Guess what I had for dinner? Go on, I'll give you three guesses and I'm positive you're never going to figure it out.
A hot dog wrapped in a tortilla with cheese and some salsa?
Jeez... first try...
Yup, I ate a tortilla-wrapped hot dog for dinner. With some cantaloupe and grapes on the side. For lunch I had lemonade and yogurt and some bread pudding (not really sweet, but it's very good. From Sun Harvest.) For breakfast I had iced tea and Pop Tarts, the chocolate chip kind, which are much more honest than the fruit-flavored kind which pretend not to be the candy they so obviously are.
I'm regressing back to my childhood. When I was five this was what I thought it would be like to be an adult and to feed myself. Not junk food, not really (except for the Pop Tarts and hot dog), but not the most nutritious day I've had in my life either.
I don't know, lately I just can't be bothered. Either I'll go days subsisting on fruit and vegetables because I just can't quite make it to the grocery store for animal protein, or I end up raiding the pantry for whatever's in there that might go well together. No middle ground. I'm waiting for the 'leftover lemon chicken - ranch style beans' night that will inevitably happen some time soon.
I can cook meals. Really. I used to be a cook, years ago. I can make fifteen pans of lasagna and four-hundred-fifty hand-breaded cheese sticks and work the ovens and stoves on the line. And still have time to read to orphans. I'm good. But I'm terribly, terribly lazy, especially when the meal is only for me, myself and I. I dread what's going to happen to me next. When I was five I thought a stellar breakfast would be Lucky Charms but with all the pesky cereal bits taken out. I pined for a bowl of just Lucky Charms marshmallows but my mother foiled my efforts to bring my dreams to life.
Now that I'm good and grown I might just need to make that happen. Although maybe that's a cry for help...
Showing posts with label lebowski. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lebowski. Show all posts
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Friday, November 26, 2010
Snickers Owes Me
I was just thinking about how many Snickers bars I've eaten over the years. There's no way I could get an accurate count, but it's a lot. An awful lot.
Since the time my mother first let me have chocolate I think I've been eating Snickers. Had 'em in school - elementary through high school - usually as part of some sort of candy sale to support the marching band or Spanish club or what have you. Had 'em through years and years of Halloweens, from the regular-sized bars to the half-sized to the bite sized to the fun sized. Had 'em with almonds and with dark chocolate, and in ice cream bar form. Had 'em in college and after college, as a snack on the plane for a business trip, and as a meal at the hotel after a long day.
I've had more than my share of Snickers bars, is what I'm saying. One look at my waistline could tell you that, though.
After all these candy bars, after all these empty calories, I think Snickers owes me. Not more Snickers bars, they owe me an apology.
Apology for what? For not really being food. If you think about it, candy bars are one of the few products that survived intact from the time there was no FDA back in the 19th Century. It used to be that candy bars were marketed alongside various other snake oil products as some sort of calmative or invigorator or cure-all. The government legislated away most false medicinal claims, but candy bars survived. So did soft drinks.
There really is nothing about a candy bar that is good for you. Just empty calories, and in the last 20 years lots of high fructose corn syrup. High-fat, high-sugar, high-calorie, low nutritional value. You could probably just eat a stick of butter and be better off than eating a candy bar. But I still eat them.
I don't want to come across as a crazed liberal, but if as a society we're going to legislate an end to cigarette smoking, why aren't we doing the same with junk food? We decry Philip Morris for profiting for decades with a product that kills people. M&M Mars does exactly the same thing, and yet we encourage kids to become consumers. Something ain't right here.
So I'm going to sit right here until Snickers apologizes. I think I'm gonna need a snack while I wait, though. Something with chocolate. Maybe some peanuts too. And some caramel. Nougat would be nice. Hmmm...
Since the time my mother first let me have chocolate I think I've been eating Snickers. Had 'em in school - elementary through high school - usually as part of some sort of candy sale to support the marching band or Spanish club or what have you. Had 'em through years and years of Halloweens, from the regular-sized bars to the half-sized to the bite sized to the fun sized. Had 'em with almonds and with dark chocolate, and in ice cream bar form. Had 'em in college and after college, as a snack on the plane for a business trip, and as a meal at the hotel after a long day.
I've had more than my share of Snickers bars, is what I'm saying. One look at my waistline could tell you that, though.
