I've been trying to figure out how to make a million dollars. Crazy as it sounds, all you really need to live comfortably is about $1,000,000, from that you can live off the interest alone, if you assume a modest interest rate and you don't go crazy buying fur-lined sinks or electric dog polishers. You could live even better if you had $2 million or $3 million, but I don't want to get greedy.
So, aside from winning the lottery or selling a novel or a kids' book, there has to be some way to make a million bucks. I considered – briefly – a career in bank robbing, but I don't look good in a ski mask or in prison orange. Assuming I got away with it, I couldn't just go deposit a million bucks in an American bank, there would be questions. I'd have to go on the run to some third-world country I probably wouldn't like very much. Criminal enterprises are right out, gotta keep it on the up-and-up.
I thought about a bake sale, if I could make and sell 1 million cookies for $1 profit each, I'd be on my way. My oven is kind of small, though. And I think I'd get bored after about 500,000 cookies and lose interest.
I thought about door-to-door soliciting, but encyclopedias are online these days, and most places don't want you snooping around bothering people who aren't going to buy your stuff anyway. And I don't like shotguns pointed at me by angry homeowners. I thought some more.
When I was an undergrad I lived a block away from the plasma donation building where all the Drag Worms would get money for their bottles of breakfast. They'd go in mostly sober and come out 45 minutes later with $9 in their grubby fists. I could hook myself up to an IV, I suppose, but I don't think I have enough blood in my body to add up to a million dollars. I was fast running out of ideas
Then it hit me. What do people these days need more than anything else? Tattoo removal. Something that seemed like a good idea when you were a drunk 20-something becomes a bit of a regret in your 30s and downright embarrassing in your 40s. And tattoo removal can be very, very expensive indeed, so I wouldn't have to do too many of them to make my dough.
But over time the market for tattoo removal runs out. Some people actually like their ink, after all, and wouldn't get rid of it for anything; eventually you'd run out of people who need your removal services. And then I had my eureka moment. You gotta get 'em coming and going. So here's the plan: I open a chain of tattoo parlors, and then right next door open a chain of tattoo removal parlors. And then next to that open a chain of liquor stores, so you can get some Irish courage no matter if you're inking up or inking down.
See? That's what a liberal arts education gets you right there. Clear thinking.
Showing posts with label tattoos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tattoos. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Aw Man... Still?
Jeez... just when I think things are getting better I go out in public.
So I had to go to the post office today - queries for a kick-ass children's alphabet book - and on the way back it happened to be lunch time. I was feeling a bit peckish so I stopped into a Baja Fresh. It was early and there weren't many people inside, only one person in front of me, a young black man. He didn't look like he was shaving yet, he was carrying a book bag, and he was wearing shorts, so using my Batman-like detective skill I deduced he was probably a high school student.
The kid orders then pays with a $20 bill, which the clerk gives the once over something fierce, even puts it under the ultra-violet counterfeit detector machine. It's the first I've seen one of these things outside of Vegas, so I figure the place must have a problem with fake money, seeing as how the Miracle Mile is a few miracle miles away from a rough neighborhood.
It's my turn, so I order and I also pay with a $20 bill. I'm all set to watch the process up-close, maybe even engage her in conversation about it. She shoves the $20 into the drawer and hands me my change.
I was astonished. Gob-smacked. I didn't think this kind of thing happened still in the USA. The clerk makes double-sure the money the black kid gives her isn't counterfeit, but trusts the white guy is on the up-and-up. I felt like telling her that while young people steal, old people commit fraud. Like counterfeiting. If anybody should be profiled for passing fake bills, it should be the middle-aged white dude dressed like he works in an office.
I don't know if the kid noticed, though it would have been hard not to. Hell of a thing to have to put up with in 21st Century America. Dammit.
COMMUTE - there - 33 minutes back - 38 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 20-something days, I'm losing track...
So I had to go to the post office today - queries for a kick-ass children's alphabet book - and on the way back it happened to be lunch time. I was feeling a bit peckish so I stopped into a Baja Fresh. It was early and there weren't many people inside, only one person in front of me, a young black man. He didn't look like he was shaving yet, he was carrying a book bag, and he was wearing shorts, so using my Batman-like detective skill I deduced he was probably a high school student.
