Don't You Wonder?

I was standing in line today for a free lunch – provided by the building where I'm currently working, not a soup kitchen – and listening to the conversations around me. Very little work discussion going on, but quite a bit about how slow the line was moving and whether someone should queue up for chicken, a burger, or a hot dog. Or for all three.
   From time to time I glanced at the clouds, which were odd-looking for Los Angeles, especially this time of year. We've been having freaky weather lately. But I noticed that not many other people were noticing the clouds. No one, in fact, seemed to be looking up. Very few people looked out at the street, even, mostly they just watched the guys cooking the food. Which got me to wondering.
   What do other people see?
   I know what I see, obviously, and I know what I tend to notice. But is that what others see and notice? Probably not. Or obviously not, since nobody else seemed to be watching the clouds. But even deeper than that, if you and I look at the same thing, do we actually see the same thing?
   I don't mean if I see a fire hydrant you might see a bouquet of flowers, I mean if I see a red fire hydrant, how is the quality of red I see different than what you see? Assuming neither of us is colorblind or impaired in any fashion, how is the red fire hydrant you see different than mine?
   I know these are experiential philosophical questions people have pondered for a long time, but I am intrigued. Most of human strife is caused by misunderstandings that could be prevented if the two sides only understood one another. Take Robert McNamara's comments on the Vietnam War, for example. Part of understanding someone is trying to walk a mile in their shoes, as it were, trying to see things the way they do. This doesn't mean that the other person has a proper perception and you don't, it just means that when you understand where someone is coming from it's much easier to find common ground.
   What I want to know, though, is what was the guy with neon yellow tennis shoes thinking? Seriously, when is something like that ever a good idea?

Another One Bites The Dust

A good friend of mine moved from Los Angeles today. She got a job in Santa Barbara, just up the 101, because jobs are few and far between here in LA. Last week we had a farewell lunch at Canter's Deli, partly because it was close to my job and her house, and partly because it's a very LA kind of place, a local landmark, which makes it appropriate for that occasion. We're both kind of* disillusioned with corporate life and looking for something different, even though we're locked into the paycheck economy along with most of the rest of America.
   Today was her moving day, and I called her at lunch to say good-bye and wish her luck and all the things that you're supposed to do when a friend leaves and you're not certain you're ever going to see them again. And I got a little weepy. Afterwards, I mean, when I hung up. Marna was one of the first friends I made out here, I've known her in all her peregrinations, from Venice to Pasadena to West Hollywood to another part of West Hollywood. Her dog Tex was the calm Buddha center of her universe for two years, and now he's gone and just a few weeks later she's gone. Jeez… I'm tearing up a little bit just writing this now.
   Endings are hard. I've had a lot of endings in the past year and a half, and I'm getting pretty damn sick of it. I know change is inevitable, and for the most part change is good, but that doesn't make it easier to take. I'm tired of the introspection needed to process change, I'm tired of the emotional toll it takes, I'm tired of thinking I'm doing okay only to find that with the slightest provocation I'm really just a raw nerve after all.
   But most of all I'm tired of saying good-bye to family, friends and beloved pets.
   So I'm calling off change. You heard me, no more change unless you get written permission from me beforehand. If you want to move away you have to run it by me, and I may not approve the request. If you're thinking about growing up and moving on, think again. If you're considering a change in careers I'll probably sign off on that, as long as it doesn't involve you moving to Alaska or something. And if you're for some reason thinking about dying, then you just put those plans on hold, no one's going to be taking the Big Sleep any more, not without my say-so.

Got it? Good…


* by 'kind of' I mean 'extremely'

A Hard-Boiled Gumshoe Walks Into A Bar

Hey there, pal, nice hat.
    It helps me deal with the sinister echoes of footsteps trailing me in a pitch-dark alley.
Sure, okay.
    You got no idea what it's like being me, walking the fine line between justice and depravity every day. Catching the glint of blued steel out of the corner of my eye.
Well, I am a bartender...
    I've seen the worst humanity has to offer, my friend, right here in the naked city. Makes it so a man can hardly sleep at night. Tell Pat his old buddy Jake Derringer is back.
Pat's been dead for forty years. I'm Harvey.
    You wouldn't kid a kidder? Pat's dead?
Yup.
   Forty years?
Uh-huh.
   Jeez... I knew I went on kind of a bender there after Trixie gave me the heave-ho, but I had no idea... This isn't 1956?
Not even close. 2010.
    Really? Tell me you got flying cars.
Not a one.
    Jet packs? Monorails? Dirigibles?
Don't even have death rays. TV's in color, though. See? Over the pool table?
    Big deal, so we get to see Sid Caesar as pasty as he is in real life. The future ain't what it was cracked up to be.
Kind of a let down to me too. We did beat Communism, though.
   Oooh... big fight? Planes, tanks, hydrogen bombs, all that?
No, they kind of did it themselves. Just closed up shop one day. And we've lost every war we've been in since you crawled inside the bottle. Except for Grenada.
   Damn. Makes me sad I ever sobered up, even for a little while. Got any matches back there, barkeep?
Sorry, there's no smoking in here.
   You gotta be kidding me.
City ordinance.
    But it's a freakin' bar...
I know. And trust me, you're not the first to complain. You can light up out on the terrace.
    There's a terrace? Dear God in Heaven and all the saints too. What has happened to my country? I start drinking in a man's USA back in 1956, and I wake up in nancy-ville 2010.
Got some century-old absinthe in back if you want to get blotto for the next year or so.
    Yeah. Set me up, Harvey.

Mullet? What Mullet?

