Watch...Copy Watch?

So far, my impression of Hong Kong is a positive one. It makes me miss living in a big city (no, I do not consider Hermosa Beach a big city) as I walk down the street. Everywhere you look there is a bar, or a restaurant, or a massage parlor, or a strip club (like I said, my impression is a positive one).
The one thing that is a bit different here than from any US city I've been to (save for Vegas) is the slew of sleazy dudes trying to sell you stuff by getting in your face and mentioning their product.
For instance, I'll be walking down the street, minding my own business, getting dripped on by high rise air conditioners and a gentleman walks up to me and says "Watch? Copy Watch? Rolex? Very nice?"
Now, I don't mind someone scraping a living, everyone has got to get by. The thing I found interesting, though, was that he was promoting a "Copy Watch." He wasn't even trying to sell it as a real watch. I suppose that is more noble approach and I should, therefore, trust this guy more, but something about him told me that I shouldn't start throwing money around.
Another common thing that gets promoted on the street here is a custom tailored suit. That sounds nice doesn't it? Perhaps I would have considered buying a custom tailored suit from a dude on the street had that dude not approached me by saying, "I think you need a tailor my friend." "Thank you," I sarcastically responded. Pffft...I need a tailor. Who does he think he is to judge my t-shirt and jeans fashion sense. I mean...come on, give me a break.
Aside from "The Copy Watch Man" and "The You Need a Tailor Dude," there is also the "Massage-ie Lady" and "The Hashish, Hashish, I Have Hashish Players."
This town is full of characters.

Til Next Time

P.S. If you know me then it's no surprise that I have a beard. I hadn't trimmed my beard for 2 weeks leading up to my trip and made the decision that I wouldn't trim it until I returned to the states. It has become unruly.

States: 30
Countries: 15

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I like Hong Kong so far.
"Watch? Copy Watch?" he said.
"You need a tailor, my friend," he judged.
"Hashish, hashish, I have hasish," they sang.
I have an unruly beard.

I'm Leaving the Country...But You're Coming With Me

Well, Barbie duty calls and I'm off to Hong Kong. Technically it is not my first time in the city, but previously I had only driven through it on my way to mainland China. It looked awesome and I'm totally stoked about spending some time there.
How much time will I be spending there? About 3 weeks.
What sort of activities will I participate in? I don't know (perhaps I don't want to know).
Will I blog while I'm there and keep everyone posted? Totally.
So, stay tuned as I cross the Pacific once again and venture on another wild adventure (as wild as a Barbie adventure can be anyways).

Til Next Time

P.S. Last time I was in China I saw a couple of "professional" dancers entertaining the masses during a car show. I took a video. I call it "Bad China Dance." Enjoy.

States: 30
Countries: 15

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I'm going to Hong Kong.
I'm be there for 3 weeks.
Not sure what I'm going to be doing.
I'll make sure I keep you posted.

He Was There...But I Didn't Blow Up!

This past week at work, we had some of our Chinese counterparts visiting. This is good for everyone. Not only for the productivity of the collaboration, but also for all of the entertaining.
So, Thursday night we were all invited to a happy hour to celebrate on Mattel's dime. It was a nice place, but I wouldn't say "overly nice." I didn't feel out of place drinking my martini (it was Martini Madness) in my bright yellow t-shirt (it's one of my favorite).
A little while into the evening, a coworker who had come back onto the patio from using the restroom came up to me and said, "Micheal Bay is in there." "WHAT?!" I exclaimed, "SHOW ME!"
For those of you who are not familiar with Micheal Bay, he is the man responsible for such high octane blockbusters as The Rock, Armageddon, and Pearl Harbor and he is best satirized in the following clip : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQvAapzuWUc
So, you can understand my excitement.
So, there I was on the cusp of my first celebrity sighting. A man who has tainted the summer cinemas so many times in the past 15 years. A man who is sitting in the corner of the restaurant on a date with a lovely Asian lady. A man who... ... ... isn't Micheal Bay.
Nope, it wasn't Micheal Bay. It wasn't him at all. Instead, it was Jerry Bruckheimer! Can you believe it! Freaking Jerry Bruckheimer! For those of you who don't know him, Jerry Bruckheimer is the producer of all of Micheal Bays films and then some (including the amazingly popular CSI series'). Jerry Bruckheimer is also the only Hollywood producer that kind of resembles Skeletor.
So, there you have it. I've finally seen a famous person. I am excited. You can touch me if you want.

Til Next Time

P.S. My sister had a baby girl last weekend. So, now I'm an uncle that works at a toy company. Which, in turn, will make me the best uncle ever. You can touch me again.

States: 29
Countries: 12

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
Our Chinese counterparts were in town this past week.
We drank on Mattel's dime.
I saw Micheal Bay.
No I didn't, it was Jerry Bruckheimer.
You can touch me.

