of my entire life. Like that one time when I joked about going to law school.
So remember how after the Olympics I joked about winning a gold medal in archery in 2012? Well, guess who’s been going to archery practice two times a week for the past month and a half? Guess who spent her birthday money on a leather quiver and an armguard and a finger tab? Guess whose left arm is covered in bruises because said armguard does not cover her hyper-extended elbow? Guess who was talking to a “traditional” archer at the “range” the other day when he compared the rules of his “trad club” to those used at “Ren Fairs”?
In case you’re really dense, it’s ME. And I have to admit that, after that last scenario, I seriously questioned the specific course of life events that led to the moment when slang such as “Ren Fairs” was being thrown around in my presence. (FYI, I have no interest Robin Hood type archery or bow hunting or attending said fairs or even faires). But aside from that, it has been a ton of fun and I’ve actually seen some real improvement.
But then I worried that “just archery” wasn’t athletic enough. After all, it's not the most cardiovascular of sports. (Have you seen all those heavyweights at the Ren Fairs?) So I decided to start training for a (distant future) marathon, too. There has been improvement in this area as well, but it has been a lot slower and a LOT less fun to come by. I still love my Nike+ gear, though.
So, what with all the living and politicking and McDonald’s eating and Asian client courting and target shooting and running till I nearly kill myself with the accompanying huffing and puffing, guess who has had absolutely no time for blogging?
(Duh, it’s still ME. In case you haven't caught on yet, this blog is kinda all about ME.)
Illustration I-A
9.17.2008
In case you haven't met your advertising intake quota today...
I need some advice: how can one find time to blog? Cause I just don’t seem to have it. Right now I am “cheating” by blogging while I am at work and therefore supposed to be working on things other than my blog. As a result, my billables will be low today. If you do not know what billables are, consider yourself very fortunate.
So yeah, any advice on efficient blogging methods will be most appreciated. In return, I will share with you a few of my more recent fascinations:
The Nike+ Sportband
If you haven’t seen this, it is a pedometer and a watch and a running diary and the display of a treadmill all in one—the cross-promotional brainchild of Nike and Apple, corporate giants who I think are worthy of their own celebrity relationship name, like “Nipple.” Or maybe not.
So… you put a little chip in your shoe and it transmits info to the sportband while you are walking or running, like the distance you’ve traveled, your pace, the time elapsed, calories burned, etc. Then you go home and plug a removable portion of the sportband into your USB drive where it uploads and tracks all your information for you on the Nike+ website, which is managing that “Human Race” project appearing in annoying pop-ups all over the Internet. The website lets you set all sorts of training goals and participate in virtual running groups with people around the world.
Oh yeah, you can also skip the sportband and have the chip communicate with your latest gen Nano… but I love my regular iPod and the sportband is a heckuva lot cheaper than buying a Nano just for this purpose.
One warning—when I first got it about two months ago, I just put the chip in my usual running shoes. This was painful at times (like having a smooth rock in my shoe) and the results were less than accurate. Last weekend I finally splurged on a pair of the Nike+ shoes, which contain a compartment for the chip under the lining in the shoe. Not only are the shoes super comfortable, but I have since tested the sportband on a couple of treadmills and it was so precise I chose not to mess with the calibration.
The Kiltie
I have been known to make an accurate fashion prediction or two. (Remember the cameo jewelry trend of 2003? I totally called that one in summer ’02. And remember how I bought a Vespa before people were fighting over them like Tickle Me Elmos and you could actually get one below MSRP? 'Nuff said.) Anyhow, I think this adorable golf shoe staple is going to make a big comeback. It will start out on sports shoes and loafers but will eventually inspire all sorts of fringes and trims, even going so far as to replace the grommet.
Being ahead of the trend and all, I fell hard for these Puma Golf Cat shoes with a removable kiltie and might have bought them in a couple of colors when I recently wandered into a Puma outlet despite the fact that I know I have no business going to Puma outlets as such are very dangerous places for me and my pocketbook. I also bought them despite the fact that I don’t play golf, but they have rubber soles that can be worn anywhere, including on a Vespa.
(And for those of you who are horrified that this post refers to the recent purchase of several pairs of shoes, you clearly don’t know me…)
So yeah, any advice on efficient blogging methods will be most appreciated. In return, I will share with you a few of my more recent fascinations:
The Nike+ Sportband
If you haven’t seen this, it is a pedometer and a watch and a running diary and the display of a treadmill all in one—the cross-promotional brainchild of Nike and Apple, corporate giants who I think are worthy of their own celebrity relationship name, like “Nipple.” Or maybe not.
So… you put a little chip in your shoe and it transmits info to the sportband while you are walking or running, like the distance you’ve traveled, your pace, the time elapsed, calories burned, etc. Then you go home and plug a removable portion of the sportband into your USB drive where it uploads and tracks all your information for you on the Nike+ website, which is managing that “Human Race” project appearing in annoying pop-ups all over the Internet. The website lets you set all sorts of training goals and participate in virtual running groups with people around the world.
Oh yeah, you can also skip the sportband and have the chip communicate with your latest gen Nano… but I love my regular iPod and the sportband is a heckuva lot cheaper than buying a Nano just for this purpose.
One warning—when I first got it about two months ago, I just put the chip in my usual running shoes. This was painful at times (like having a smooth rock in my shoe) and the results were less than accurate. Last weekend I finally splurged on a pair of the Nike+ shoes, which contain a compartment for the chip under the lining in the shoe. Not only are the shoes super comfortable, but I have since tested the sportband on a couple of treadmills and it was so precise I chose not to mess with the calibration.
The Kiltie
I have been known to make an accurate fashion prediction or two. (Remember the cameo jewelry trend of 2003? I totally called that one in summer ’02. And remember how I bought a Vespa before people were fighting over them like Tickle Me Elmos and you could actually get one below MSRP? 'Nuff said.) Anyhow, I think this adorable golf shoe staple is going to make a big comeback. It will start out on sports shoes and loafers but will eventually inspire all sorts of fringes and trims, even going so far as to replace the grommet.
Being ahead of the trend and all, I fell hard for these Puma Golf Cat shoes with a removable kiltie and might have bought them in a couple of colors when I recently wandered into a Puma outlet despite the fact that I know I have no business going to Puma outlets as such are very dangerous places for me and my pocketbook. I also bought them despite the fact that I don’t play golf, but they have rubber soles that can be worn anywhere, including on a Vespa.(And for those of you who are horrified that this post refers to the recent purchase of several pairs of shoes, you clearly don’t know me…)
(And thanks to recent birthday girl wingonwing for the LAist article.)
