There's Your Problem Right There

I was just in Sears, where I haven't been in quite a while. The last time was, I believe, before December 2006. I can't exactly remember why I was in Sears then, but I know I visited right before I went to Australia, and that was December 2006. So it's been a few years. I know that the company is facing financial problems and management problems, and I think I may have found the root cause.
   Their clerks are clueless.
   This is not to say they were impolite, quite the contrary, the three I talked to were very pleasant, and even eagerly helpful. They just didn't know what was in the store. I went in looking for one esoteric, rare thing - a deep root feeder for trees - and one ridiculously easy thing - an air compressor. I talked to three people because the first guy didn't know home and garden, and the home and garden guy didn't know hardware, not even enough to know an air compressor isn't hardware. So I bounced around from clerk 1 to clerk 2 to clerk 3, only to find - eventually - that neither of the things I wanted was in the store right then. I'm still not sure what clerk 1 did besides direct people to the other clerks.
   Time was you went into Sears and dreaded asking a question because the clerks would quiz you about things you weren't prepared to answer. 'I'm looking for a deep root feeder.' 'Oh yeah? What kind of tree? How tall? What kind of soil do you have? What's your water pressure like? Is the tree on the North or South side of the house?'
   But I gotta tell you, getting the third degree from guys who knew waaaaay too much about deep root feeders was one thousand times better than Blank Stare Larry, who had never heard of a deep root feeder in his online chat room, much less seen one in person.
   Is this a problem with Sears' hiring practices, with its training, or with the quality of people available to work? I'm thinking it's a combination of all three, but mostly probably the hourly rate, which has to be supremely crap-tacular. You get what you pay for after all, and if you're not paying much you'll get exactly that.
   Another part of the problem might be that people these days don't know how to do anything. By the time I was fifteen I'd changed tires, framed storage sheds, used a chainsaw (probably a little too much), rigged a rope bridge, replaced an exhaust system, changed oil, hammered shingles, run a roto-tiller, chopped down trees, etc. etc. etc. I think Blank Stare Larry couldn't recognize a deep root feeder because he had no idea that such a thing was possible, let alone that people had been doing it since the 50's.
   This has to change. People need to know stuff and they need to know how to do stuff. I guess it's up to me...

Black Gold... Texas Tea...

You know what you almost never seen any more? Big puddles of oil in parking lots. That's not to say that there isn't any oil at all in parking lots because there is, but not like there used to be back in the old days.
   I remember my grandfather would put down cardboard and newspaper underneath his cars in the garage, and he'd change out the newspaper weekly, as regular as mowing the lawn. Dripping oil was just a fact of car ownership, something you dealt with. You expressed a drive from San Antonio to Dallas in miles, gallons of gas, and quarts of oil. That's about 290 miles, sixteen or seventeen gallons of gas and at least a quart of oil, maybe two.
   Not so much any more. It's so rare to see anything dripping in parking lots that when I see a fresh, glistening streak of wetness underneath my truck I'm instantly alert. I look at the placement of the drip, where it might have come from if it's from my truck, what kind of fluid it might be. I become a truck doctor. It's never from my truck, of course, it's always someone else's problem. Back when I had my '72 Chevelle the only time I would have been concerned is if I'd come out of a store and hadn't noticed any drips. That would have meant I was running dry on one of the car's vital fluids. I loved that car but it leaked like a Civil War battle survivor.
   Are cars that much better-made now? Absolutely. And not just tighter engines built to smaller tolerances either, the whole thing's just better. I'd trust my convertible more in a crash than I ever would have my 3000 lbs of Detroit steel Chevelle.
   But... I don't know... while no drips is certainly better for the environment - especially when multiplied by all the cars on the road - it's just not the same. I think people put too much trust in their cars now, they're too reliable. You ever see someone broken down on the side of the road these days? They're helpless, utterly beside themselves and at total loss as to how to get themselves out of the jam they're in. I used to drive with a tool box in the trunk so I could fix whatever went wrong as it was happening.
   Less oil on the road means less need to know how to fix things which means more reliance on other to make those repairs which means we're becoming a nation of passive aid-seekers rather than a nation of problem-solvers. I think we need more oil in parking lots, more breakdowns, more self-reliance and less calling for AAA.
   Unless it's too hot outside. Then you should definitely call the tow truck. AAAAARRRRGH! See? It's happening to me now!