After all these candy bars, after all these empty calories, I think Snickers owes me. Not more Snickers bars, they owe me an apology.
Apology for what? For not really being food. If you think about it, candy bars are one of the few products that survived intact from the time there was no FDA back in the 19th Century. It used to be that candy bars were marketed alongside various other snake oil products as some sort of calmative or invigorator or cure-all. The government legislated away most false medicinal claims, but candy bars survived. So did soft drinks.
There really is nothing about a candy bar that is good for you. Just empty calories, and in the last 20 years lots of high fructose corn syrup. High-fat, high-sugar, high-calorie, low nutritional value. You could probably just eat a stick of butter and be better off than eating a candy bar. But I still eat them.
I don't want to come across as a crazed liberal, but if as a society we're going to legislate an end to cigarette smoking, why aren't we doing the same with junk food? We decry Philip Morris for profiting for decades with a product that kills people. M&M Mars does exactly the same thing, and yet we encourage kids to become consumers. Something ain't right here.
So I'm going to sit right here until Snickers apologizes. I think I'm gonna need a snack while I wait, though. Something with chocolate. Maybe some peanuts too. And some caramel. Nougat would be nice. Hmmm...
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Alone
I didn't used to mind being alone. I preferred it, to tell you the truth. Just being by myself didn't mean I was lonely, and no roommates meant my place was mine, I could walk around in my underwear to my heart's content, do dishes or not, leave laundry until it was an absolute emergency. No big deal.
I don't like it now.
I find myself coming home to an empty place, no wife, no kids, no pets, just a few houseplants, and I know I'm missing out. I'm alone and I'm lonely. Even as recently as six months ago I didn't know that.
What changed? I wish I knew. I'm getting older, as we all are, and maybe I'm feeling the march of time, maybe my chance to have a wife and kids is slipping away. But I'm so out of dating practice I don't know how to go about it any more; I don't know how to find someone I want who would want someone like me. It's enough to make me despair, really.
But I'm not gonna. Things will get better, but they're not gonna get better all by themselves. I have to do something, I have to make this happen. I know what I want and I just have to go out there and grab it.
Sure wish I knew what to do...
I don't like it now.
I find myself coming home to an empty place, no wife, no kids, no pets, just a few houseplants, and I know I'm missing out. I'm alone and I'm lonely. Even as recently as six months ago I didn't know that.
What changed? I wish I knew. I'm getting older, as we all are, and maybe I'm feeling the march of time, maybe my chance to have a wife and kids is slipping away. But I'm so out of dating practice I don't know how to go about it any more; I don't know how to find someone I want who would want someone like me. It's enough to make me despair, really.
But I'm not gonna. Things will get better, but they're not gonna get better all by themselves. I have to do something, I have to make this happen. I know what I want and I just have to go out there and grab it.
Sure wish I knew what to do...
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Look Like A Terrorist
I know it's human nature to fear the unknown, it's an innate fear that's probably the single biggest reason our caveman ancestors lived long enough to have the kids who had the kids who had the kids who eventually became you and me. It's self-preservation turned to 11.
But I hear people talking about other people who look like terrorists, and I ain't buying it. Timothy McVeigh, the single worst terrorist in America until 9/11, looked like a guy who used to play on my middle school football team. And if you think middle-school football teams harbor terrorists... well, you'd be right. But they're the kind of terrorists who light paper bags of dog poop on fire on your front doorstep, not the kind who use fertilizer bombs to kill daycare toddlers like Mr. McVeigh.
What people mean when they say someone 'looks like a terrorist' is that 'someone looks foreign,' or more specifically 'someone is wearing a turban and a robe and a they have olive skin and a long beard.' Because, really, people from Ghana wear turbans and robes, but no one calls them terrorists. And the Amish sport beards that are eerily similar to the ones Muslim mullahs wear, but you wouldn't call anyone Amish a terrorist. They wear suspenders and straw hats, for God's sake.
I'm in no way an apologist for Muslim extremists - they are dangerous and they are responsible for much of the violence in the world right now - but someone is not a terrorist because of the way they look, they're a terrorist because they're sullen, resentful cowards. It's what's inside that counts.