9.02.2008
Rainy Days and Tuesdays
Well, I lied about the “live from Seattle” broadcast in the last post, as I am now back in Los Angeles. But those few faithful readers of this blog probably expected as much. The great news is that Pdaddy survived his 8-hour esophagectomy and has been recovering up in Seattle like a trooper. And seriously, folks, this is a particularly difficult (dare I say horrendous?) recovery and Pdaddy deserves oodles of credit for his ongoing good attitude. How would you like it if you weren’t allowed to drink anything for days, eat anything for months, and had to sleep with your head at a 30-degree angle for the rest of your life? I, for one, would not like it. I also would not like the constant poking, prodding, draining, blood-taking, and 14-different IV tubes refilling that Pdaddy was subjected to during his week-long hospital stay. (Double hooray—as I was writing this post I received word that Pdaddy had just been discharged from the hospital, several days earlier than anyone expected!!) When Pdaddy finally returns to his home on the range in AZ, he will get another round of chemo as a welcome back present. And yet he hasn't complained a whit. I hope he realizes how much the whole wide world appreciates everything he has endured and given up just so we all can have the luxury of hanging out with him for awhile longer.
The not-nearly-as-great-but-still-good news is that I got to see Seattle on a few short occasions, and it only confirmed the opinions I had formed through prior visits and years of Frasier reruns. If, like me, you attended high school in the early nineties and are therefore acquainted with oldies bands such as Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr. and Mudhoney (I know, I know… it’s hard to remember a time when band names weren’t required to begin with an article) and if, like me, you occasionally experience nostalgia for that long-lost, dirty-haired era, I might suggest taking a trip to Seattle, where nothing has changed since 1993. Sick of the young ruffians loitering at your local shopping mall in their tight-fitting, gluteus-eliminating skinny jeans? In Seattle, I saw tons of kids still wearing the long-johns & combat shorts combo that Matt Dillon donned in Singles. Tired of the Seacrest metrohair phenom? In Seattle, there were plenty of guys still sporting the half-shaved, half-long hairstyle that Anthony Kiedis had before his coif was so obviously influenced (infiltrated?) by the likes of Keith Urban, Pete Wentz and Ellen Degeneres. (Seriously, will someone please cancel his subscription to US Weekly before he gets a John Mayer perm? I know I’ll probably get in big trouble for saying this, but some people just look better when they’re strung out on heroin.)
The kinda bad news? Well, if you live in Seattle, it’s apparently kinda bad news that it rains a lot there. This was a bit surprising to me and Mary Ess and Pdaddy, all of whom naively assumed that people in Seattle were used to the ample precipitation for which the area is famed. Not so. It rained while I was there, and this was BIG NEWS. As in, “let’s cut into the DNC and the GOP VP announcement and other large, acronominizable events to talk about how it’s still raining” BIG NEWS. Err… I don’t get it. In LA, that kind of “news” would have been relegated to the very end of the newscast, along with all the gang-related shootings. In LA, if it didn’t warrant regular updates on TMZ that day, it wasn’t big news. (Of course, in LA we are also in such a state of drought that we could really use some big news kind of rain. I swear, Gov. Schwarzenegger is now asking us to recycle the water we use to brush our teeth.)
The worst news? LA is sunny, but smoggy, and it looks flat and void of greenery when one has just returned from a week in Washington. Today the rush-hour traffic doubled, as it always does on the day after Labor Day, officially signaling the end of summer. And today I had to go back to work.
The not-nearly-as-great-but-still-good news is that I got to see Seattle on a few short occasions, and it only confirmed the opinions I had formed through prior visits and years of Frasier reruns. If, like me, you attended high school in the early nineties and are therefore acquainted with oldies bands such as Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr. and Mudhoney (I know, I know… it’s hard to remember a time when band names weren’t required to begin with an article) and if, like me, you occasionally experience nostalgia for that long-lost, dirty-haired era, I might suggest taking a trip to Seattle, where nothing has changed since 1993. Sick of the young ruffians loitering at your local shopping mall in their tight-fitting, gluteus-eliminating skinny jeans? In Seattle, I saw tons of kids still wearing the long-johns & combat shorts combo that Matt Dillon donned in Singles. Tired of the Seacrest metrohair phenom? In Seattle, there were plenty of guys still sporting the half-shaved, half-long hairstyle that Anthony Kiedis had before his coif was so obviously influenced (infiltrated?) by the likes of Keith Urban, Pete Wentz and Ellen Degeneres. (Seriously, will someone please cancel his subscription to US Weekly before he gets a John Mayer perm? I know I’ll probably get in big trouble for saying this, but some people just look better when they’re strung out on heroin.)
The kinda bad news? Well, if you live in Seattle, it’s apparently kinda bad news that it rains a lot there. This was a bit surprising to me and Mary Ess and Pdaddy, all of whom naively assumed that people in Seattle were used to the ample precipitation for which the area is famed. Not so. It rained while I was there, and this was BIG NEWS. As in, “let’s cut into the DNC and the GOP VP announcement and other large, acronominizable events to talk about how it’s still raining” BIG NEWS. Err… I don’t get it. In LA, that kind of “news” would have been relegated to the very end of the newscast, along with all the gang-related shootings. In LA, if it didn’t warrant regular updates on TMZ that day, it wasn’t big news. (Of course, in LA we are also in such a state of drought that we could really use some big news kind of rain. I swear, Gov. Schwarzenegger is now asking us to recycle the water we use to brush our teeth.)
The worst news? LA is sunny, but smoggy, and it looks flat and void of greenery when one has just returned from a week in Washington. Today the rush-hour traffic doubled, as it always does on the day after Labor Day, officially signaling the end of summer. And today I had to go back to work.
8.21.2008
Warning: this Olympic-themed post does NOT mention Bob Costas' hair
So La Dolce Vespa will be broadcasting live from Seattle next week. Said trip to Seattle will represent a welcome reprieve from the daily grind as well as the Olympics-watching that has consumed my life for the past, uh… as long as I can remember. As for the daily grind, this will be my first entire week off work in two and a half years, and I am looking forward to it. As for the Olympics, I have no idea how I got so into watching them, as I don’t remember catching a single second of the Athens games. I recently bought a much larger television, and I’m pretty sure the 555 extra lines of video it provides has enabled Bob Costas to hypnotize me into watching entire marathons, synchronized diving and, say, women’s weightlifting. The other day I actually yelled “Show us the stro-mo!” Out loud. Who does that?! I even got a little teary the first three hundred times I saw the Derek Redmond VISA ad. And I never tear up at anything media-related, especially commercials. I specifically remember watching Old Yeller at school as a child and rolling my eyes at the end while all the other kids were bawling their brains out.
So the biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that it is hard to get anything done while they are going on. Thank you, oh glorious IOC, for only holding them every four years—although an even five might be better. The second biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that if you watch enough of them, they tend to make you feel like an unaccomplished, out-of-shape loser. After a while, it starts to seem as if everyone is breaking world records and winning buckets of gold medals—everyone, that is, except you. It was with this sense of overwhelming defeat that I began to research what Olympic sport was best suited for a thirty-two year old woman who had never been especially athletic. Said research has culminated in my decision to take up archery. See you in London, Zhang Juanjuan.