Cop Ettiquette

I have a travel day today, so I'll be busy watching someone who's never flown before get a cavity search from the TSA because they set off the metal detector one too many times. It is a spectator sport, you know. But I leave you with this puzzler:
   If you're sitting behind a cop at a stop sign and he's obviously busy with folders and paperwork in his car and not paying attention, should you honk at him? It's not illegal - as far as I know - but it seems like an ill-advised move. You don't want to give a cop an excuse to notice you, after all. But then again, if he's in your way and oblivious to the flow of traffic... I don't know.

Enjoy your day, I'll be on a plane.

Cojones Grandes

Man, I've seen some daring people before, but just now I witnessed a lady who takes the cake. And eats it. And then takes your cake and eats that too.
   I went to get gasoline in the truck, and decided that I would run it through the 'Touchless' car wash to knock the Los Angeles off of it. I wiped it down afterwards and then went inside to get my lottery tickets. You can't win if you don't play.
   A lady came in behind me and handed over a receipt. She asked the clerks for a refund on the car wash, since it 'wasn't valid' and there were too many people in line right now and she couldn't use it anyway. Could she please have her money back. No big deal and none of my business.
   Until I walked out the door.
   A little econo-box was sitting right outside the doors, and it was still dripping wet from the car wash.
   What are the odds...? I thought. So I waited. Got in my truck and watched the door. And, sure enough, the lady who wanted a refund on her car wash because she couldn't use it got into the freshly-washed car and drove away.
   Astonishing. Just... remarkable. Not only to lie like that to get a free car wash, but to park your still-wet-from-the-wash car right outside the door when you do it? That takes some nerve. Completely reprehensible and wrong, but you gotta admit that takes major chutzpah to even think about doing, let alone carry out successfully. That's like... Captain Kirk ballsy.
   When I grow up I want to be like that lady. Only honest.

Everything I Need To Know

Everything I need to know about driving I learned from LA drivers.

Veer. Especially when there's no reason for it.
    If the space is too small you should still try to parallel park.
Buses can drag race.
    No matter what, always slow down and gawk at a car on the side of the highway. You never know, there might be something cool.
Don't get out of the way, especially if you're going 10 mph slower than the posted limit.
    Right-hand turns from the far left lane are a fantastic idea.
If you don't know where you are, stop in the middle of the street and look around.
    One-way streets are really just a suggestion.
It's okay to back into traffic from a driveway, other people will watch out for you.
    Fire trucks are like a good blocker in football, let them clear the way and you can follow behind.
Pedestrians are invulnerable, so you don't have to watch out for them at all.
    Your conversation with the person in the next car is more important than going when the light turns green.
After the red there's time for another three cars to turn left. (this is actually the only way to make a left in certain parts of LA)
    When it rains act like it's your first time behind the wheel, that way you'll fit in with everybody else.


COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes      back - 36 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 20-something days, I'm losing track...

Pimp-tastic

There are days I hate LA. And mean LA itself, not the greater LA metro area, which I'm also not all that fond of. I'm talking about LA North of the 10 and South of the Hollywood Hills. The place they keep everything the world thinks LA is. The place where I'm working now. That's the part I hate.
   But some days, you just gotta love it.
   Like today. I left the building for lunch, more accurately I left the building with a co-worker who wanted a sandwich from a particular place and I went along for the ride because I wanted to get away from the office. He got the sandwich, I got a bottle of iced tea, and we turned back towards work.
   And that's when I saw it. A pimpmobile. A for-real, honest-to-Pete pimpmobile complete with fully-attired pimp behind the wheel. It was green for the money with gold trim for the honey, and just waiting at the light with everyone else. Freaky stylin'.
   I have to admit, I was happy the rest of the afternoon after seeing that.
   LA taketh away, but LA giveth too. You just try rolling past a green-and-gold pimpmobile wherever you live. Bet you can't.


COMMUTE - there - 37 minutes      back - 30 minutes to go 10 miles, LA sucks
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 49 days