Earthquakes...They're Real!

This past Tuesday I was invited to a luncheon to celebrate a fellow engineer's 30th anniversary at Mattel. I felt honored, for I was going to get a free lunch. But, as they say, "There is no such thing as a free lunch," and "they" couldn't have been more right. My life was in danger.
Just after we all finally sat down and started to settle in, anticipating a delicious Mexican meal, the Earth started to shake.
Let me repeat that, "The Earth started to shake."
I understand that the world is a little desensitized to the concept, but if you think of it in the terms that I just mentioned, it is a pretty unsettling notion.
Yes, it was my first earthquake. No, I didn't freak out. Yes, I ate a lot of Mexican food after it calmed down, but in the days afterwards I started to realize the grander scope of what happened: "The Earth started to shake!"
It's a strange thing when you can't even trust the ground you walk on. It feels like Mother Nature is pissed and wants you off the planet. "Fine," I say, "I'll go to Mars. She'll appreciate me. She'll love me more!" Sigh.
Anywho, it was a magnitude of 5.4 and the important thing is that nobody got hurt, and that I ate a lot of Mexican food (but mostly that nobody got hurt)...did I mention the Mexican food?
I like eating.

Til Next Time

P.S. People at work were really surprised that it was my first earthquake. Turns out, though, that the Midwest had an earthquake a month after I moved away. I was jealous. Now I'm in the club.

States: 29
Countries: 12

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
Some people work in one place for a long time.
I experienced my first earthquake
It was a 5.4
I like Mexican food.

2 Girls...No Self Respect

For those of you who know me, you know that I am a fan of the cinema (to sound as snobbish as possible). For those of you who know me best, you know that one of the most common phrases that I may utter is, "No, I haven't seen that yet. I keep meaning to."
This isn't to say that I don't watch movies, because I do (at least 2 a week). What it does say is that I evidently don't watch any movies that other people have interest in (to continue to sound as snobbish as possible).
This isn't because I don't have interest in the blockbusters (I've seen The Dark Knight) or the Oscar contenders (I've seen The Lord of the Rings...a lot...it's awesome), I just enjoy sifting through weird, extreme, violent, gorey, disturbing, and generally bad movies in hopes of finding that hidden gem. The vast majority of these movies are absolutely terrible (Snowbeast) with the occasional film being completely unwatchable (Malibu Beach Vampires), but the draw here is their pop culture significance (or lack there of). Where would The Blair Witch Project be if there was no Cannibal Holocaust? Where would the aforementioned Lord of the Rings be without Meet the Feebles or Dead Alive? Where would Oldboy (or Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance or Lady Vengeance) be without the numerous revenge movies of the 1970's (Last House on the Left, I Spit on Your Grave)?
So, when I heard some time ago that there was a video circulating the internet that was both a pop culture phenomenon PLUS it was "the most disgusting video ever seen," I admit that my curiosity got the best of me.
Yes, I have seen "2 Girls 1 Cup," and no I didn't enjoy it, but that's OK. I'm used to the notion that the movies (Note: I understand that a video clip on the internet does not count as a movie) I watch are generally not enjoyable. I accept that. Like I mentioned before, it's the pop culture relevance that I am interested in (plus I don't like being left out).
A strange thing happened with this particular video though. Its relevance was solidified with the invention of "The Reaction Video." These are videos of people who set up their webcam to record themselves as they watch a disgusting and ultimately vile video. For those that cannot or will not watch the actual disturbing video, these reaction videos give you an idea of how other people deal with it (plus it lets your imagination run absolutely wild with the most disgusting things you can ever conceive). These reaction videos are wildly popular as they range from teenagers, to grandmas, to sorority girls, to celebrities, etc.
It was only a natural step then that a couple friends of mine would record their own reaction video to "2 Girls 1 Cup."
Then they felt (against better judgment) that they should record numerous other reactions to videos including:
4 Girls Finger Paint
2 Girls 1 Finger
8 Girls No Cup
and finally, Mousetrap.
So, in the name of pop culture relevance, I hope you appreciate the attempt to be part of a vile, disgusting, downright disturbing, internet phenomena.

Til Next Time

P.S. Yes, I have a puppet. His name is Geoffrey Bananza. He is a compulsive liar and at times very difficult to deal with.

States: 29
Countries: 12

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I like disgusting movies simple because they exist.
2 Girls 1 Cup is a pop culture phenomena.
So are the reaction videos that resulted.
My friends made some videos.

Why Does the Fire Station Have Two Poles...and Why Do They Not Have Appropriate Fire Fighting Gear On

sas·sy
adj. sas·si·er, sas·si·es

1. Rude and disrespectful; impudent.
2. Lively and spirited; jaunty.
3. Stylish; chic: a sassy little hat
   

minx
n.