But the Olympics aren’t all bad. They sure beat anything else on the late summer television lineup, with the possible exception of Project Runway. There was one segment with Mary Carillo that featured a bunch of baby pandas, which was cool. And if you, like me, struggle with the occasional body-image issue, I might suggest watching a little women’s weightlifting (+75 kg). It’s good for the soul.
But with all due respect to Messrs. Phelps and Bolt, I have no doubt that their recent accomplishments will soon be trumped by one man’s brave willingness to part ways with his esophagus. Go Pdaddy!
So the biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that it is hard to get anything done while they are going on. Thank you, oh glorious IOC, for only holding them every four years—although an even five might be better. The second biggest problem with the summer Olympics is that if you watch enough of them, they tend to make you feel like an unaccomplished, out-of-shape loser. After a while, it starts to seem as if everyone is breaking world records and winning buckets of gold medals—everyone, that is, except you. It was with this sense of overwhelming defeat that I began to research what Olympic sport was best suited for a thirty-two year old woman who had never been especially athletic. Said research has culminated in my decision to take up archery. See you in London, Zhang Juanjuan.
But the Olympics aren’t all bad. They sure beat anything else on the late summer television lineup, with the possible exception of Project Runway. There was one segment with Mary Carillo that featured a bunch of baby pandas, which was cool. And if you, like me, struggle with the occasional body-image issue, I might suggest watching a little women’s weightlifting (+75 kg). It’s good for the soul.
But with all due respect to Messrs. Phelps and Bolt, I have no doubt that their recent accomplishments will soon be trumped by one man’s brave willingness to part ways with his esophagus. Go Pdaddy!
7.07.2008
Miss Betsy Ross
Once again I must look myself in the mirror and admit I have become a very bad blogger. Sorry. To myself, that is. For getting too busy to write down everything that’s going on that makes me so darn busy at the risk that I will not be able to remember it all in ten years, or ten minutes for that matter.
So, at the risk of not providing enough back story, here’s all the stuff that’s been going on lately that has prevented me from feeling like anything really blogworthy is going on.
1. I bought a house. And then I returned it. This was a big deal for me, who struggles to return anything to a store. Seriously, I will keep a mispurchased item for years, knowing I will never use it, perhaps move it across a state line or two, and then give it to D.I., Goodwill, Salvation Army—whatever’s closest, rather than take it back and ask for a refund. But yeah, in March I bought a new construction townhouse in Chula Vista, a lovely master-planned suburb of both San Diego and Tijuana. (I swear it’s nice--they have an Anthropologie!) I picked out the flooring (high-end laminate/tile/loop pile carpet combo), cabinets (dark java), countertops (white quartz, cuz I’m green like that) awesome appliances and everything else. It was supposed to be finished in early September, but got pushed to late fall. I enlisted the help of a super headhunter because there’s nothing I hate more in this world than job-searching. And then the whole economy fell apart and I just couldn’t find a decent job there. So I pulled out of the deal and, miraculously, got every cent of my deposit back. Hooray for Shea Homes, they couldn’t have been nicer to a reluctant house returner such as myself. In retrospect, I feel really lucky to have had the chance to do a trial-run at the whole house-buying thing.
2. I got really good at riding my Vespa. Now that the weather is warm, it sees a lot more use and I have gone from sort of fearing the thing to absolutely adoring it. It gets ridden to church almost every single Sunday despite the riding-in-skirt debacle. Also, the Roommate recently volunteered to be my first passenger, which I think takes faith (in a higher power), guts and trust (in me). We went on busy streets down to the beach and everything, and the whole time she was respectful of my above-average personal space issues by only placing the occasional finger on my right shoulder and otherwise holding onto the rear rack.
3. I turned into a semi-experienced lawyer despite all efforts to the contrary. Unfortunately, what I have gained in confidence has been balanced out by a stressful schedule full of court appearances and depositions. When I think back on my esteemed law school classmates, I definitely wouldn’t have picked myself as most likely future litigator, but the future is often funny that way.
4. I went to Arizona for Fourth of July and hung out with my parents Dave and Mary for a weekend chock full o’ fun. Seriously, they wore me out. For those of you who haven’t heard or haven’t figured it out from reading the more frequently-updated blogs of my family members, Dave has been sick with all sorts of things lately. When I got there on the third, he had just completed months of chemo and a week-long hospital stay due to blood and lung issues that may or may not have been related to the Big C, but were dangerous enough on their own. So I was kind of expecting we’d all have to take it easy for the weekend, but noooo, Dave had drummed up a tight itinerary of fireworks watching (complete with local hotel room in which to sit-out post-event traffic--nice!), Diamondbacks game attending, ample walking in 110+ heat and lots of local foodstuffs-eating. It’s the first time I can remember telling my parents “I think it’s past my bedtime.” Repeatedly. Also, my lil’ bro and his wife visited the weekend before and lil’ bro arrived with a shaved head in a show of solidarity with the now-bald Dave. But I did not shave my head or really do anything except offer Dave and Mary a can of Olestra Light Pringles that I had snacked on during my 400-mile drive from Los Angeles, which they consistently declined. Apparently it didn’t compare to shaving one’s head. I suppose I could have offered to get a 3/4-inch trim, which I think would approximate the amount of hair lil’ bro sacrificed for his much-lauded effort, but it didn’t occur to me until after the trip. Oh well, we still had tons of fun, despite my full head of hair and the fact that it’s hotter than Hades in Arizona and everything.
(Oh, and incidentally, Blogger, which lets you label posts, has these permanent suggestions for labels: "scooters, vacation, fall." Yet how many bloggers have actually had a post, like the one above, for which these were all appropriate? All I'm saying is, I'm thinking it's time I earned another medal...)
So, at the risk of not providing enough back story, here’s all the stuff that’s been going on lately that has prevented me from feeling like anything really blogworthy is going on.
1. I bought a house. And then I returned it. This was a big deal for me, who struggles to return anything to a store. Seriously, I will keep a mispurchased item for years, knowing I will never use it, perhaps move it across a state line or two, and then give it to D.I., Goodwill, Salvation Army—whatever’s closest, rather than take it back and ask for a refund. But yeah, in March I bought a new construction townhouse in Chula Vista, a lovely master-planned suburb of both San Diego and Tijuana. (I swear it’s nice--they have an Anthropologie!) I picked out the flooring (high-end laminate/tile/loop pile carpet combo), cabinets (dark java), countertops (white quartz, cuz I’m green like that) awesome appliances and everything else. It was supposed to be finished in early September, but got pushed to late fall. I enlisted the help of a super headhunter because there’s nothing I hate more in this world than job-searching. And then the whole economy fell apart and I just couldn’t find a decent job there. So I pulled out of the deal and, miraculously, got every cent of my deposit back. Hooray for Shea Homes, they couldn’t have been nicer to a reluctant house returner such as myself. In retrospect, I feel really lucky to have had the chance to do a trial-run at the whole house-buying thing.