Convertible Smells

I actually had to drive to work today - I left my gym bag there Thursday - but since I was on a search-and-recover mission I took the hot rod instead of the truck. I had the top down and the heater cranked up, and I decided to see how long the commute would take on a lazy Saturday morning (details below). But with the top down I discovered a whole new science experiment.
   Man, LA stinks.
   And I don't just mean metaphorically, I mean actually. Without the hermetic isolation of rolled-up windows and blowing AC you can really experience the startling funk of Los Angeles. Coming down the 110 I got the familiar wafts of earth and plants, since there is a lot of open land around there. Open for LA, anyway. Not much to smell because it's a highway.
   Coming into downtown I got a metallic/concrete sniff, then some exhaust, of course. There was also, oddly enough, onions. Must have been from a taco truck or something.
   Going down Wilshire I really got into the Los Angeles-style of odors. Garbage, more exhaust, lots of urine, something rotten, cooking grease, beer, gasoline, wet dirt, and some sickly-sweet odor that followed me for a while but that I just couldn't place. Kind of like anti-freeze but that wasn't it.
   Coming back I went down 3rd, and there the odors were eclectic. Cotton candy, more exhaust, grass, melted plastic, new electronics, sewer gas, BO (really, passing a bus stop, it must have been truly epic), old lady perfume, pineapples, gunpowder and spray paint.
   In my experience the one way to really experience the spirit of a neighborhood is to walk it. But a close second would be to roll through in a convertible. It'll make you realize why you don't live there in the first place.



COMMUTE - not really a commute, since I wasn't working, but here's the best-case scenario when there is very little traffic:
there - 33 minutes      back - 31 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 56 days

Better Than I Remember

A while back I wrote about something that was not nearly as good as I remember. Visits to things from your past are sometimes dangerous journeys onto wind-tossed shoals of memory, where one wrong move can drive your fond recollections onto the sharp rocks of reality. But not everything you remember fondly from your past is doomed to turn out poorly in the present. Today, for example, I was pleasantly surprised.
   I'd just finished fencing and was driving home in the hot rod when some Jethro Tull came on the radio. Even though Tull was a regular part of my youth, it's been quite a while since I've listened to any of my old favorites. Sure, the songs are on my iTunes list, but the last time I was really into Tull I had to listen on a cassette tape.* And that's quite a while ago.
   Gotta say, I remember why I liked them all those years ago. I was jamming out on the highway to 'Aqualung,' which is about a 6 minute song, so I got pretty far down the 134 with Tull blaring, almost like when I used to pop the cassette into the player in my '72 Chevelle on my way to pick up my friends for a night of mischief. Good times, good times.

So not everything I liked when I was a kid is crap. It's a good thing I thought parachute pants were stupid back in the day, or I might have more to regret than Heavy Metal the Movie.


* Kids, cassette tapes replaced 8-track cartridges in the national zeitgeist and were co-existent with vinyl LPs, which themselves were like big, fragile, black CDs. CDs are what your older brothers and sisters used to buy back before iTunes.
** also, Jethro Tull was a real person a few centuries ago. Sounds like a Dickens character.

Ode To The Streets Of LA

O, potholed asphalt 'neath my wheels,
Rough in the best of times when dry
Winds howl and morons teem your way,
How much a week's rains doth destroy.

Water from heaven takes your stones
And erodes your oily binding,
Leaving you crack'd, warp'd, and broken,
Vengeful traps for my truck to trip.

Ev'ry mile a painful adventure,
Now I pick my way with care lest
Mine axle do snap asunder like
A stale churro left long outside.

O, potholed asphalt 'neath my wheels,
The weather knave doth say more rain
Shall fall hence. Could'st a favor
For me do? Stop falling apart.

'Tis a small thing I beg of you,
Fight the dictates of entropy
And crumble not into foul ruin.
Do this and I shall tread lightly.

Pray, but keep thyself in one piece,
Expose not pipes and wires below,
And I will pledge to drive well as
Many have not the fortitude.

O, potholed asphalt 'neath my wheels,
You are my true friend, have I told
You that anon? Just let me get
Where I need to go and not die.

I Thought It Would Be Different

I just turned 100,000 miles in my truck. And I do mean just, less than an hour ago, right on Colorado Blvd. on my way to the grocery store.
Here's a picture of the odometer, just in case you don't know what 100,000 looks like already.


   I bought the truck brand-new, and with the exception of about 800 miles when my brother-in-law and I drove from San Antonio to Pasadena, every one of those miles was under my foot. My truck and I have been through one accident (not my fault), one severe blowout, four flat tires, one replacement water pump, one replacement power steering pump, one replacement master cylinder, and several burnt-out taillight bulbs. That's not a lot of maintenance, honestly, for quite a few miles.
    Make no mistake, I've turned 100,000 miles in a car before, but never have all those miles been mine.
   Kind of anti-climactic, to tell you the truth. I did pull over to the side of the road and snap the picture with my cell phone, but... no big deal.
   I expected the heavens to open, light to shine down, and a rich baritone voice to tell me 'Job well done, young man.' Didn't happen. Nobody ambushed me with a huge novelty check, no dancing girls celebrated my arrival at the grocery store, no ribbons, no glitter, no clouds of confetti. I was at 99,999 miles in the gas station parking lot, then a mile away the odometer rolled over.
   That's it.
   I feel cheated out of some sort of celebration. Maybe I'll go to Chuck E. Cheese and crash some kid's birthday party. With my truck.