Think about it. What if I was visiting, say, Fiji, and the people there had decided that pale white guys wearing uninspired office worker clothes were terrorists? I'd be stopped and frisked on every corner (they have corners in Fiji, right?), my picture would be on the 'no-canoe list,' and they'd have satirical t-shirts of pale white guys in office attire. How fair is that?
While the Ku Kux Klan is vile and reprehensible, at least they're honest in their extreme bigotry. They don't like anyone who's not a white American Protestant and if you're anything but they'll tell you straight up that's the reason why they hate you. They don't hide behind 'looks like a terrorist.' So, when you think about it, the 'looks like a terrorist' crowd are bigger cowards and losers than the KKK.
But I hear people talking about other people who look like terrorists, and I ain't buying it. Timothy McVeigh, the single worst terrorist in America until 9/11, looked like a guy who used to play on my middle school football team. And if you think middle-school football teams harbor terrorists... well, you'd be right. But they're the kind of terrorists who light paper bags of dog poop on fire on your front doorstep, not the kind who use fertilizer bombs to kill daycare toddlers like Mr. McVeigh.
What people mean when they say someone 'looks like a terrorist' is that 'someone looks foreign,' or more specifically 'someone is wearing a turban and a robe and a they have olive skin and a long beard.' Because, really, people from Ghana wear turbans and robes, but no one calls them terrorists. And the Amish sport beards that are eerily similar to the ones Muslim mullahs wear, but you wouldn't call anyone Amish a terrorist. They wear suspenders and straw hats, for God's sake.
I'm in no way an apologist for Muslim extremists - they are dangerous and they are responsible for much of the violence in the world right now - but someone is not a terrorist because of the way they look, they're a terrorist because they're sullen, resentful cowards. It's what's inside that counts.
Think about it. What if I was visiting, say, Fiji, and the people there had decided that pale white guys wearing uninspired office worker clothes were terrorists? I'd be stopped and frisked on every corner (they have corners in Fiji, right?), my picture would be on the 'no-canoe list,' and they'd have satirical t-shirts of pale white guys in office attire. How fair is that?
While the Ku Kux Klan is vile and reprehensible, at least they're honest in their extreme bigotry. They don't like anyone who's not a white American Protestant and if you're anything but they'll tell you straight up that's the reason why they hate you. They don't hide behind 'looks like a terrorist.' So, when you think about it, the 'looks like a terrorist' crowd are bigger cowards and losers than the KKK.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned that bee keepers aren't doing enough to prevent their hives from developing a rudimentary yet malevolent intelligence.
I saw a bee truck just last night - it's the beginning of the SoCal pollinization season - rumbling along St. John Avenue. I was in the hot rod and I had the top down, so I thought that perhaps the bees might swarm out of all the hives on the truck, lift me into the air and crown me their king. Didn't happen. But I did get the impression that they were watching me with their beady little compound eyes, trying to decide what to do about the guy in the convertible.
See, I'm not afraid of bees, they're nature's little factory workers, diligently slaving away in their hives just like our grandparents used to do for Ford and Chrysler. But in nature beehives are separated from one another, you don't find queen bees building hives on neighboring branches in trees. Beekeepers, though, have hundreds of colonies all stacked one on top of another, and you can't tell me those bees don't talk to each other. And just like the labor movement brought unionization to the American auto worker, eventually bees are going to get wise and figure out there are way more of them than there are of us.
If those bees last night had been organized, if they were all working together, think of the trouble I would have been in. And then think if those bees had talked with other bees, and so on down the line. We might all end up slaves to our honeybee overlords.
I saw a bee truck just last night - it's the beginning of the SoCal pollinization season - rumbling along St. John Avenue. I was in the hot rod and I had the top down, so I thought that perhaps the bees might swarm out of all the hives on the truck, lift me into the air and crown me their king. Didn't happen. But I did get the impression that they were watching me with their beady little compound eyes, trying to decide what to do about the guy in the convertible.
See, I'm not afraid of bees, they're nature's little factory workers, diligently slaving away in their hives just like our grandparents used to do for Ford and Chrysler. But in nature beehives are separated from one another, you don't find queen bees building hives on neighboring branches in trees. Beekeepers, though, have hundreds of colonies all stacked one on top of another, and you can't tell me those bees don't talk to each other. And just like the labor movement brought unionization to the American auto worker, eventually bees are going to get wise and figure out there are way more of them than there are of us.