2. I got really good at riding my Vespa. Now that the weather is warm, it sees a lot more use and I have gone from sort of fearing the thing to absolutely adoring it. It gets ridden to church almost every single Sunday despite the riding-in-skirt debacle. Also, the Roommate recently volunteered to be my first passenger, which I think takes faith (in a higher power), guts and trust (in me). We went on busy streets down to the beach and everything, and the whole time she was respectful of my above-average personal space issues by only placing the occasional finger on my right shoulder and otherwise holding onto the rear rack.
3. I turned into a semi-experienced lawyer despite all efforts to the contrary. Unfortunately, what I have gained in confidence has been balanced out by a stressful schedule full of court appearances and depositions. When I think back on my esteemed law school classmates, I definitely wouldn’t have picked myself as most likely future litigator, but the future is often funny that way.
4. I went to Arizona for Fourth of July and hung out with my parents Dave and Mary for a weekend chock full o’ fun. Seriously, they wore me out. For those of you who haven’t heard or haven’t figured it out from reading the more frequently-updated blogs of my family members, Dave has been sick with all sorts of things lately. When I got there on the third, he had just completed months of chemo and a week-long hospital stay due to blood and lung issues that may or may not have been related to the Big C, but were dangerous enough on their own. So I was kind of expecting we’d all have to take it easy for the weekend, but noooo, Dave had drummed up a tight itinerary of fireworks watching (complete with local hotel room in which to sit-out post-event traffic--nice!), Diamondbacks game attending, ample walking in 110+ heat and lots of local foodstuffs-eating. It’s the first time I can remember telling my parents “I think it’s past my bedtime.” Repeatedly. Also, my lil’ bro and his wife visited the weekend before and lil’ bro arrived with a shaved head in a show of solidarity with the now-bald Dave. But I did not shave my head or really do anything except offer Dave and Mary a can of Olestra Light Pringles that I had snacked on during my 400-mile drive from Los Angeles, which they consistently declined. Apparently it didn’t compare to shaving one’s head. I suppose I could have offered to get a 3/4-inch trim, which I think would approximate the amount of hair lil’ bro sacrificed for his much-lauded effort, but it didn’t occur to me until after the trip. Oh well, we still had tons of fun, despite my full head of hair and the fact that it’s hotter than Hades in Arizona and everything.
(Oh, and incidentally, Blogger, which lets you label posts, has these permanent suggestions for labels: "scooters, vacation, fall." Yet how many bloggers have actually had a post, like the one above, for which these were all appropriate? All I'm saying is, I'm thinking it's time I earned another medal...)
6.06.2008
I wore a cellophane bodysuit (okay, I didn't, but it felt that way)
Okay, so my very brief DC Memorial Day excursion is now over two weeks past. I could have taken the same trip a couple of times over during the period since my last post, but here is the exciting conclusion anyway.
Sunday Night
If you recall, the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City had been taken over by biker families participating in the Rolling Thunder motorcycle rally. When the Roommate and I returned to the hotel late Sunday night, expensive Coldstone in hand, the bikers were still everywhere. Except for one guy waiting outside. Very conspicuously. He was a tall African-American man in white slacks, a pale pink sweater, and leather loafers, with a folded newspaper under his arm. In fact, he was the first guest other than ourselves that we had seen at the hotel sans leather vest covered in patches. When we walked inside, I couldn’t help but ask the Roommate if she had seen him. She said she had, but after discussing it some more, it was clear we were talking about two different people, only one of whom had sufficient poise to wear pink cable knit at a biker rally (the other had chosen a nice blue chambray shirt).
And then we saw the sign in the lobby. It appears that, in addition to being the official Rolling Thunder headquarters for the weekend, our hotel was hosting an additional conference:
The Positive Black Man Convention.
Now, I have scoured the internet for evidence that said convention took place, but have found none. But I am not joking. We saw the sign, it said this very thing, in a fancy font no less. And in the event you feel inclined to google it yourself, I want to assure you it had nothing to do with HIV. We saw the attendees, all of whom appeared very positive and confident. We also saw the women who, with word of said conference, had conveniently dropped in at the hotel bar that same night, only to find themselves surrounded by drunken biker vets, which sadly reminded me of the dashed expectations I’ve had at every LDS singles conference I’ve attended, and by “every,” I mean “the only,” but I digress…
It was also on Sunday night that I realized just how important it is to keep one’s patchy leather vest on at all times during a biker rally. When the Roommate and I got off the elevator on the sixteenth floor, there was a group of bikers standing around talking. It was pretty late by that point, and one of them was wearing his pajamas and had a serious case of bed-head but, sure enough, he had put the vest on over his jammies in order to chat in the hallway with his friends.
Sunday Night
If you recall, the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City had been taken over by biker families participating in the Rolling Thunder motorcycle rally. When the Roommate and I returned to the hotel late Sunday night, expensive Coldstone in hand, the bikers were still everywhere. Except for one guy waiting outside. Very conspicuously. He was a tall African-American man in white slacks, a pale pink sweater, and leather loafers, with a folded newspaper under his arm. In fact, he was the first guest other than ourselves that we had seen at the hotel sans leather vest covered in patches. When we walked inside, I couldn’t help but ask the Roommate if she had seen him. She said she had, but after discussing it some more, it was clear we were talking about two different people, only one of whom had sufficient poise to wear pink cable knit at a biker rally (the other had chosen a nice blue chambray shirt).
And then we saw the sign in the lobby. It appears that, in addition to being the official Rolling Thunder headquarters for the weekend, our hotel was hosting an additional conference:
The Positive Black Man Convention.
Now, I have scoured the internet for evidence that said convention took place, but have found none. But I am not joking. We saw the sign, it said this very thing, in a fancy font no less. And in the event you feel inclined to google it yourself, I want to assure you it had nothing to do with HIV. We saw the attendees, all of whom appeared very positive and confident. We also saw the women who, with word of said conference, had conveniently dropped in at the hotel bar that same night, only to find themselves surrounded by drunken biker vets, which sadly reminded me of the dashed expectations I’ve had at every LDS singles conference I’ve attended, and by “every,” I mean “the only,” but I digress…
It was also on Sunday night that I realized just how important it is to keep one’s patchy leather vest on at all times during a biker rally. When the Roommate and I got off the elevator on the sixteenth floor, there was a group of bikers standing around talking. It was pretty late by that point, and one of them was wearing his pajamas and had a serious case of bed-head but, sure enough, he had put the vest on over his jammies in order to chat in the hallway with his friends.