Eating Alone In Your Car

Back before I was 'between assignments' I would occasionally go out for lunch with colleagues. If we wanted to go somewhere just out of walking distance we'd all trek into the parking garage, pile into somebody's vehicle and take off. Nine times out of ten, in the garage we'd see this guy sitting in his truck - he was a white-sunglasses-worn-on-the-back-of-his-head, spiky moussed hair guy - listening to really loud music, or sleeping, or eating. Sometimes all three. I used to wonder how lonely he was that he thought he needed to take his break in his truck, in a cement parking garage, alone. I would have felt sorry for him if he wasn't such a complete douchebag. White sunglasses. Seriously.
   Fast forward to this week. I've been out doing some Christmas shopping (scored an Elmo cap for my little nephew), and I've seen more people sitting in their cars alone than ever before. And most of these people were eating. Maybe I'm just not in touch with the whole American car zeitgeist, but the only thing I like to do in my truck is drive it. I don't eat in it, rarely drink in it, and I certainly don't sleep in it even though it would make a dandy bed. On the rare times I go to Sonic, I'm usually one of those people sitting at the benches up front, not horking down a burger behind the wheel.
   So what's with all the people eating in their cars? I'm not talking about utility workers or dump truck drivers or cops or firemen, those guys I can understand, they eat when they can where they can. I'm talking about secretaries or students or accountants or white-sunglass-wearing douchebags, people who don't have to be anywhere at a moment's notice. Why? Go inside, sit down, have your artery-clogging meal at a plastic table with the rest of society, don't lock yourself away. For God's sake, today I saw a lady sitting in a McDonald's parking lot, eating the meal she had just gotten at the drive-through. Does that make any sense at all?
   Am I completely out of touch with this one? Is this more of my impending old-man-ness showing?

Gas Station Pickup

Sometimes, as a writer I have to struggle with a concept, I have to tease a finished product out of a rough mess that refuses to make sense. There are days I have to work hard to get anything close to a cogent narrative, and there are occasions where I have to struggle for hours to get just a few good words.
   Sometimes, though, pure gold falls right into my lap and I don't have to do a damn thing but write it down. Sunday night was one of those times.
   I was at a Chevron in Eagle Rock - a newly-hip and still run-down part of Los Angeles immediately adjacent to Pasadena - putting gas in the truck and buying a soda I definitely did not need to drink. The line to pay was long because some jerkoff was cashing in a fistful of lottery scratchers, and so I got at the back of the line and an Ed-Hardy-wearing greasy hipster dude got in line behind me; that's Eagle Rock for you. Moments later a 'blonde' woman in shorts got in line behind him. She was attractive in that 'been clean from meth for six months' kind of way skinny bottle-blonde white chicks can have.
   This is their conversation, which I ran to my truck to write down.