If those bees last night had been organized, if they were all working together, think of the trouble I would have been in. And then think if those bees had talked with other bees, and so on down the line. We might all end up slaves to our honeybee overlords.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
It's Not What You Say, It's How You Say It
There's a tradition that on Christmas Eve animals can speak, from midnight until the dawn of Christmas Morning. I know that several times I stayed up and waited for our family dog and cat to start talking but they never did. Maybe they just didn't know how to start the conversational ball rolling, seeing as how inexperienced they were at it. Maybe they just didn't think I would be interested in how funny people look when you're staring up at them, or have your snout in their crotch.
I was never really interested so much in what the animals might say, though, as what they might sound like when they did talk. When I was a kid I thought our dog Tina, a miniature schnauzer/miniature poodle mix, might sound like Mary Hart, very enthusiastic without anything of substance to say. I thought Puff, our white cat (a boy), might sound like Richard Nixon, an idea that still makes me laugh to this day. "I did not knock over the trash can. I did not pee on your shoes."
My sister and her family had a Brittany Spaniel, Hank, who I always imagined would sound like Paul Lynde.
My mother's horrible, vicious cat Smokey - she claims he's just misunderstood - would sound like Joe Pesci. From Goodfellas, not from My Cousin Vinny.
My friend Marna has an American bulldog Tex, who I absolutely know would sound like Jeff Bridges as The Dude. "So I'm Tex, that's what you call me. Or his Texness, or Tex-er, or El Texerino, if you're not into the whole brevity thing."
I'll bet you can't look at your pets now without imagining what their human voices would sound like. Go on, just try it, you can't.
I was never really interested so much in what the animals might say, though, as what they might sound like when they did talk. When I was a kid I thought our dog Tina, a miniature schnauzer/miniature poodle mix, might sound like Mary Hart, very enthusiastic without anything of substance to say. I thought Puff, our white cat (a boy), might sound like Richard Nixon, an idea that still makes me laugh to this day. "I did not knock over the trash can. I did not pee on your shoes."
My sister and her family had a Brittany Spaniel, Hank, who I always imagined would sound like Paul Lynde.
My mother's horrible, vicious cat Smokey - she claims he's just misunderstood - would sound like Joe Pesci. From Goodfellas, not from My Cousin Vinny.
My friend Marna has an American bulldog Tex, who I absolutely know would sound like Jeff Bridges as The Dude. "So I'm Tex, that's what you call me. Or his Texness, or Tex-er, or El Texerino, if you're not into the whole brevity thing."
I'll bet you can't look at your pets now without imagining what their human voices would sound like. Go on, just try it, you can't.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
At The Unemployment Office
I noticed that my 'Claim Balance' on my unemployment check keeps ticking down, and, after doing some simple algebra, I figured out when the money was due to run out. Only mildly panicked - and months before the cash ran dry - I went down to the local EDD office (that's the California unemployement office) to ask what I had to do to make sure the checks kept coming.
Let me first say the people at the EDD are extremely helpful. You can tell they take pride in getting people work, and I haven't met one of them who wasn't a genuinely nice person.
That said, they are still a California State bureaucracy. So I went through the door and stood behind the black tape, a good five feet from the counter, and waited my turn. That's when I noticed the 'Threatening a State worker is a felony' notice just beneath the 'wait here' sign. This alarmed me for two reasons, first because the staff evidently get enough threats that they feel they have to remind people that doing so is wrong, and second because evidently the threats workers receive are serious enough that making them constitutes a felony. Maybe they need hazard pay like soldiers get.
When the nice older gentleman called me to the desk he tapped the sign-in sheet - gotta fulfill the requirements of the bureaucracy - and asked me what I needed. I signed in and explained my concern about my money running out. 'Don't worry,' he told me, 'you're on your first renewal, right? We're working on four. It'll happen automatically, you have nothing to worry about.'
Yikes. Four renewals. That's two years. While I have enjoyed my time 'between assignments' I'm getting anxious to get back to work. I don't know if I can last two years.
The nice gentleman told me he was sure I'd find work before I hit my two-year limit, and I left the counter feeling that I would, indeed.
I stepped a few feet away to stow some of the paperwork he'd given me, and he called the next person over. 'I don't know why you people can't get this right,' the surly lady began the conversation. And then I understood the 'felony' sign up front.