The kid orders then pays with a $20 bill, which the clerk gives the once over something fierce, even puts it under the ultra-violet counterfeit detector machine. It's the first I've seen one of these things outside of Vegas, so I figure the place must have a problem with fake money, seeing as how the Miracle Mile is a few miracle miles away from a rough neighborhood.
It's my turn, so I order and I also pay with a $20 bill. I'm all set to watch the process up-close, maybe even engage her in conversation about it. She shoves the $20 into the drawer and hands me my change.
I was astonished. Gob-smacked. I didn't think this kind of thing happened still in the USA. The clerk makes double-sure the money the black kid gives her isn't counterfeit, but trusts the white guy is on the up-and-up. I felt like telling her that while young people steal, old people commit fraud. Like counterfeiting. If anybody should be profiled for passing fake bills, it should be the middle-aged white dude dressed like he works in an office.
I don't know if the kid noticed, though it would have been hard not to. Hell of a thing to have to put up with in 21st Century America. Dammit.
COMMUTE - there - 33 minutes back - 38 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 20-something days, I'm losing track...
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Bargains
I took a trip to the Rose Bowl Flea Market today. It's held the second Sunday of every month, rain or shine (mostly shine), but I haven't been in years. The last time I went I got a really good, really greasy corn dog from a vendor I would have been suspicious of if I'd seen him on the street. The best street food is like that, just the good side of too scary to try out.
I expected to see a lot of the same kind of stuff from many vendors, you usually do in a flea market, but I also expected to come across a gem once in a while. An odd, quirky, cool little piece of something that you can't plan for but you know it when you see it. I didn't see it.
Not to say that the flea market was a disappointment, you don't go to a flea market expecting Earth-shattering revelations, but I did leave feeling a little flat. Maybe it's because I couldn't find anybody selling corn dogs.
A few observations:
The ticket-taker girls were all wearing black leprechaun hats and green sunglasses in honor of St. Patrick's Day. None of them seemed particularly enthused about the whole business.
People will eat barbeque at 9 AM. I seen it.
Bald dudes with tattoos on their heads gravitate towards one another. I think it's a new kind of speciation. Now they have to find chicks with tattoos on their heads to have little tattoo-headed babies.
When the crowd gets very thick you get stuck behind people. I have been forced to amble along at the pace of a woman shopping for bargains, or to put it another way, as close to a dead stop as you can get without rolling backwards. Men know what I mean and sympathize. Women couldn't care less.
At the front gate they play hurdy-gurdy music, or calliope music, or carousel music, whatever you want to call it. I thought I recognized a calliope version of 'The Trial' by Pink Floyd, which has calliope music in it. An amazing meta-reference for a flea market. Then they played the calliope version of 'Waterloo' by Abba and lost me.
I expected to see a lot of the same kind of stuff from many vendors, you usually do in a flea market, but I also expected to come across a gem once in a while. An odd, quirky, cool little piece of something that you can't plan for but you know it when you see it. I didn't see it.
Not to say that the flea market was a disappointment, you don't go to a flea market expecting Earth-shattering revelations, but I did leave feeling a little flat. Maybe it's because I couldn't find anybody selling corn dogs.
A few observations:
The ticket-taker girls were all wearing black leprechaun hats and green sunglasses in honor of St. Patrick's Day. None of them seemed particularly enthused about the whole business.
People will eat barbeque at 9 AM. I seen it.
Bald dudes with tattoos on their heads gravitate towards one another. I think it's a new kind of speciation. Now they have to find chicks with tattoos on their heads to have little tattoo-headed babies.
When the crowd gets very thick you get stuck behind people. I have been forced to amble along at the pace of a woman shopping for bargains, or to put it another way, as close to a dead stop as you can get without rolling backwards. Men know what I mean and sympathize. Women couldn't care less.
