Christmas in Southern California

There's a giant tree, decorated with all the trimmings. There's hoiday
nusic playing on the mal's outdoor PA. Somehow, with all the palm
trees and sun, it seems very little like Christmas.

Gage. Or Mowgli.

You just can't keep a shirt on that boy.

Victor's a wild man.

My brother's kids are a mess, tiny masses of concentrated energy,
exploding loud and fast all... day... long. I don't know how parents
do it. I couldn't dream of trying to keep up with these midgets.

-

Lunchie Munchies?!?! Hmmm?!?!?

We're on our way to lunch at the Turning Stone Casino. Sweet. Lunch
at the Turning Stone with the kids is my favorite. And roulette. I
love me some roulette.

-

-

Boredom and robbery, part two.

It's Sam Adams, which always makes me feel like home, so that makes it
almost worth the nine dollars.

Airports have this amazing freedom to trap you for as long as they
like (unlawful imprisonment), violate you (at best, harrassment), and
take your money (robbery). I'm sure it's all regulated by one federal
agency or another, so that makes me feel better.

I've got an unyielding trust for the federal government.

-

-

The boredom and robbery of air travel.

Bob Hope Airport (though nobody calls it that, everyone just says
"Burbank Airport"), San Francisco, Chicago O'Hare, not single smoking
room in any of these airports. I suppose it pays to travel through
the South. Tobacco's big business down there, so I'm sure they've
still got those stinky little smoke-filled aquariums in every terminal
and concourse. Connect through Vegas, and you've probably got access
to a full blown opium den and brothel for your layover.

These are things I really need to think about when I book my flights.

So what I've got to do is, I've got to follow the signs that say
"ground transportation" all the way to the door out onto the street.
Smoke two cigarettes, strip all the metal and shoes from my body, and
head on back through security to get back to my gate, to wait another
ninety minutes until they start boarding the plane.

Shit, ninety minutes? What could I do with ninety minutes if I
weren't trapped in airport terminal? Let me think about my last day
off...

Okay, so apparently with ninety minutes, I could read the first half
of every article in the latest Rolling Stone, drink nine beers, smoke
fourteen Newports, and not answer my phone eight times.

So I guess it's nor really wasting time if I really wouldn't have
gotten anything done with it anyway.

If they had one of those brothels here, though... Then I could get
something done in ninety minutes. That is, of course, if you include
the eighty-six minute, post-coital nap.

Complete and utter disaster.

Complete and utter disaster.

See, Brandon (of Maxwell Smart fame) had to go on at 9:45, and I
worked until 9 o'clock. So Melissa and I left the mall at 9, and
stopped at some crappy little bar somewhere between Northridge Fashion
Center and the Verity Room. We enjoyed a shot of tequila and an adult
beverage or two, and planned to head straight to the show.

Now, backing out of the parking lot of said crappy bar posed a bit of
a problem for tipsy Melissa. Not because she was tipsy, I only
mention it because it's important. But she backed her beautiful,
white, 2005 Mustang smack into he rear bumper of a Ford Taurus.

To say the very least, we were going to be late.

Of course,I immediately took control of the situation. Not because I
like to be in control, but because - when I'm nervous - I like to know
that if things get f'd up, I won't hate anyone but me for the outcome,
whatever it may be.

I stepped out of the car and inspected the damage. Nothing on the
'Stang, but grey paint.

The Taurus though...

Well, the Taurus? The entire rear corner bumper was crumpled like
aluminum foil.

"Melissa, give me your driver's license and insurance card."

A lady steps out of the passenger seat and starts going crazy. "What
the hell were you doing!?"

A man steps out of the driver's seat.

"Hello," I say. "Tell her to shut up. Have you got a pen?"

"Be quiet, honey. Let me get their information."

I write down Melissa's info, he writes his, we trade. I act like I
know what I'm doing, quick, methodical, like I've done it a hundred
times before. I'm doing this because (a) we're in a hurry, and (b)
because I want no possibility of police involvement.

Melissa apologizes. Bad move. An apology is admitting fault. Other
than that, she did great.

We walk in halfway through Brandon's set, and he mentions waiting for
his girlfriend all night on stage.