Let me first say the people at the EDD are extremely helpful. You can tell they take pride in getting people work, and I haven't met one of them who wasn't a genuinely nice person.
That said, they are still a California State bureaucracy. So I went through the door and stood behind the black tape, a good five feet from the counter, and waited my turn. That's when I noticed the 'Threatening a State worker is a felony' notice just beneath the 'wait here' sign. This alarmed me for two reasons, first because the staff evidently get enough threats that they feel they have to remind people that doing so is wrong, and second because evidently the threats workers receive are serious enough that making them constitutes a felony. Maybe they need hazard pay like soldiers get.
When the nice older gentleman called me to the desk he tapped the sign-in sheet - gotta fulfill the requirements of the bureaucracy - and asked me what I needed. I signed in and explained my concern about my money running out. 'Don't worry,' he told me, 'you're on your first renewal, right? We're working on four. It'll happen automatically, you have nothing to worry about.'
Yikes. Four renewals. That's two years. While I have enjoyed my time 'between assignments' I'm getting anxious to get back to work. I don't know if I can last two years.
The nice gentleman told me he was sure I'd find work before I hit my two-year limit, and I left the counter feeling that I would, indeed.
I stepped a few feet away to stow some of the paperwork he'd given me, and he called the next person over. 'I don't know why you people can't get this right,' the surly lady began the conversation. And then I understood the 'felony' sign up front.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm worried that a zombie plague will take over the planet, turning everyone else into flesh-eating undead things, and I'll end up being the last non-zombie person on the face of the Earth.
But I'm not concerned because I think that I would be the ultimate target for the stagging, ravenous walking corpses, the one bright spot of light in a world of darkness. I'm not worried that I'd be the last guardian of a vanished society, bravely facing each day determined to hold on to my humanity. I'm not worried that the zombie horde will stalk me like hyenas stalk their prey, waiting for me to make the one mistake that will allow them to finally consume me and make me one of them at last.
No, I'm worried that if I'm the last non-zombie on the Earth, when the inevitable last day comes and I get turned into a zombie they'll be fresh out of brains.
Think about it, if everyone in the world got turned into zombies but me, and if zombies eat brains (they do), then wouldn't they have pretty much run out of brains by the time they got around to infecting me?
The last thing I want is to be the loneliest zombie, starving to death after Armageddon because the other greedy bastard zombies ate up all the brains before I could get there.
But I'm not concerned because I think that I would be the ultimate target for the stagging, ravenous walking corpses, the one bright spot of light in a world of darkness. I'm not worried that I'd be the last guardian of a vanished society, bravely facing each day determined to hold on to my humanity. I'm not worried that the zombie horde will stalk me like hyenas stalk their prey, waiting for me to make the one mistake that will allow them to finally consume me and make me one of them at last.
No, I'm worried that if I'm the last non-zombie on the Earth, when the inevitable last day comes and I get turned into a zombie they'll be fresh out of brains.
Think about it, if everyone in the world got turned into zombies but me, and if zombies eat brains (they do), then wouldn't they have pretty much run out of brains by the time they got around to infecting me?
The last thing I want is to be the loneliest zombie, starving to death after Armageddon because the other greedy bastard zombies ate up all the brains before I could get there.
Friday, September 25, 2009
In Action
I've been thinking about the best way to go about becoming gainfully employed. Yup, it's time to start hitting it pretty hard, time to leave this life of leisure and get back on the job track. It's not that I want to, it's that I need to. But all of us currently 'between assignments' know that the entire recruiting process these days is designed so that you can't actually talk to a person, they don't want to be bothered. Kind of cowardly, if you ask me, and just about the worst way you could find someone to do a job, but that's the way it is. So I've been trying to think of ways to avoid the resume black hole and get myself noticed, and I finally got it.
I need my own action figure.
I grew up with the Mego superhero figures, I had Batman, Superman, and Aquaman (really), and, of course, the real GI Joe, the big one, not the horrible little one. I still have, somewhere, the first set of Star Wars action figures, all well-worn and thoroughly played with, as toys should be. And right now, atop my bookshelf, sit two modern action figures, The Dude and Walter. I know from action figures, is what I'm saying, and today the collector's action figure market is huge.