Monday
Monday was largely museum day, so I promise to keep it brief, because I am well-aware that it is more entertaining to listen to someone read a dictionary than recap a museum trip. We started out at the National Gallery—both the classic and contemporary buildings. The National Gallery is so chock-full of famous works by Rembrandt, Bruegher, de Goya, Degas, Rodin (see above), Monet, Manet, Renoir, Seurat, Cassatt, Lautrec, Picasso, Matisse, Warhol, Johns, and Rothko—to name a few—that it feels like being totally star-struck at an Oscar party.
We finished with the NGs in late afternoon and, once again, had yet to really eat for the day. The Roommate wanted to check out the National Museum of the American Indian, which, embarrassingly for an Arizonan, I had never been to before. It was awesome, of course, especially a display about women’s traditional beaded dresses and how they were made, but also awesome was the overpriced food court, arguably the best of all the museums. They were serving up tons of native foodstuffs, but the Roommate and I settled for a snack of fry bread and honey (see below), a State Fair staple where I come from. Yum.
It was closing time when we left the AI museum, but we happened to find out the Air & Space museum was staying open late. We breezed through it in about an hour and largely had the place to ourselves—unlike every other time I’ve been there when the place is crawling with maniacal kids. I kind of miss the days when kids didn’t have cell phones and therefore had more incentive to remain under the watchful eye of their parents rather than get lost in a strange and crowded place. Coincidentally, this also reminded me of the State Fair, where I once got lost as a small child and it was kind of traumatic and I just sat down and waited to be kidnapped, but then somehow I was reunited with my parents. Hooray.
Monday night we took the metro up to Adams Morgan in search of some good food and also so I could show the Roommate what I perceive to be the world’s longest and scariest escalator. We found this great café right by the station called Open City that had outdoor seating. There, we made friends with a couple visiting their teenaged son, who worked at the café, and a girl who decided to rollerskate from her apartment to meet a friend at the café after finding an old pair of skates in her closet when looking for shoes. Skating proved harder than she remembered. Luckily, she ran into someone she knew on the way there, who pretty much pulled her to the restaurant, but she was worried about how she would get back home. As we left before she did, we never found out if she did or not. I suppose we wouldn’t have anyway.
Tuesday
Our perfect weather disappeared on Tuesday. It was overcast with about 414% humidity, or at least it felt that way. As we had an afternoon plane to catch in Baltimore, we decided to head up to Charm City and explore it a bit. I refuse to apologize for the fact that my goal for Tuesday was completely vice-related: eat a Maryland crabcake. I lived in Maryland when I was a wee lass and have a distinct memory of Dave and Mary taking me and Mrs. Gee to the Baltimore Harbor where we looked at a barrel of live blue crabs and a fisherman let one walk around on his leather-gloved hand for our entertainment. Thus, my infallible memories from age four led me to believe that some sort of fish market on the Baltimore Harbor was THE place to find the perfect crabcake. The Roommate and I did some Internet research the night before and found a fish market right off the harbor, right in the middle of downtown, that had rave reviews.
The drive to Baltimore was “gorge,” as my SIL would say, but things got a little sketchy as we headed into downtown. The Roommate and I shrugged our shoulders—we live in L.A., after all, we do sketchy all the time, and proceeded to park the rental car in a garage that was built like Fort Knox. Instead of a paper ticket, it gives you a magnetic coin on entry that you must wave in front a door in order to get back in from the street. Let’s just say we were frantically waving said coin in front of said door approximately thirty seconds after exiting it. Once we were walking around outside, we realized we stuck out like a couple of Positive Black Men at a biker rally (we were the only women, only tourists, and only recently-showered people in sight) and everyone was staring at us, including a jaded street cop who simply raised his eyebrows, as if to say “Hmmm…. this should be entertaining.”
Dave and Mary later informed me that the harbor where we had seen the live blue crabs was in Annapolis.
So we went to our second crabcake pick in Hanover, Maryland, also recommended by random users of the Internet, in whom we had lost all faith: Timbuktu’s. Again, there weren’t many women there, but this time it was because it was a lodge with man’s food and manly portions and dated manly wood paneling on the walls. The place was packed, and when we got our crabcakes, we knew why. They were huge, like softball-sized HUGE:
So huge, in fact, that we could not finish one apiece. So huge that we both got quite ill. So huge that, five hours later, when the Southwest flight attendant offered us roasted peanuts, we were insulted by her assumption that we would ever eat again. Yet the next day we traded emails wherein we both admitted we were totally ready for another one. Lucky for us, they ship nationwide.
Tuesday was finished off by flights, flights and more flights. We gained three hours, but they were all wasted on flying. By the time we finally arrived in Los Angeles late Tuesday night, we had recovered from our Timbuktu maladies and, for the millioneth time on our trip, found ourselves absolutely famished. Lucky for us, Tito’s is on the way home from the airport and is open 24 hours.
Maryland crabcakes for lunch and Tito’s tacos for dinner. It just doesn’t get any better than that.
(I know, I know: TWO pictures of food when I spent an entire day at the National Gallery? Look up your own Rembrandt pics. Mine turned out a little blurry.)
5.29.2008
I wore plaid shorts
The Roommate and I, who have been friends for many years but have never traveled together, cashed in some Southwest Rapid Rewards free tickets and went to Washington, D.C. for the Memorial Day weekend. We chose Washington, D.C. because (a) when you’re flying for free, you want to fly as far as possible, and in the Southwest world, L.A. to D.C. is about as far as it gets, (b) the Roommate had never been there, and (c) although I have been there many times and even lived there as a small child, I seriously cannot get enough of the place. More importantly, there were Rapid Rewards tickets available from LAX to Baltimore despite the holiday. I want to assure you, dearest family and friends who wonder why I never visit them, that there were no Rapid Rewards tickets available from LAX to your town. Really, I looked. Sorry.So even though I have been blogging for one entire year, this is actually my inaugural Vacation Recap Blog. I think the time it took for me to get around to doing this earns me some sort of blogging medal. And evidences my need to take more vacations. But without further delay…
Saturday
We spent most of Saturday on a plane. And in some airports—namely, LAX and Midway, Chicago’s stepchild airport (and Southwest sure loves stepchild airports). And then on another plane. And then in a rental car as we drove from Baltimore to our hotel in Northern Virginia in the middle of the night. And I know what you’re thinking at this point—this Vacation Recap Blog is going down the tubes pretty fast. Somebody take her medal away.
But wait! Things got infinitely more interesting as soon as we finally pulled into the driveway of the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City, where we discovered that our hotel was serving as HQ for the Rolling Thunder POW/MIA Memorial Day Motorcycle Rally! There were snazzy motorcycles everywhere. And, even at the late hour, the hotel was absolutely crawling with biker veterans, their wives, their children, and even their grandchildren—all three generations of which were decked out in leather or denim vests with five thousand patches apiece. I don’t know if they were merit badges or what, but I instantly decided that, if and when I ever get around to forming my scooter gang, patches will play a prominent role.