'Blonde' woman: Man, did a bus let off just now?
   Greasy hipster douchebag: Yeah, that's a long line.
What's happening up there?
   So who are you here with?
My husband.
   Oh yeah? Which one is he?
The one with the Raiders shirt.(pointing to the big bald guy pumping gas into his pickup)
   Yeah, okay. (...pause...) You should come party with us.
Nah, I've done enough partying in my life. Hardcore, man.
   You don't look old enough to be done partying.
I'm thirty-five. A lot of long years partying, I'm done.
   Really? I thought you looked... maybe... twenty-eight or thirty. A lot of paryting, huh?
   (... pause..)
   Are you high right now?
No. Are you?

~~~ at this point I have paid for my soda, a habit I'm unsuccessfully trying to kick, and I'm trying to think of a slick way to stay there and eavesdrop on the horrible, embarrassing conversation behind me. I finally abandoned all pretense and just re-folded my cash while they finished ~~~

   Well, I just... you know. Here let me give you my number. ( douchebag actually has a business card he tries to hand over )
No, that's okay, I don't think my husband would want me to take it.
   Oh, hey, he can come too. He looks like a party guy.
He's not.
   Okay... well... I guess I'll see you around.
I don't think so.

Ugh and ewwww. While on the one hand I do have to admire the greasy hipster's bravado and willingness to take a chance, on the other hand I think his choice of venue was questionable, and his banter was reprehensible. If this is what you ladies have to put up with on a regular basis no wonder we men have a bad reputation.
   Oh, final note, as you probably guessed the greasy hipster guy in full Ed Hardy regalia was, in fact, buying cigarettes. Livin' the sterotype...

Yeah, It's Cheap But It Runs

You ever have one of those weeks where you see one thing, and then it seems like you see that thing everywhere else? One week when I was in high school I saw, read, or had read to me something about sunspots once a day. By the end of the week I knew more about sunspots than any sane man would. Or, more recently, I saw, read, or had read to me something about the Gamble House six times in two weeks. By the end of two weeks I knew more about... you get the idea.
   This week I've seen three situations, vignettes, if you will, with an unusual common element: a crap-filled beater. And it wasn't even the same car. Everybody's seen this kind of rolling tragedy, an ancient Hyundai or Ford Fiesta or Dodge Omni, full to bursting with boxes, or shoes, or rolled up sleeping bags, or firewood, or magazines, or picnic baskets, or all these things and more crap besides. It's usually filthy inside and out, paint faded from the sun, rust creeping up the fenders, some part of it held on with rope or bungee cord, and a huge crack across the windshield. And there's always a pine tree air freshener hanging from the rear-view. You feel sorry for the driver and yet outraged at the same time.
   Scene 1: the crap-filled beater is several shades of red, the replaced bits not quite matching the original. The driver is a tall, thin, balding, shirtless beanpole of a guy wearing flip-flops, his arms held helplessly out to his sides as if he were imitating Jesus on the cross as he tries to explain something to the motorcycle cop standing beside him. The cop did not seem sympathetic.
   Scene 2: the crap-filled beater is faded lemon yellow, and a rather large woman in an unfortunate choice of clingy knit fabric pants has the hatchback open, standing with her hands on her ample hips, shaking her head as she confronts the avalanche of crap spilling onto the street.
   Scene 3: the crap-filled beater is sickly green, and stalled in one lane of a two-lane freeway on-ramp, pulled over as far as possible but still blocking traffic. The driver is a portly Ren-Faire kind of a guy, complete with scraggly beard and hair back in a pony tail, and his old lady is a painfully thin goth sort of woman with a big tattoo on her spindly left arm. They're both sitting cross-legged on the hood of the beater, waiting for the tow truck (I'm assuming, they could just have been settling in).
   Maybe it's just because I'm out during the day, but I don't recall quite this many rolling garbage cans before.

'Share The Road' My Ass...

I didn't want to do this. Really. I don't need the hassle, and I almost resent the time I have to spend complaining about it, but they've forced my hand. They made me do it, chipping away at my resolve like a tiny drip of water against a boulder, wearing it away until it's no longer the monolith it once was. Who could do this? you ask. Who could insinuate themselves into my attention and practically force me to comment on them?
   Damned bicyclists, that's who.
   I'm sure you've seen them, no matter what part of the country you live in; they're everywhere, like roaches. With their little shorts and their saddlebags - oh, sorry, panniers, like using a French word makes it any less sissy- and their helmets perched preciously on their heads like they're mushroom people from Mario World... hold on, I'm getting enraged just thinking about it. Deep breath... in... out... in... out...
   Yeah, I get it, share the road, it's a green alternative, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The problem with bicyclists taking up a traffic lane - aside from their crass presumption - is that they want to play in a sandbox that's just too big for them. It's dangerous because they move too slow, and they're unprotected by US DOT regs cars must follow, and even the most well-meaning bicyclists constantly flout traffic laws by blowing past lights and stop signs, riding against traffic, that kind of thing. It's like your little sister wanting to play football with the guys: it's cute, but she's going to get hurt if she insists on playing for real.