I figure my action figure would be the size of the real GI Joe, a foot tall, and I'd have my own 'Living Room Playset,' complete with couch, big TV, and remote control. He could have something to paint on a beard - since I shave infrequently now - and you'd strip him down to his underwear to watch broadcast TV, since he canceled cable. He'd have a wide variety of work clothes gathering dust in his closet, and he'd try to eat healthy but fall off the wagon more times than not. It could be the first in a line of 'real world' action figures, designed to prepare little kids for the harsh realities of life.
I think I'm on to something here...
I need my own action figure.
I grew up with the Mego superhero figures, I had Batman, Superman, and Aquaman (really), and, of course, the real GI Joe, the big one, not the horrible little one. I still have, somewhere, the first set of Star Wars action figures, all well-worn and thoroughly played with, as toys should be. And right now, atop my bookshelf, sit two modern action figures, The Dude and Walter. I know from action figures, is what I'm saying, and today the collector's action figure market is huge.
I figure my action figure would be the size of the real GI Joe, a foot tall, and I'd have my own 'Living Room Playset,' complete with couch, big TV, and remote control. He could have something to paint on a beard - since I shave infrequently now - and you'd strip him down to his underwear to watch broadcast TV, since he canceled cable. He'd have a wide variety of work clothes gathering dust in his closet, and he'd try to eat healthy but fall off the wagon more times than not. It could be the first in a line of 'real world' action figures, designed to prepare little kids for the harsh realities of life.
I think I'm on to something here...
Friday, July 24, 2009
Get Dressed, You Bum
I'm turning into The Dude.
Minus the 'herbal cigarettes' I mean. I haven't gone out into public wearing a robe. Yet. But I do spend far too long in the morning lounging around in my underwear. Like right now. As a matter of fact, I could be typing this in the nude, and no one would ever know. Unless I took web cam video of it. Which I won't. As far as you know.
I'm getting lazier all around. I'm letting my hair grow. I forget what day it is. I turn on 'The Price Is Right' for the last five minutes, the Showcase, but I can't be bothered to watch the rest. Some might say I'm being efficient, using my time wisely, but I know I'm just being lazy. Dude-like.
Although... one place I'm not being lazy is housecleaning. I swear I've never run the dishwasher so frequently as I have in the last four months. No spiderwebs on the porch, and I keep the front entry squirrel- and leaf-free. The carpets are nice and clean, and you could practically eat off my toilets.
But I just can't seem to put on pants in the morning.
Minus the 'herbal cigarettes' I mean. I haven't gone out into public wearing a robe. Yet. But I do spend far too long in the morning lounging around in my underwear. Like right now. As a matter of fact, I could be typing this in the nude, and no one would ever know. Unless I took web cam video of it. Which I won't. As far as you know.
I'm getting lazier all around. I'm letting my hair grow. I forget what day it is. I turn on 'The Price Is Right' for the last five minutes, the Showcase, but I can't be bothered to watch the rest. Some might say I'm being efficient, using my time wisely, but I know I'm just being lazy. Dude-like.
Although... one place I'm not being lazy is housecleaning. I swear I've never run the dishwasher so frequently as I have in the last four months. No spiderwebs on the porch, and I keep the front entry squirrel- and leaf-free. The carpets are nice and clean, and you could practically eat off my toilets.
But I just can't seem to put on pants in the morning.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Lebowski Fest - Part 2
Let's back up a moment, and pretend that the show hasn't started yet, that I'm still standing at the corner of Wilshire and Western waiting for my friend. What might that street scene look like?
There would probably be an awful lot of traffic, cars going every which way. And there were. But there might also be a surprising amount of foot traffic. Not only is this because the Los Angeles Metro 'Purple Line' terminates at that intersection (used to be part of the Red Line if you've never heard of the Purple Line) and because of the many LA Metro bus stops, but it's also because people in that part of LA tend to be pedestrians, surprisingly enough. So what might one have seen on a Thursday afternoon, anything of note?
How about two Mormon guys who looked about 14 years old, complete in their short-sleeved white shirts, black pants, carrying their bicycle helmets, and looking as out of place as... well, as Mormon missionaries at Wilshire and Western. Even better, how about the heavily tattooed pregnant woman who crossed the street with them, chatting on her phone? Or the Mexican ice cream vendor with his homemade cart and barely-audible tinkling bell?
It's a pageant of humanity, I tell you.