So now I'm sitting at a show with no alcohol, the third wheel, with
two wheels that aren't speaking to one another. It's beautifully
awkward and hideously sober, but it's something,

I've got the day off tomorrow, so I suppose I've got that to look
forward to.

Selah.

Complete disaster. On all fronts.

I generally don't go to shows in alcohol-free venues, because (a) I'm
fundamentally against the whole idea, and (b) those kinds of shows
attract far too many children for my taste. But here I am, at the
Verity Room, and I'll be damned if they don't have the greatest public
restroom I've ever seen. I even cased the medicine cabinet for drugs,
but it only contained Listerine and Bacitracine.

I'm at a Maxwell Smart show, because Maxwell Smart kicks a ton of ass.

Big Apple Redemption.

Sit down, order food, the meal arrives in six minutes. Eat. Take the
check to the hostess, and she waves me off. "Today, it's on us," she
says. "We'll see you tomorrow."

Of course you will.

Now, I'm off to smoke. I've even got a little extra time to go buy
some socks.

It's "Sofa King" hot outside.

103 degrees right now in the ruthless Valley sun. It's only 90 in
Nedrow, New York, but probably rainforest humid.

It'll be windy and colorful when I get back in a few weeks, and I
can't wait.

Things always seem better wherever I'm not.

Silence. Music's original alternative. Roots grunge.

Sometimes, you don't have to say anything at all. And to be honest
with you, saying nothing at all is one of my favorite things to do.

Every day, halfway through my shift, I take my hour-long lunch break.
Every day, halfway through my shift, I walk my happy ass outside to
smoke one cigarette, then on up to the Big Apple Deli. The staff
knows me there.

Every day, halfway through my shift, the waitresses smile, and say
"hello." They show me a seat, they pour me a Diet Pepsi.

By now, I know the menu, so most days I know what I want. I order, I
eat, I walk outside to smoke one more cigarette, and I go back to work.

Today, though. Well, today? Today, I walked into the deli, I sat
down, and my drink was on the table. Today I sat sipping Diet Pepsi
for twenty minutes. Today, I didn't eat lunch. Today, I smoked three
cigarettes on my hour-long lunch break.

After twenty minutes just sitting at the table sipping soda, I stood
up. I put two dollars on the table to cover the drink, and walked out.

The hostess said "have a good day!" as I strolled past her podium.
Wearing my earphones, listening to some live Todd Snider song on my
iPhone, I could pretend I didn't hear her.

Sometimes, you don't have to say anything at all.

Sent from my iPhone

Lunch.

So, what else?

So, wait. We made it all the way home, silly drunk, and we're not
going to box?

If I'd known that before, I would have made sure we got into an
accident on the way home.

Fuck. I need something about which to write.

Can you take me "High Enough"?

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

All I want to do is get home and punch the shit out of Ryan for the
whole "relevance" comment, and before we get there, I'm forced to
endure this barrage of eighties music that would tear down the
endurance of even the most experienced and seasoned fighter.

The 80s rule.

So, Traci, who is driving us around, has a great CD full of 80's power
ballads. And Ryan and I decided to sing along with that CD at the top
of our lungs, with the windows down.

That's not cool. I've driven drunks around before. You want them to
stay as inconspicuous as possible.

So, rather than getting angry, Traci decides to show us her tattoo -
the "fallen angel" tattoo on the bottom of her back. She's a big
Poison fan.

And we get a little loud. In the middle of the restaurant.

Bob's Big Boy. In Burbank. The first Big Boy in America.

People are looking at us now. God I hope people want to beat us up
when we leave.

I can't tell you how much I want to fight someone right now.

Yo.

Nice mask.

"That chick on the stage, with the mask? I'd bang her. But only if she
kept the mask on. It would be a weird, Jason Voorhees kind of thing."

"That's not a hockey mask," Ryan said. "You might be mixing hockey up
with lacrosse."

"I'd never confuse that. Women aren't allowed to play lacrosse."

"You act like your culture's been relevant at any time in the past two
hundred years."

Ryan and I are boxing when we get home. It's not going to be pretty.

Good luck, Ryan.

Good luck.

Dimples in Burbank. America's first karaoke bar.

Ryan, thumbing through the songbook, is looking for a song respectable
enough to make a fool of himself.