Sunday
Since we're both churchgoers, the Roommate and I normally do nothing on Sundays but sleep, go to church, and watch the occasional Jane Austen-themed Masterpiece Theater. But since we had such limited time in D.C., we decided to pad the itinerary with stuff we hoped was sufficiently reverential and appropriate given the purpose of the holiday. We started the day by attending a local congregation of our church. As we were waiting for the valet to bring the rental car around so we could go, we made friends with some of the Rolling Thunder crowd. They told us that over 700,000 bikes would be participating in the rally and that we should drive by the Pentagon parking lot because the entire thing was full of motorcycles. Unfortunately, we missed our opportunity to do so while at church, which was not held at the Pentagon, but we did run into this same biker family around town later, thus solidifying our relationship as eternal BFFs.
After church, we took the metro up to the Mall and went to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. I had been there before, but not to the permanent exhibit, which requires reservations. Luckily, the Roommate had the wherewithal to make such reservations, and it was a life-changer. I thought I knew everything horrible there was to know about the Holocaust, but I was sorely mistaken. The enormity and the atrocity are found in the details, of which the Museum provides plenty. You cannot help but think “How on earth could this happen in modern times?” and then you leave the exhibit and see books in the gift shop on Darfur and Rwanda and realize that genocide is still happening and we let it happen. If you are ever in D.C., you simply must attend the permanent exhibit; however, you probably shouldn’t bring small children as the photos and video footage are naturally disturbing.
Thoroughly depressed after the Holocaust Museum, and hungry due to inadvertently skipping breakfast and lunch, the Roommate and I made fast friends with an overpriced ice cream vendor on the Mall, a D.C. youth with surly dreadlocks and an attitude to match. We asked him questions about the weather (abnormally nice for this time of year) and how long he’d been working that day. He pouted that he was stuck there until they sent someone else to relieve him, and that working for that particular ice cream stand was “like a sweatshop.” We giggled at the thought of anything related to ice cream being sweaty or especially arduous. Just eat some ice cream to ease your employment-related pain, kid. Personally, I think I would rather enjoy sitting under a big umbrella, looking at the Capitol and selling ice cream all the day long were it not for what I assume to be very bad pay, but the grass is always greener on the other side, I guess.
After our ice cream appetizer, we rode the metro to Dupont Circle and walked straight into the first Indian restaurant we found. Indian restaurants are a dime a dozen in D.C., but somehow fate led us to the best one ever, Heritage India. They had this awesome tapas menu, which enabled us to try out lots of different things. And yes, they even called it a “tapas” menu, despite the Spanish origins of that word, and how could they not, seeing as tapas are the hottest thing in D.C. right now, the way gourmet cupcakes are in L.A. I’m pretty sure if you walk down an ordinary D.C. street on an ordinary day, you will hear colloquialisms like, “I had a tapas weekend,” or “He looked so tapas yesterday.” Oh yeah, have I mentioned that food in D.C. is like half the price of that in L.A. (well, so long as you aren’t buying it in a museum food court)? This was a linen-napkin restaurant with fast-food prices. Totally tapas.
After dinner it was time for some Memorial Day memorializing back in the heart of things. We hit the Washington Memorial, the WWII Memorial, and walked the length of the reflecting pool to the Lincoln Memorial. To my dismay, the Roommate was not able to recite the entire Gettysburg Address from memory, the way that PDaddy had five years prior on another visit to the Lincoln Memorial, but I guess we're still friends. After taking a few pics of Abe, we stopped by my personal favorite, the Korean War Memorial (pictured above), followed by the famous Vietnam War Memorial and the lesser-known Vietnam Women’s Memorial. At this last stop, we learned that the nurses serving in the Vietnam War were able to save 97% of the soldiers that made it to the hospital. Based on that figure, which was cast in bronze, so you know it’s absolutely true, I think the DoD should make improving transport of the wounded a primary concern. Perhaps they already have and they just forgot to call and tell me. Anyhow, given the holiday, all the memorials were crowded by pensive people and decked out in flowers, photos, letters, cigarettes, and other things left behind to honor those who lost their lives so we could continue living our own in the obscenely comfortable manner to which we have grown accustomed. There were a lot of Rolling Thunder participants in their patchy vests at the Vietnam Memorial, rubbing pencils on small slips of paper to get an imprint of a particular name etched on the wall. The sun went down as we watched this, and despite the fact that it was one day early and there were no barbecues or swimming parties or other summer kick-off things going on, it was the best Memorial Day ever.
We made a good faith effort to walk back up to the Capitol to catch the tail end of the PBS Memorial Day concert going on there, but by the time we reached it, people were starting to sneak out for an early seat on the metro, so we turned around. We briefly rested our really tired feet on the crowded ride back to Crystal City, and on the excruciatingly painful walk from the station to the hotel, we passed a Cold Stone Creamery that had just closed. Some other tourists had already begun beating on the glass window begging the employees to reopen for them and the Roommate and I, apparently quite the joiners, started begging to get in as well. The poor Cold Stone employees, who had nothing to personally gain from working longer than required on a holiday weekend, obliged us after the other tourists promised them a hefty tip. The only problem was that the other tourists stiffed them on it, and I finally began to believe that working conditions in the ice cream business were, indeed, approaching sweatshop-like levels. We tried to compensate by providing a hefty tip of our own, making it the most expensive ice cream I have ever eaten. It was also the biggest ice cream to non-ice cream ratio of food I had ever consumed in one day, but hey, I was on vacation.
I think it’s time I was given a second medal… this one for Lengthiest Vacation Recap Blog Ever. That’s right, folks, we are only halfway through. Be sure to tune in tomorrow (er... or sometime thereafter) for “Monday,” which promises to be challenged in greatness only by the concurrently published “Tuesday.” Sorry to be so long-winded, but I guess that’s the benefit of Vacation Recap Blogs—you can ramble as long as you like and yet your friends can just skim it if they don’t have the time or patience to read it. I always love a good win-win situation. I also love receiving medals.
5.13.2008
One more reason to buy a sidecar for the Vespa
Well… apparently even those who actually liked my LA driving etiquette post are sick of reading it (i.e., my Mom) and begging for something new. Boy are they (she) going to be sorely disappointed.
It has come to my attention that I complain too much on this blog, and so today I am going to shake things up a bit by posting about something I actually L-O-V-E love.
Baby Pandas.
Sure, the technical name is “panda cubs,” but, as with most things, I have adopted my own terminology and “baby pandas” it is. We’ve got a weird thing going, the baby pandas and me—people who know me pretty well are probably surprised to learn I have such an affinity for them, whereas people who know me really, really well, like on a familial level, are like “Ew, she never shuts up about them! It’s just weird! Kind of like those 12-year-old girls who have 500 horse figurines lining the walls of their bedrooms!” Whatever, neigh-sayers (heh). In an attempt to curb my curmudgeonly blogger reputation, I am officially dragging my adoration of all things baby panda out of the closet.