To complete the Lebowski Fest story, after the killer set by the little 9-year-old Japanese guitar god (he did, like six or seven songs, didn't miss a note as far as I could tell... I'm still flabbergasted), and a taped fake-satellite appearance by Jeff Bridges, they finally - FINALLY - started the movie. As I mentioned before, there were surprisingly few people dressed in costume. But there were many, many people who could quote the movie line for line. And they did. And quite a few of them snuck out from time to time to indulge in a little herbage, if you know what I mean. Smelled like the art teachers' lounge in high school. Which is why they have the time to spend on a Thursday night going to Lebowski Fest. It was, actually, very fun to have people recite the best lines with the film.
On the way out, the panoply of humanity continued. What might you have seen? Glad you asked. You might have seen a very enterprising young immigrant woman who didn't speak a lot of English but knew enough to set up her hot dog stand on the sidewalk right outside the theater exit. Stoned moviegoers can eat a lot of hot dogs, I saw it with my own eyes. You might also have seen another entrepreneur who dressed in a tattered hospital gown and held a pitifully hand-printed sign advising that 'they dropped me off from the syke ward' (yes, he misspelled 'psych' ward). This is actually a problem in LA, but about three miles East, in Skid Row downtown, so the guy would have been better off selling hot dogs. Or, perhaps, putting on a bright blue sombrero and playing the trumpet. Badly. As the guy hanging out by the parking garage did.
Lebowski Fest hasn't been in LA for three years, and this was very fun. Aside from the attendees mostly being men 'of a certain age' - as old as I am, and who had probably seen the movie in theaters originally - it was a great time. I'd do it again, as long as that little Japanese kid was going to play again.
There would probably be an awful lot of traffic, cars going every which way. And there were. But there might also be a surprising amount of foot traffic. Not only is this because the Los Angeles Metro 'Purple Line' terminates at that intersection (used to be part of the Red Line if you've never heard of the Purple Line) and because of the many LA Metro bus stops, but it's also because people in that part of LA tend to be pedestrians, surprisingly enough. So what might one have seen on a Thursday afternoon, anything of note?
How about two Mormon guys who looked about 14 years old, complete in their short-sleeved white shirts, black pants, carrying their bicycle helmets, and looking as out of place as... well, as Mormon missionaries at Wilshire and Western. Even better, how about the heavily tattooed pregnant woman who crossed the street with them, chatting on her phone? Or the Mexican ice cream vendor with his homemade cart and barely-audible tinkling bell?
It's a pageant of humanity, I tell you.
To complete the Lebowski Fest story, after the killer set by the little 9-year-old Japanese guitar god (he did, like six or seven songs, didn't miss a note as far as I could tell... I'm still flabbergasted), and a taped fake-satellite appearance by Jeff Bridges, they finally - FINALLY - started the movie. As I mentioned before, there were surprisingly few people dressed in costume. But there were many, many people who could quote the movie line for line. And they did. And quite a few of them snuck out from time to time to indulge in a little herbage, if you know what I mean. Smelled like the art teachers' lounge in high school. Which is why they have the time to spend on a Thursday night going to Lebowski Fest. It was, actually, very fun to have people recite the best lines with the film.
On the way out, the panoply of humanity continued. What might you have seen? Glad you asked. You might have seen a very enterprising young immigrant woman who didn't speak a lot of English but knew enough to set up her hot dog stand on the sidewalk right outside the theater exit. Stoned moviegoers can eat a lot of hot dogs, I saw it with my own eyes. You might also have seen another entrepreneur who dressed in a tattered hospital gown and held a pitifully hand-printed sign advising that 'they dropped me off from the syke ward' (yes, he misspelled 'psych' ward). This is actually a problem in LA, but about three miles East, in Skid Row downtown, so the guy would have been better off selling hot dogs. Or, perhaps, putting on a bright blue sombrero and playing the trumpet. Badly. As the guy hanging out by the parking garage did.
Lebowski Fest hasn't been in LA for three years, and this was very fun. Aside from the attendees mostly being men 'of a certain age' - as old as I am, and who had probably seen the movie in theaters originally - it was a great time. I'd do it again, as long as that little Japanese kid was going to play again.
Lebowski Fest - Part 1
I went to the LA Lebowski Fest last night, and it was AWESOME! Much better than I thought it would be. But there's more to the tale...