Now, Ryan's been on a bit of a "War Pigs" kick, lately. He's searched
it on Limewire, and downloaded every cover version he could find.

I suggested maybe he could make a fool of himself singing "War Pigs".

"Fuck!" he replied, thumbing through the list. "This thing only goes
up to 'T'"

For America's first karaoke bar, "Dimples," in Burbank, is kind of
ghetto.

See it for yourself.

You can check out a live feed at www.dimplesshowcase.com

Kaiser Permanente Emergency Room

We arrived shortly before midnight, with the intent to commit fraud by
pretending than Meirav was actually Eti. We'd certainly all be in jail
right now if we'd gone with that plan, but luckily, cooler heads
prevailed.

North Hollywood Billiards

It's not what you'd call the most "social" place in SoCal, but there
is definitely an ecclectic mix of characters here.

Chilling... Grilling...

One of the greatest days ever! We're hanging out, swimming in the
pool, there's a rack of beef ribs on the grill, and some NY strip on
deck.

There might be a girl or two on the way.

Greatest day ever.

Selah.

Thrice, I told him.

Do you mind if I swing by the house before the game?

No, not at all. I just gotta stop for smokes, is all.

Cool.

(after stopping at his house...)

So Ray, could we stop on the way to the game, so I could pick up some
smokes?

Yeah dude, no problem.

(before leaving the game...)

Yeah, I'm going to need some smokes.

So, here I am, walking to the 7-11, to grab a pack a pack of cigarettes.

He's a little forgetful, at times, but you gotta love Ray.

Shitty game.

That game sucked.

We left in the middle of the eighth inning. I'm pretty sure Dodgers
are slaughtered at this point.

My Dodgers.

Ridiculous.

Seven three. The Dodgers may suck.

I don't know a whole lot about baseball, but I think the Dodgers suck.

Seven to one?!?!?

This game sucks a fat one.

My Dodgers - who, by the way, didn't become "my" Dodgers until about
three hours ago - are losing horribly.

And this pisses me off.

Bases loaded. Fuck!

So the Astros have loaded the bases.

Fuck!

This game sucks.

What tha...?

Okay, so we my have been busy buying beer and Dodger dogs, but the
Astros - in any circumstance whatsoever - are boy allowed to score.
Not here. Not ever.

First inning home run.

How does that shit happen? I was in the bathroom, and I missed my
first major league homerun.

"Sports Night" memories abound.

"The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win pennant!"

On the way to the game...

So, no fourth. Cool, I suppose. S'gonna be a good time, either way.
Even if I have to get arrested to make it happen.

And tonight, I may, in fact, get arrested.

...but it's a dry heat.

I'm uncertain as to how one prepares for a baseball game. I think the Dodgers are playing the Texans, or something, so I want to be sure not to wear the visiting team's colors. After all, this is Los Angeles. If excessive film-watching as a child has taught me anything, it's that
colors - in L.A. - are important. Make a wrong wardrobe decision, a man's liable to get himself shot, or stabbed, or shanked in a steamy group shower.

Do they still have steamy group showers at the Dodger games? And who the hell are they playing again?

Maybe it's the Oilers. No. That doesn't sound right either.

I can't help but feel hideously unprepared for this.

It is, however, a hundred-three degrees right now. Probably too hot to go shanking people, I would think.

Doing it Dodger style.

So Ryan's scored us tickets to the Dodger game tonight, which gives me yet another reason to postpone my long-awaited and much needed haircut.

He got us four tickets, free of charge. Of course "free of charge" fails to address the impact of ten dollar parking, twelve dollar beers, and priceless, collectable Dodger-dogs on my wallet.

This, of course, means we'll have to forego "jacuzzi Tuesday" this week, and that makes me sad.

We've got to leave at six, Ray's going to drive, so it'll be Rye, Ray, me, and... Hmm...

This fourth ticket, this X factor, intrigues me.

Perhaps this story gets even more interesting. I'll keep you posted.

Well done, JP. Well done.

So we're out at Acapulco celebrating the fact that my good friend Ramiro (JP) Pena Jr. got himself a j-o-b. Apparently, he'll be working in Ryan's company, as a sort of IT administrator, or something. Whatever the hell he's doing, it sounds like a pretty sweet gig.