So this recent earthquake in China is absolutely devastating and, like most people, I am overwhelmed by the human loss and suffering that it has caused. And so I don’t want to sound glib when I admit I was still a little happy to hear that Chinese officials confirmed that the pandas at the world’s two largest panda reserves (Wolong and Chengdu) survived the quake. This isn’t as trivial as you might think. As any baby panda lover knows, China owns all the world’s pandas, loaning very few out to zoos in other countries. Propagation of this highly-endangered species completely depends on these reserves, which include breeding centers and a daycare facility where several dozen baby pandas are raised each year.
About a year ago, I read this very reputable news article about how tourists to Wolong can pay $130 to play with the baby pandas for a few minutes. Since then, I have always planned on doing just that once I experience some sort of financial windfall giving me sufficient spending money and free time to act like a rich idiot. It’s nice to know I might still have the opportunity.
And now, in the off-chance that any biological engineers are regular readers of this blog, I will make yet another public plea for the miniaturization of the Giant Panda. We’ve all seen miniature ponies, miniature Collies, and those ridiculous “teacup” dogs that shady people are always selling as if they were counterfeit DVDs—so we know the technology exists and don’t even bother pretending that it doesn’t. Why then can’t you miniaturize the Giant Panda so that it never grows bigger than, say, an English Bulldog? Since pandas are vegetarians and have successfully interacted with humans in captivity, they are ripe for domestication. The only problem is that adult pandas are, well, giant, and the amount of bamboo they consume presents both financial and practical concerns for the average pet owner. If we had miniature pandas, not only could we afford to feed and house them, but we could put rhinestone-studded leashes on them and take them shopping at all the LA hotspots that now apparently permit pets on the premises.
But please don’t let Paris Hilton have one.
And, no, I’m not expecting any comments to this post, so don’t feel bad when I don’t get any.
It has come to my attention that I complain too much on this blog, and so today I am going to shake things up a bit by posting about something I actually L-O-V-E love.
Baby Pandas.
Sure, the technical name is “panda cubs,” but, as with most things, I have adopted my own terminology and “baby pandas” it is. We’ve got a weird thing going, the baby pandas and me—people who know me pretty well are probably surprised to learn I have such an affinity for them, whereas people who know me really, really well, like on a familial level, are like “Ew, she never shuts up about them! It’s just weird! Kind of like those 12-year-old girls who have 500 horse figurines lining the walls of their bedrooms!” Whatever, neigh-sayers (heh). In an attempt to curb my curmudgeonly blogger reputation, I am officially dragging my adoration of all things baby panda out of the closet.
So this recent earthquake in China is absolutely devastating and, like most people, I am overwhelmed by the human loss and suffering that it has caused. And so I don’t want to sound glib when I admit I was still a little happy to hear that Chinese officials confirmed that the pandas at the world’s two largest panda reserves (Wolong and Chengdu) survived the quake. This isn’t as trivial as you might think. As any baby panda lover knows, China owns all the world’s pandas, loaning very few out to zoos in other countries. Propagation of this highly-endangered species completely depends on these reserves, which include breeding centers and a daycare facility where several dozen baby pandas are raised each year.
About a year ago, I read this very reputable news article about how tourists to Wolong can pay $130 to play with the baby pandas for a few minutes. Since then, I have always planned on doing just that once I experience some sort of financial windfall giving me sufficient spending money and free time to act like a rich idiot. It’s nice to know I might still have the opportunity.
And now, in the off-chance that any biological engineers are regular readers of this blog, I will make yet another public plea for the miniaturization of the Giant Panda. We’ve all seen miniature ponies, miniature Collies, and those ridiculous “teacup” dogs that shady people are always selling as if they were counterfeit DVDs—so we know the technology exists and don’t even bother pretending that it doesn’t. Why then can’t you miniaturize the Giant Panda so that it never grows bigger than, say, an English Bulldog? Since pandas are vegetarians and have successfully interacted with humans in captivity, they are ripe for domestication. The only problem is that adult pandas are, well, giant, and the amount of bamboo they consume presents both financial and practical concerns for the average pet owner. If we had miniature pandas, not only could we afford to feed and house them, but we could put rhinestone-studded leashes on them and take them shopping at all the LA hotspots that now apparently permit pets on the premises.
But please don’t let Paris Hilton have one.
And, no, I’m not expecting any comments to this post, so don’t feel bad when I don’t get any.
4.23.2008
By the time you finish reading this post, rush hour will be over
Relearning the official rules of the road for my recent motorcycle class has got me thinking about all the unwritten rules of driving in LA. LA drivers get such a bad rap, which is a shame. As an Arizonan who has spent seven years of her life as an LA driver, I honestly think LA drivers are the best drivers around and that LA is one of the most predictable places to drive. You see, driving in LA is a community effort; in other places, it’s every man for himself. It’s when people come from those other places and apply their dog-eat-dog driving theories in LA that trouble starts a’brewing. If they only knew the rules, they would get along just fine.
For this reason, I have taken it upon myself to spell out some of the rules as I see them. These rules are in no way representative of the actual traffic laws or vehicular code in effect in Los Angeles or the State of California; rather, they are only my personal take on driving etiquette in LA. Of course, most rules have exceptions. An Idiot Exception occurs when the idiotic actions of another driver require you to break the rule. By contrast, a Jerk Exception permits you to break the rule in order to adequately respond to the jerky actions of another driver. Again, I’m not saying either exception is legal—just that it is socially acceptable. Now for the rules…
1. On the freeway, always go with the flow. You are not special. You do not own the road by virtue of having a custom paint job. Nothing entitles you to drive fast, dart between lanes, or refuse to wait your turn when everyone else has to go slow due to traffic. Likewise, when everyone is going fast, you have no right to slow them all down just because you like to take it easy or you forgot to put on your makeup or you are reading a really great article in US Weekly. If you are going 10 mph slower than traffic, stay in the very right lane. If you are going over 15 mph slower than traffic, take streets. If you have an insatiable need to go more than 10 mph faster than the flow of traffic (a need that surpasses general frustration with slow traffic) then buy a helicopter.
2. Feel free to talk on your cell phone while driving. Similarly, feel free to shout at other drivers for talking on their cell phones while driving. But do not feel free to do both at the same time. Like a lot of things, your hypocrisy will be tolerated in LA so long as you are never caught in the act.