At the front gate they play hurdy-gurdy music, or calliope music, or carousel music, whatever you want to call it. I thought I recognized a calliope version of 'The Trial' by Pink Floyd, which has calliope music in it. An amazing meta-reference for a flea market. Then they played the calliope version of 'Waterloo' by Abba and lost me.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Chicks With Tattoos
In the past week or so I've noticed a lot of chicks with tattoos. And I don't mean the kind of chicks you'd think would have tattoos - seeing a tramp stamp down by PCC is no challenge at all, believe me - I'm talking about women you wouldn't think could get away with the tattoos they sport.
A teller at my bank has one of those wrist-tattoo thingys, it says 'Gabriel' with hearts, etc., like a little permanent chain around her wrist. Since I have to watch her hands as she deposits my unemployment check, I can't avoid seeing it. She's a perfectly proficient teller, but time was that tattoo would have meant she didn't get to talk to customers.
A lady in business attire walking down Lake Avenue, with little bows tattooed on the backs of her calves, with lines like she was wearing nylons. At first I thought she was wearing nylons, enough of a novelty that I took a second look and discovered the horrible truth. I don't know any woman who would get inked like that, except maybe a stripper. But if she was a stripper, what was she doing out of bed at 10 AM? And if she was a former stripper, don't you think she'd get it removed or at least wear pants?
A woman working in my local Trader Joe's has full sleeve* tattoos on both arms up to her wrist. Every time I've seen her she's been wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but since she's working the fabric rides up and you can see the vibrant color she undoubtedly paid a lot for. Body art like that doesn't really inspire confidence in the person stocking your produce section, and I wonder what she's going to think of that cool ink in five or ten years when she wants to attend her kid's PTA meeting. Say what you will about fairness, heavily-inked people are seen as sinister and untrustworthy. And with serious flaws in their judgment.
A trainer at my gym has a tattoo up her right side, something I've never seen before. I don't know how far down it goes, but as she was demonstrating a stretch to one of her clients the ink peeked out above her waist. And it wasn't on her left side, which I can't figure out, but then again I don't want to.
Is it just me? Is it just here in SoCal? Or are there waaaaay to many presumably professional women sporting inappropriate body art? And, yes, I know I sound like a cranky old man. I'm just going with it now.
* sleeve is a funny word. Say it over and over and over, and then look at it spelled out. HA! Too funny.
A teller at my bank has one of those wrist-tattoo thingys, it says 'Gabriel' with hearts, etc., like a little permanent chain around her wrist. Since I have to watch her hands as she deposits my unemployment check, I can't avoid seeing it. She's a perfectly proficient teller, but time was that tattoo would have meant she didn't get to talk to customers.
A lady in business attire walking down Lake Avenue, with little bows tattooed on the backs of her calves, with lines like she was wearing nylons. At first I thought she was wearing nylons, enough of a novelty that I took a second look and discovered the horrible truth. I don't know any woman who would get inked like that, except maybe a stripper. But if she was a stripper, what was she doing out of bed at 10 AM? And if she was a former stripper, don't you think she'd get it removed or at least wear pants?
A woman working in my local Trader Joe's has full sleeve* tattoos on both arms up to her wrist. Every time I've seen her she's been wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but since she's working the fabric rides up and you can see the vibrant color she undoubtedly paid a lot for. Body art like that doesn't really inspire confidence in the person stocking your produce section, and I wonder what she's going to think of that cool ink in five or ten years when she wants to attend her kid's PTA meeting. Say what you will about fairness, heavily-inked people are seen as sinister and untrustworthy. And with serious flaws in their judgment.
A trainer at my gym has a tattoo up her right side, something I've never seen before. I don't know how far down it goes, but as she was demonstrating a stretch to one of her clients the ink peeked out above her waist. And it wasn't on her left side, which I can't figure out, but then again I don't want to.
Is it just me? Is it just here in SoCal? Or are there waaaaay to many presumably professional women sporting inappropriate body art? And, yes, I know I sound like a cranky old man. I'm just going with it now.
* sleeve is a funny word. Say it over and over and over, and then look at it spelled out. HA! Too funny.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Tales From My Past - That's Not Stolen, Is It?