So Ryan, Ramiro and I decided to celebrate by going out to eat Mexican food, and drink Mexican drinks. I think that's what you're supposed to do when a Mexican gets a job, right? And Ryan helped him get the job.

He didn't even have to stand in front of the Home Depot or anything.

Anyway, that's pretty much the highlight of my day. I spent the majority of it drinking Irish coffee, and putting myself in a "social" mood.

To be honest, I probably should have spent my time doing some laundry, and getting a haircut - but a man's got to have priorities.

Congratulations, Ray. Make us proud.

Selah!

Thank God it's Tuesday

Tuesday's quickly becoming my favorite night of the whole week.

Why? I'm glad you ask.

Wine. And the jacuzzi. Tuesday's jacuzzi night. My friends and I spend Tuesday nights drinking wine and sitting in the jacuzzi.

Granted, it may not be as cool the Sunday movie night back in Syracuse, but it's pretty damn close.

Which brings me to this: What happened? I used to love movies. I still do, actually. In fact, I used to make it a point to spend one night a week gathering a small group of friends, drinking a few beers, and watching a movie. I'd even make it a point to find something a little obscure, a little challenging, so we'd have something to talk about when the movie was over. It wasn't like we'd all huddle around the television to watch the new Blockbuster action film, only to sit around and talk about how kick ass it was when it ended. We'd watch something quirky, different, "off the beaten path," if you will.

If my schedule was a bit more predictable, I'm sure I could make it work, but alas, perhaps I'll never have another movie night.

That is, until we get a sweet new TV.

Hmmm....

Israeli Girls kick ass.

She might kick ass, but she sure as shit, talks funny.

Her name's Eti. I met her on a smoke break. She was sitting on the stairs outside the mall, and she said "Allo."

Me: How are you? Have you been busy today?
Eti: No. I'm drinking too much Jameson on my lunch break, now I only want to sleep.

Ahh, drunk at work. Could this girl be any better for me? Two nights later, she was calling my cell, asking if she could come over.

Eti: I drop off my roommate, and then I come to your house?
Me: Sure. I mean, come on over. There's not a whole lot going on, to be honest with you, but we could hang out. Call me if you need directions.
Eti: I be there in elfinower.
Me: "Elfinower"?
Eti: Yes. Thirty minutes.

Eti: [Upon walking into the apartment, and seeing Scrabble on the table] You play that game with the words? Just like in the movies?
Me: Umm, Scrabble? Yeah. I guess.

In what fucking movie do people play Scrabble? Perhaps in Israel, they go to the theater to watch Hasbro commercials.

Eti: So you are Mexican?
Me: No. I'm, er, Native American. American Indian?
Eti: Oh. You don't look like Indian.
Me: No, not Indian American. American Indian. It's like - you know what? - forget it.
Eti: When I'm in Israeli Army, I know Indian.
Me: You were in the Israeli Army? What did you do?
Eti: I mostly watch on the radar, and I shoot the Palestines.
Me: Right. Shoot the Palestines.
Eti: I'm sorry, my English not so good. Most people, they like. Americans think is sexy.
Me: Yeah. It is. It's also, um, do you know what "mildly retarded" means?
Eti: No. What is mightily retarded?
Me: It's sexy, baby. It's sexy.

I cannot - in my wildest imagination - foresee this ending well.

Me: So what brought you to working in the mall? I mean, shooting Palestinians - I would think - is a talent you could parlay into just about anything.
Eti: I wish to travel, all around. After the army, I went to Amsterdam, and Spain, and France, and just to stay there a while, you know? It's how to learn. And you cannot work in lot of places, when you are Israeli. You can only work in some places, where my boss is Israeli.
Me: I see. So the whole operation's a little shady. Do you plan to keep traveling?
Eti: Next month, I probably go to South America.
Me: That sounds like fun, I mean, "leaving the country in a month" is kind of what I look for in a girl.
Eti: Sometimes, I think you are joking on me.
Me: Don't be silly. I wouldn't joke on you. In fact, that's probably the most sincere thing I've said to a girl in a long, long time.

So sadly, Eti will be gone soon. And as long as she doesn't blow up my house before she leaves, I'll probably miss her.

Nice problem to have.

The sun is unforgiving. And all I wanted was a large Diet Pepsi. They
poured the drink, and I realize that all I have is a hundred dollar
bill.