Just when you think people have come to their senses...
   I was in the local Whole Foods this afternoon, because it's stupid hot in LA and for an environmentally-conscious health food emporium they certainly do keep that place cold. I was buying some produce and on-sale yogurt* when I saw them. You've seen them too, more than likely, perhaps you ARE them.
   The tattooed couple.
   A man and a woman, both inked to within an inch of hepatitis, dressed like they'd slept in the van in the same clothes for a week. Which perhaps they had. Still and all, they were in Whole Foods right beside the pretentious yuppie moms and their poorly-behaved kids, the senior citizens marveling at the $2 cucumbers, and people like me trying to get out of the heat and pretending to be shopping.
   The tattooed couple was getting a few sidelong glances, and a few stares from the little kids too young to know they weren't supposed to be staring. They had dramatic ink, certainly, and lots of metal studs and dirty denim, but what really caught my eye was the woman's mullet. More of a mullet-hawk, really, buzzcut on the sides - and brown - and short and blonde in front, very long and blonde in the back. With a barette right in the middle.
   I thought mullets were the stuff of twenty years back, Billy Ray Cyrus and all, and only worn now in rural areas, and even then only by men who really couldn't be expected to know better. But to see one on a woman in the middle of Pasadena... I think she was a foreigner. Or someone who works below the line, those folks have some special neuroses.
   I was so startled I forgot to notice the tattoos. Usually you can get a Bettie Page homage, or a Led Zeppelin Icarus thing. And skulls, there's always a skull. You know, you'd think for something that's supposed to be as individual as a tattoo people would get something different once in a while.


* 69 cents for an 8 oz. cup! You can't beat that!

Baked Los Angeles

You've heard of baked Alaska, right? Ice cream and cake with meringue heated in the oven.
   Well, today Los Angeles is the oven. The Santa Ana winds have returned with a vengeance, blowing hot and dry and making everything dusty and miserable. It shouldn't be this hot, really. It's dangerous, LA people don't know what to do when it's this hot. I saw a guy out jogging just a few minutes ago. Seriously, with a beet red face and everything, for sure he had heat exhaustion, getting close to heat stroke. Good thing he was by the hospital, so the EMTs can find him when he finally collapses.
   I have previously written an ode to the rainy streets of Los Angeles, but this particular bout of extreme weather has but me in a different mood. More Eastern. And so I've composed several haikus about this day. This terrible, awful day.


Hot wind sears us all
Like an oven with no door
Breathing is bad news

Don't grab the car door
Molten metal will burn fingers
No one likes cussing

Truck with no AC
Pure torture for the driver
Fun for those watching

Man begging for change
With a sign at the off-ramp
Bad sunburn for him

   Wow... how Japanese of me... now I feel like putting on some pajamas and having a cup of green tea at a low table.

In The Presence Of Greatness

Every so often you look up and realize how lucky you are to have encountered certain people. This happens to me from time to time and I try to take note of it. Just last night I had that realization about my fencing instructor, Gennady Klimanov. Or at least I was reminded of it.
   Just to be clear, I knew he was a champion - there is a picture of him hanging in the fencing salle as he received his gold medal at the Soviet championship in 1963 - and I knew he had far more experience than I could ever get, seeing as how he started fencing when he was four. If I live to be 100 or so and keep fencing the whole time I'll have that kind of record. But I didn't really appreciate the level of professionalism and expertise I benefited from until last night, when Gennady brought a few of his awards.
   I knew he held a Master of Sport of the USSR* in Modern Pentathlon, the sport he won the gold medal for in 1963. Modern Pentalthon is the five-sport 'soldier's competition' consisting of riding (a horse), swimming, running, shooting, and fencing. So, yeah, he's kind of a bad-ass just for those two things alone. But there's more. Until last night I did not know he also holds a Master of Sport in Fencing.
   See, competitors in Pentathlon use an epee, one of the three weapons in modern fencing. And the Pentathlon fencing competitions are one-touch only. If you get touched - just once - that bout is done. And every Pentathlete fences every other one. So for Gennady to have won the epee part of the Pentathlon in 1963 (he also won the whole competition) he had to have fenced sixty or seventy equally-skilled fencers and beaten them. More serious bad-ass-ness. But to be a Master of Sports in fencing means he has to be an expert in all three weapons, epee, foil, and sabre. That's just above and beyond, especially when you consider the fact that sabre fencers are all certifiably insane. It's true, look it up.
   Last night I came home, sat down, and considered the quality of the fencing instruction I have received for the past six years or so, and realized exactly how lucky I am to learn from someone like Gennady. If I were a religious man I'd say 'blessed,' but I'm not so I'll stick with lucky.
   I urge everybody to take a moment and think about someone you're lucky to know, your own Gennady. Maybe you should thank them. I know I should.

* this means he was a Soviet national champion. Really.

Okay, Maybe One Thing...

I wasn't going to post today, but then I sat down for a morning of The Price Is Right.

WTF? It's all different!

Drew Carey's lost about a million pounds - his head is bigger than his neck now - and he's not wearing the black-rimmed glasses. And Rich Fields is gone, replaced by some dude whose voice I don't like.
   This does explains why Rich Fields showed up on Channel Two as the weather guy, though...

Do you see what happens when I go to work? The world falls apart. So, obviously, in order to keep the planets in line and gravity still working the way it should, I shouldn't go to work. That's the only conclusion I can come up with.

Talk Amongst Yourselves

Today's my birthday, and I don't feel like doin' nothin'.

So talk amongst yourselves, I'll be back tomorrow.


... what's on TV in the middle of the day?