There's something about me - the way I look, maybe the way I carry myself, maybe the way dress - that attracts crazy people, homeless people, people with some sort of agenda, and desperate people of all sorts. Now, if you add all those things together, a crazy, possibly homeless desperate person with an agenda, then you'll get something special.
You'll get someone trying to sell stolen goods.
It doesn't happen to me so much any more - with one recent exception - but for a while there when I was younger, I had the opportunity to buy something hot about once a month. Here are a few I can remember:
A guy trying to sell me a pickup truck bed full of auto mechanic tools while I was mowing the grass at my grandfather's rent houses. No lie. Drove right up while I was emptying the clippings and told me they would make a great Father's Day present. When I asked if they were stolen he laughed nervously and sped off. I was sixteen.
A guy trying to sell me a clarinet when I was at the Greyhound station waiting for the bus from Austin to San Antonio. He kept cajoling me, telling me he could tell I had money, even though I was taking an $8 bus ride. I finally turned my pockets inside out, showed him I had $1 on me, and said if he'd take a dollar for it, I'd love the clarinet. I was eighteen.
A guy in Sherman, TX trying to sell me a ditch witch, you know, one of those cool, rentable power tools that you can use to dig a trench? I was at the Wal-Mart buying shampoo and Pringles (really), and as I was leaving he drove up with the ditch witch on a little trailer. Said I could have it for $100, and that I'd make my money back with a good weekend's work. I told him if he could figure out a way to sneak it into my dorm room I could find a hundred bucks. I was twenty.
Two guys in Rome tried to sell me tickets to something. Since I barely spoke Italian and I read it even worse I had no idea what they were tickets for. But since they were trying to sell them to me around midnight as I was taking pictures of St. Peter's, I'm pretty sure they were stolen. I was twenty-seven.
A woman in O'Fallon, IL - if you've never been, don't bother - tried to sell me a box of cigarettes. Not a carton, a box full of cartons, probably a gross of cigarette packs. Camels. She started at $300 and worked her way down to $75 as I repeated over and over that I didn't smoke. When I asked her if they were stolen she told me she got them from an Indian reservation, which didn't really answer my question. I never did check to see if there was a reservation around there. I was twenty-nine.
A scary-looking little Japanese guy in Okinawa tried to sell me stereo equipment. He spoke English very well, and I could see the tattoos peeking out from under his long-sleeved shirt. I was extremely polite to him as I refused his business, explaining that Japanese electronics wouldn't work when plugged into American power outlets. I ran back to Kadena AFB and locked my billet door. I was thirty-one.
You'll get someone trying to sell stolen goods.
It doesn't happen to me so much any more - with one recent exception - but for a while there when I was younger, I had the opportunity to buy something hot about once a month. Here are a few I can remember:
A guy trying to sell me a pickup truck bed full of auto mechanic tools while I was mowing the grass at my grandfather's rent houses. No lie. Drove right up while I was emptying the clippings and told me they would make a great Father's Day present. When I asked if they were stolen he laughed nervously and sped off. I was sixteen.
A guy trying to sell me a clarinet when I was at the Greyhound station waiting for the bus from Austin to San Antonio. He kept cajoling me, telling me he could tell I had money, even though I was taking an $8 bus ride. I finally turned my pockets inside out, showed him I had $1 on me, and said if he'd take a dollar for it, I'd love the clarinet. I was eighteen.
A guy in Sherman, TX trying to sell me a ditch witch, you know, one of those cool, rentable power tools that you can use to dig a trench? I was at the Wal-Mart buying shampoo and Pringles (really), and as I was leaving he drove up with the ditch witch on a little trailer. Said I could have it for $100, and that I'd make my money back with a good weekend's work. I told him if he could figure out a way to sneak it into my dorm room I could find a hundred bucks. I was twenty.
Two guys in Rome tried to sell me tickets to something. Since I barely spoke Italian and I read it even worse I had no idea what they were tickets for. But since they were trying to sell them to me around midnight as I was taking pictures of St. Peter's, I'm pretty sure they were stolen. I was twenty-seven.
