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.

-

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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.