"I'm sorry, it's all I have, can you change a hundred?"

"No, we don't take them."

"Don't take them? Like, ever?"

"Nope."

"Is that even legal?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, this note is legal tender, for all debts, public and private.
It says so, right on the bill."

"Do you want me to call my manager?"

"Forget it."

I'm on break, hot and thirsty.

Earthquake!!!

My room's disaster! There are clothes and shoes all over the floor, wires spider-webbed across the carpet, candles knocked over, and photographs spread all over the entertainment center and nightstand.

Also, we just had an earthquake.

According to the news, it was a 3.2, and it happened at 10:59:59 PM.

*

When I lived in Studio City, the condo was "earthquake ready". You know those little plastic locks you put on the cabinets under the sink? The tiny white pieces that are supposed to keep your kids from drinking all of the cleaning products?

Well, in Studio City, my girlfriend and I, we had those on the high cupboards, so in the event of an earthquake, all the glasses and flatware wouldn't fall on your head.

I don't know how many times I went to pull open a cupboard door, and got sprayed with tiny shards of white, splintered, plastic pieces.

And I can't tell you how many times I was yelled at for breaking the little "earthquake locks". Each time, I had to drive to Home Depot - not a terrible fate, as I really needed to get out of the house when she started screaming like that - I had to purchase another five-dollar, white plastic child-lock, and I had to spend a half an hour looking for a small, philips-head screwdriver to install the friggin' thing.

Installation: roughly, eight minutes.
Duration of grief, yelling, and stress: roughly three hours.

Truth is, breaking those locks is not the reason I left Studio City, just like a 3.2 is not why my room's a disaster. My room was a mess before the Earth rattled.

But - opening that cupboard, shattering that lock the first time - it was the first time she yelled at me.

And I'm sure, absolutely certain, my life was a mess before I moved to Studio City.

I felt my first earthquake tonight. It was pretty freaking sweet.

Sick as I am (physically, not mentally), I got pretty excited.

You know those August storms in Syracuse? The thunder that shakes the house like the black sky's just been ripped open by the hands of God?

That's pretty much what a three-point-two feels like.

And I plan on hanging in for the big one.

It's official!

I'm as sick as a dog. My temperature's hit 101.5.

Fahrenheit, that is. That's about 38.6 if you're nasty.

I mean, unamerican.

Actually, I may have meant both. Who can tell? My brain's in the
broiler, so I may not be thinking right.

There's a helicopter with a spotlight currently circling the greater
northridge area right now. You know what that means. Somebody's
running, scared, and dangerous.

(See: "The Devil You Know" by Todd Snider)

I dread having to work tomorrow morning because I feel so crappy. I'm
hoping the wine will help.

When I was working in Syracuse, I had a terrible cough, and this old
Southern black lady told me it would clear up with a glass of
blackberry brandy. I think I remember it working.

Self medicating is one of my favorite pastimes.

Another problem with being sick is that it tend to send my blood
glucose levels all crazy. That's no fun. I get all loopy and sweaty
and shaky. It happened, like, a week ago. I started feeling a little
weird at work, so I tested, like I'm supposed to, and my BG level was
at 43! That was ridiculous.

Well, I'm going to lie down. I'm not feeling so good.

I hope you're well.

It's my second fifteen minute break.

Sometimes, it's so hot outside, I don't even feel like going out to
smoke. When nicotine's not incentive enough, you know it's pretty hot.

I'm still a bit stuffed from lunch, so I don't really feel like doing
much of anything.

Last night was interesting. It started with a little tickle on the
throat, now, it just might be a full on illness.

I'll keep you posted.

Lunch

Chilling at the Big Apple Deli. Salad and a burger, Diet Pepsi. They
know me here, I should probably just give them my schedule and they
could have my lunch ready when I walk in the door.

Outside..

Sitting outside, with other modern day pariahs - in a secluded little
area out of the sun, complete with ashtrays, and those wire, food-
court seats that leave checkerboards on the thighs of anyone confident
or stupid enough to wear short, short, shorts.

Dishes

The sink is full of no dishes. It's a little disgusting, really, I don't mind telling you, but on any given day, we're likely to have more dirty shotglasses and coffee cups than plates or bowls.