A woman in O'Fallon, IL - if you've never been, don't bother - tried to sell me a box of cigarettes. Not a carton, a box full of cartons, probably a gross of cigarette packs. Camels. She started at $300 and worked her way down to $75 as I repeated over and over that I didn't smoke. When I asked her if they were stolen she told me she got them from an Indian reservation, which didn't really answer my question. I never did check to see if there was a reservation around there. I was twenty-nine.
A scary-looking little Japanese guy in Okinawa tried to sell me stereo equipment. He spoke English very well, and I could see the tattoos peeking out from under his long-sleeved shirt. I was extremely polite to him as I refused his business, explaining that Japanese electronics wouldn't work when plugged into American power outlets. I ran back to Kadena AFB and locked my billet door. I was thirty-one.
Monday, September 28, 2009
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...
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...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Job Yawn-Fest
Is it just me, or do most of the jobs posted out there seem completely boring and awful wastes of time? I know I'm probably looking at this with a jaded eye, but, seriously... 'Infrastructure Solutions Consultant?'... 'Franchise Development Manager?'... 'Sales Planner?'... 'Contracts Manager?' Companies couldn't put a little more effort into a job title than that? No wonder those jobs are never filled, only a zombie would apply for them, and zombies are too busy prowling for delicious brains to bother applying for a job.
Why can't I apply for 'Personal Jet Pack Tester' or 'Bobsled Runner?' Those would be pretty cool gigs. Or how about 'TV Dinner Taster,' I bet that's the kind of job people never quit, they just keel over in their chair one day, clutching their chest and mumbling about the brownie. Around here 'Drunk Celebrity Herder' is a job that always needs doing, but that would mean I'd have to hang out in Hollywood after dark and I just hate that. And something that really, really needs doing is 'Bad Tattoo Arbiter,' someone to warn people off of especially terrible body art. Who are we kidding? it's all pretty terrible.
And why is it I never see 'Indolent Billionaire' posted on any of these job sites? I could do that one with my eyes closed.
Why can't I apply for 'Personal Jet Pack Tester' or 'Bobsled Runner?' Those would be pretty cool gigs. Or how about 'TV Dinner Taster,' I bet that's the kind of job people never quit, they just keel over in their chair one day, clutching their chest and mumbling about the brownie. Around here 'Drunk Celebrity Herder' is a job that always needs doing, but that would mean I'd have to hang out in Hollywood after dark and I just hate that. And something that really, really needs doing is 'Bad Tattoo Arbiter,' someone to warn people off of especially terrible body art. Who are we kidding? it's all pretty terrible.
And why is it I never see 'Indolent Billionaire' posted on any of these job sites? I could do that one with my eyes closed.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
Sometimes I worry about getting tattooed in my sleep.
I'm not talking about in my own home in my own bed. I'm concerned that if I fall asleep somewhere public yet secluded that rogue tattoo artists will chloroform me and then ink me up. You know, like if I fall asleep in the back row of a movie theater, or maybe on the LA Metro late at night. I'm sure there are itinerant tattoo guys just waiting for their chance.
The best I could hope for is some kind of tramp stamp. Which would be kind of lost on me because I rarely bare my midriff, a fact for which many people are thankful. The worst would be some kind of Yakuza full-body tattoo. Which would take quite a bit of time, since I'm bigger than your average Japanese mobster. At least that's what people tell me.
I'm not talking about in my own home in my own bed. I'm concerned that if I fall asleep somewhere public yet secluded that rogue tattoo artists will chloroform me and then ink me up. You know, like if I fall asleep in the back row of a movie theater, or maybe on the LA Metro late at night. I'm sure there are itinerant tattoo guys just waiting for their chance.
The best I could hope for is some kind of tramp stamp. Which would be kind of lost on me because I rarely bare my midriff, a fact for which many people are thankful. The worst would be some kind of Yakuza full-body tattoo. Which would take quite a bit of time, since I'm bigger than your average Japanese mobster. At least that's what people tell me.
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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