3. Correct mistakes earlier rather than later. Suppose there is a sign that says the freeway on-ramp is right at a stop light, and there is a double right-turn lane. Unfortunately, you realize once you have turned that only the leftmost lane goes on the freeway while the right lane drives straight into a crack house, and you are in the right lane. Such false advertising is embarrassingly frequent among LA traffic signs, and most LA drivers will take pity on you so long as you communicate that you had no idea what lane you needed to be in. The best way to do this is to immediately signal that you need to be in the left lane. The absolute worst way to do this is to take advantage of the fact that there is no traffic in the right lane, speed past fifty cars up to where the lanes split, and then try to edge your way into the freeway line. Yeah, it was frowned on in grade school, too, back when it was called "taking cuts." In either situation, you are the idiot, so no Idiot Exception for you. In the latter situation, you are the jerk, and the left-lane drivers will be entitled to invoke the Jerk Exception to the tailgating rule, which is to cinch up within millimeters of each others' bumpers to prevent you from breaking in, forcing you to give up and continue on to the crack house. Trust me, such group invocation of a Jerk Exception is not uncommon in LA. Sometimes the left-laners will even be joined by a right-lane gang behind you, which will honk incessantly—and you should really watch out for those right-laners as they are all on crack.
4. When it comes to lanes merging at speeds under 30 mph, and especially at stop-and-go speeds, stick to the every-other-car rule—that is, one car from one lane, one car from the other. It is irrelevant whether you are in the merge-ed or merge-ing lane and you should lock the phrase "right of way" in your glovebox during such times. The Idiot Exception is only invocable here when the car that should merge in front of you refuses to go. The Jerk Exception is not invocable here; however, you are permitted to be a jerk yourself in enforcing the every-other-car rule against someone who is trying to edge you out of merging during your rightful turn.
5. When it comes to lanes merging at speeds exceeding 30 mph, treat it as synchronized swimming or a dance rather than a drag race. Envision the freeway from an overhead view—watch how the cars from two lanes effortlessly join into one to the sweeping rhythm of waltz music. Once you stop trying so hard, it will be easy to identify the spot in which your car belongs without having to significantly adjust your speed one way or the other. The Idiot Exception applies when nervous mergers (1) slow down to wait for the "perfect moment" or (2) unreasonably demand three car-lengths of merge space. The Jerk Exception applies in an eye-for-an-eye fashion: if a jerk is race-merging, you are permitted to respond with race-merging, but do it without looking like you're trying. The Jerk Exception to high-speed merging is why many out-of-towners mistake LA drivers for jerks; we're not inherently jerks, we have only accepted your invitation to be a jerk. Yet another exception exists for well-meaning but naturally slow vehicles, such as buses, landscaping trucks, and campers—you may politely accelerate ahead of them.
6. Speaking of invitations to act, there are certain drivers who prefer to maintain an excessive following distance in stop-and-go-traffic. Everyone in LA recognizes and lauds these drivers for the important public service they provide—that is, the necessary space for last-minute lane changes in stop-and-go situations. If you are one of these drivers, expect people to cut in front of you every five seconds or so, but don't take offense at it. LA loves you. Without you, none of us would get anywhere.
7. Don’t look at other drivers. Period. Even when you’re yelling at them, don’t look at them. It’s just rude. We spend so much time in our cars in LA that we like to think of them as extensions of our home. We sing in there, talk to friends, eat, etc. When some stranger looks at us in our car, it’s like he’s peeking in the windows of our apartment.
8. Beware of criss-cross-traffic at major interchanges. LA has more freeways than most cities, and therefore more interchanges. Anytime two freeways collide, it is normal for half the drivers in the far left lanes to need to immediately change to the far right and for those in the far right to need to switch to the far left. This is true whether the freeway traffic is moving at a speed of 5 mph or 85 mph. LA drivers are used to the interchanges on their commute, by their houses, etc. and know that they have to be alert to criss-crossing traffic in these places. However, it seems high-speed criss-crossing takes out-of-towners by surprise and has given all of LA a "crazy driver" reputation, as if we are all over the road all of the time. Nothing could be further from the truth—most of the Angelenos I know have favorite lanes and stick to them religiously.
9. If you are driving at a moderate to high speed on the freeway and come across an object in your lane, you MUST drive over the object, no matter what it is or how much you have to clench your teeth and grip the steering wheel in order to do it. I don’t care if the object is a palm tree or a mattress or a dead animal—drive over it. You’re going to have to trust me on this one: if it were not possible to drive over this object and survive, you would have never come across it at a moderate to high speed in the first place. Rather, some earlier driver would have had a collision, blow-out, roll-over, what have you with the object, causing a full-on SIG alert with standstill traffic for hours while the person, the car, and the object were cleared off the road and you would have never known it existed and the cause of the traffic you were in would just be one of those unsolved traffic mysteries we encounter in LA on a daily basis. Of course, the only exception is if the object comes to be in your lane because it fell off the truck driving in front of you. In that case, brake, swerve, whatever. Just don’t be the person who causes a SIG alert by being too timid to drive over something that is already painted in skid marks.
10. Take one for the team. If you have a flat tire or other car problem, do whatever you can possibly do to get your car off the freeway. Not just to the shoulder—OFF THE FREEWAY. It doesn't matter if the nearest off-ramp is “Exit 134: Crack House,” you just have to risk your personal safety for the general welfare of Los Angeles. Everyone hates it when they’ve been waiting in traffic for two hours only to learn it was due to looky-loos slowing down to watch someone change their tire on the shoulder.
11. For Heaven’s sake, don’t be a looky-loo.
12. When driving on surface streets, drive in the right lane at your own risk. Unlike a lot of newer cities, LA has metered parking lining the sides of almost every major street. While right-lane parking is occasionally broken up by large expanses of red curb, and while parking in the right lane is theoretically prohibited during evening rush hour, there is a strong likelihood you will eventually stumble upon a parked car when driving in the right lane. When you do, do not expect those driving at full speed in the adjoining lane to let you in. It's not that they hate you, it's just that they chose not to take the right-lane gamble and therefore shouldn't be inconvenienced by your decision to do so. Therefore, it's best to drive in the right lane only when you are about to turn right onto a cross street and you can see that no parked cars are blocking your way. There is no Idiot or Jerk Exception available to you here because you, my friend, are the idiot and the car-parking jerk is nowhere to be found. If you choose to be a right-lane risk-taker, you should probably keep some good books and snacks in the car to help you pass the time once you get stuck.
13. Don't be stingy with The Wave. The Wave is executed by spreading the fingers of your right hand (so as not to be mistaken with another common LA hand sign—The Finger), raising it to the space just under your review mirror, and shaking vigorously for a few seconds. The Wave is the universally recognized sign for "Thank you for letting me in!" In fact, many LA drivers also mouth the words "Thank You" while doing The Wave, even when the other driver cannot see their lips. You do not have to do The Wave during regular merging; rather, it is only required when another driver has let you in their lane when they did not have to. The prime example is when you are turning right onto a busy street without a traffic light and a driver stops to let you in. The Wave is sufficient, but I believe Miss Renee has an awesome story about receiving flowers from a fellow driver instead of a wave, which I am hoping she will regale us with in the comments section.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