   So bicyclists of the United States, here's the deal: if you obey all the same traffic laws as I do - all the time - you can share my lane. If you can ride your bicycle as fast as I can drive my car, you can share my lane. If your fifteen pound bicycle can survive a crash with my 3500 pound truck without being mangled into tin foil, you can share my lane. Until you can do those things, get the hell out of the way.
   Whew... sometimes it's good to vent.

And On The Eighth Day God Created NASCAR

I remember the day I stopped watching football on TV. I was sixteen years old (really) and I had just spent most of Sunday indoors watching two complete games back-to-back. By the time the second game was over the sun had gone down and I remember thinking to myself 'I just spent the whole day in front of the television and I have nothing to show for it.' From that day to this I haven't watched an entire football game on TV, not even the SuperBowl. Especially not the SuperBowl.
   And yet I now find myself an eager NASCAR fan.
   Yep, the guy who didn't want to waste hours watching football now wastes hours watching really fast cars making left-hand turns and stopping every once in a while for gas. I have my favorite driver (go Carl Edwards), I know the difference between the Sprint Cup races and the Nationwide Races, I know who's better on a short track and who can win on a fast track. I even have a least favorite driver. Yeah, I'm a NASCAR fan, even though it's been a while since I ran moonshine and I'm big-city folk.
   I'm not sure how it happened, but I blame HD TV. I'll watch paint dry in HD, but when you toss in some top-notch racing and the occasional wreck or two... well, I'm not made of stone.

'Splain This One

So I'm driving in Burbank last night, and I smell cigarette smoke. While undeniably vile it's not unusual, when people can't smoke anywhere else they're going to do it in their cars. I clicked the AC up to 'High' and cracked the windows to drive the stench out, but it just got worse. I looked around to see which of the jackasses driving next to me was smoking, and I found him.
   Driving a Prius.
   Yup, a guy driving a partial-zero-emission hybrid electric vehicle had his window cranked down all the way and was puffing savagely, almost desperately. Looked like he was keeping a dragon in there with all the noxious fumes billowing out. He's trying to save the environment by driving a very homely electric car but he's gassing out everyone else on Victory Blvd. with his Marlboros.
   Gotta love LA.

I Knew I Was An Adult When...

One of my nieces turned eighteen recently, and while she's officially now an adult - she can be in the Army but can't legally drink a beer - I don't know that she's yet had an experience that brings her newfound majority home to her.
   It didn't take me long to know I was an adult. I wasn't even eighteen yet, as a matter of fact. In the summer between my Senior year of high school and my Freshman year of college I was out driving in the Green Machine, my '72 Chevelle. I was about two miles from my home, getting gas at the convenience store, when I noticed one of my car's tires going flat; there was a big-ass nail right through the sidewall. I got on the pay phone (no cell phones back then) and phoned home. My father answered and I told him my plight, that I had a flat tire and I was not too far away. I was hoping, of course, that he would come and rescue me. There was a moment of silence on line.
    "What are you going to do about it?" my father asked.
   I hesitated. "Uh... change the tire?"
   "See you when you get home," my father said then he hung up.

I became an adult that afternoon, changing my own flat tire on a scorching Texas summer day,sweat dripping in my eyes, the sun burning my neck and the backs of my calves. I figured out how to work the jack and I figured out the right and wrong way to turn the lugnuts and I figured out what a miserable, thankless job car repair is. And I not only figured out how to curse just like my Dad, I finally understood why he sometimes found it necessary.
   Scraped my knuckles bloody too. That's man stuff right there.

Guerilla Fireworks

The Fourth of July is always interesting in Pasadena, because from my apartment I can usually see five different fireworks shows. There's the big one at the Rose Bowl, and then some of the nearby communities have their own displays, surrounding me with glowing, exploding sparkles. This year, however, because of the bad economy most of the non-Rose-Bowl shows were canceled. I did still get to see the best show, however, and that is the pirate fireworks hustle going on in Altadena.
   Altadena sits adjacent to Pasadena but to the North, into the foothills. It's got its good parts and bad parts, but evidently the area is home to a merry band of scofflaws/ fireworks enthusiasts. Every Fourth, about 9 PM-ish, I can stand on my balcony and look North to Altadena and see mini-rockets going off. These are the kind you can buy on an Indian reservation, big-ass tubes of gunpowder straight from China; they don't go up as high as the ones at the Rose Bowl, but they're loud and bright and every bit as beautiful.
   You'll see a rocket on the East side of Altadena, maybe two in a row, gold and red or maybe greenish blue. Then nothing. Then another rocket or two about a mile West of the first ones. Then nothing. Then another rocket or two even further West. Then nothing. Then some more rockets a little South.
   Then you'll hear the police sirens. And the rockets stop for a few minutes while the band of ne'er do wells lay low. Then the whole thing starts up again, launch and run, launch and run. Guerilla fireworks.
   While I feel for the people of Altadena - it's got to be unnerving having huge fireworks go off over your head unexpectedly - the fourteen-year-old inside me relishes the notion of shooting off great big rockets then having to run from the police to do it again. And again. And again.
   I tell you, it's a good thing I don't use my powers for evil, you'd all be in a lot of trouble...