First, as with any LA story, is the trip there. The Lebowski Fest was held at the Wiltern Theater, which is at the corner of Wilshire and Western (duh), deep in the heart of Koreatown. Unless you live or work within a few miles of it, there's no easy way to get to this part of LA from any other part. Especially at 5:30 PM. So I knew what I was getting into. At least I thought I did.
It took 45 minutes to go fourteen miles or so, but that's pretty much par for the course in LA, not unusual. However, as I traveled down Western, I saw some examples of the worst driving LA has to offer, and that's saying something. People driving the wrong way down the street just to make a left turn into the parking lot for a pizza place (must be good pie), buses plowing through red lights at top speed, one gentleman walking down the center stripe - he wasn't begging for money, just trying to get somewhere with his rolling luggage and thought the double-yellow was a good place to do that. An amazing display of impatience, incompetence, and rudeness, even for LA.
After I got the tickets, my friend and I had Korean BBQ - naturally - a few blocks down Wilshire. After the security purse-screening we got in the theater and she got a White Russian (see the movie if you don't get it); it's a real theater, not a movie theater, they serve booze. We expected more people dressed as the Dude or Walter or Jesus than we saw.
There were a few introductions of bit players, people from the movie who had 5 lines or less, and the inspiration for the Dude, Jeff Dowd, who was, honestly, kind of incoherent.
But then, ah... but then... they introduced 9-year-old Yuto Miazawa. He's a little kid from Japan, who totally, completely shreds a rock guitar. Unbelieveable. He ROCKS!!! His set consisted of great guitar-melting old-school American rock like 'Highway Star' by Deep Purple, 'Crazy Train' by Ozzy, 'National Anthem' by Jimi Hendrix (the kid did it right), and even 'Freebird' by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Funny/tragic note: one of the LA 20-somethings actually leaned over and asked me - during the opening riffs - 'is this Freebird?' Douchebag. The best part of it all was listening to this amazing guitar virtuosity, backed by a 9-year-old Japanese kid's voice. Like listening to Pikachu rock out with his... you know what I'm saying. You have to listen to this kid play.
More about the screening and after the show in another post.
First, as with any LA story, is the trip there. The Lebowski Fest was held at the Wiltern Theater, which is at the corner of Wilshire and Western (duh), deep in the heart of Koreatown. Unless you live or work within a few miles of it, there's no easy way to get to this part of LA from any other part. Especially at 5:30 PM. So I knew what I was getting into. At least I thought I did.
It took 45 minutes to go fourteen miles or so, but that's pretty much par for the course in LA, not unusual. However, as I traveled down Western, I saw some examples of the worst driving LA has to offer, and that's saying something. People driving the wrong way down the street just to make a left turn into the parking lot for a pizza place (must be good pie), buses plowing through red lights at top speed, one gentleman walking down the center stripe - he wasn't begging for money, just trying to get somewhere with his rolling luggage and thought the double-yellow was a good place to do that. An amazing display of impatience, incompetence, and rudeness, even for LA.
After I got the tickets, my friend and I had Korean BBQ - naturally - a few blocks down Wilshire. After the security purse-screening we got in the theater and she got a White Russian (see the movie if you don't get it); it's a real theater, not a movie theater, they serve booze. We expected more people dressed as the Dude or Walter or Jesus than we saw.
There were a few introductions of bit players, people from the movie who had 5 lines or less, and the inspiration for the Dude, Jeff Dowd, who was, honestly, kind of incoherent.
But then, ah... but then... they introduced 9-year-old Yuto Miazawa. He's a little kid from Japan, who totally, completely shreds a rock guitar. Unbelieveable. He ROCKS!!! His set consisted of great guitar-melting old-school American rock like 'Highway Star' by Deep Purple, 'Crazy Train' by Ozzy, 'National Anthem' by Jimi Hendrix (the kid did it right), and even 'Freebird' by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Funny/tragic note: one of the LA 20-somethings actually leaned over and asked me - during the opening riffs - 'is this Freebird?' Douchebag. The best part of it all was listening to this amazing guitar virtuosity, backed by a 9-year-old Japanese kid's voice. Like listening to Pikachu rock out with his... you know what I'm saying. You have to listen to this kid play.
More about the screening and after the show in another post.
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