1. A girl or young woman who is considered pert, flirtatious, or impudent.
2. Obsolete A promiscuous woman.

The Sassy Minxx
n.

1. Burlesque group the I saw last night.

Yes, I enjoyed a burlesque show last night. A girl at work performed a guest slot with The Sassy Minxx and invited a bunch of coworkers to witness her performance. I figured I'd lend her my support (although it turns out that the show had more than enough...wink) and it was quite an enjoyable evening to say the least. The scantily clad girls aside, it was nice to hob knob with everyone outside the office walls...but the scantily clad girls were nice too.
The highlight of the night, though, was watching the human mating rituals that unfolded before our very eyes. I don't generally attend venues that have the "club" feel to them, but in between acts and after the show, that's exactly what this place turned into. Yes, people were having a great time on the dance floor. No, they were not good dancers, but that's not what interested me the most. Instead, we were witness to a soap opera of she danced with him and then he danced with the next girl and the first girl got mad so tried to win him back and the guy was trying to play both girls and ended up not giving either enough attention and wound up dancing by himself...and he was a bad dancer...but so was everyone else.
Yes, a few coworkers and I thoroughly enjoyed this display and to make things more interesting it seemed to have been some sort of "singles night." I haven't confirmed it, but that is my explanation to the droves of people wearing glow in the dark bracelets that were too eager to talk to everyone...yes, everyone. Needless to say, 75% of those on the dance floor were brandishing the bracelets.
It seemed like everyone had a great time. Well, except for that guy that messed it up with the two girls and had to resort to dancing alone, he probably could have had a better night.

Til Next Time

P.S. Apparently there is a thing here called "June Gloom." That explains why it has been so gloomy this month...it also makes my think of popular children's author Judy Blume...it kind of rhymes...kind of.

States: 28
Countries: 8

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
The Sassy Minxx is a burlesque group.
A friend performed with them.
I like watching people dance.
People are funny when they dance.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game...But Keep Me Away From the Crowd

I had a couple of friends visit me this weekend. The main motivation for this particular weekend? The Cubs were in town playing The Dodgers...so we went to two games.
First, we attended the Friday night game. We sat in left field (the cheapest seats at field level) and settled in for a lovely evening at the ballpark. It wasn't long, however, before it became evident that Dodgers fans mean business...nasty, surly, drunken business. Me and my friends are rather soft spoken in public and we don't like to attract much attention to ourselves, but the same can't be said for a select few Cubs fans that were in the crowd. These individuals were not only the subject of much jeering, but also the embarrassing example of how not to act as a respectful fan of the game. The home crowd recognized this, but instead of playing nice the Dodgers fans decided to fight everyone...yes, EVERYONE. By the 5th inning the stadium security had a strong presence in left field. There were lots of "KICK THEM OUT, KICK THEM OUT," cheers and a lot of "CUBS SUCK, BOOOO!" cheers, but nothing that I would classify as "clever." Instead they taunts could most accurately be described as loud.
Like I said, though, me and my friends are soft spoken so we weren't the subject of any retaliation. There was a time when a large Cubs fan (notice I didn't say "huge Cubs fan" because that might be misconstrued to mean that he just really liked the Cubs, when in fact he was a large individual) decided it would be a good idea to stand up right behind us and start yelling at everybody...yes, EVERYBODY. He was calling all Cubs fans to join him and "show their support." It would have been a sweet call to arms if the man was actually a young girl, but nobody wanted anything to do with this guy. The women behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Well, are you not a Cubs fan?" "Yes, I am," I responded, "but that guy is a gigantic idiot." (Note: "gigantic" here is describing both his stature and the size of his idiocy). She laughed, and then that guy got punched in the face (Note: I couldn't really see if he got punched there were too many big people shoving other really big people for me to get a good look). So, that was Friday night.
Oh, and The Cubs were shut out so it was an absolutely dismal game to boot.
Sunday was a different story. For starters we were sitting in right field. Big deal right? Why not just sit in left field again right? They're the same stupid seats just on the other side of the field right? WRONG! The right field seats are located in a section known as "The All You Can Eat Pavilion," which is aptly named for the amount of food that is included with the ticket price...all one can eat. A patron in this section simply walks up to the counter and orders (for instance), "3 hot dogs, a nacho, and a bottle of water,"...for starters. Then may return a little later for, "2 nachos, a bag of peanuts, and a couple of soft drinks," all without laying an extra dollar on the counter. Of course beer was not included, but given Fridays experience, I was a bit grateful.
Aside from the copious amount of junk food that was consumed, there were more low key Cubs fans that were enjoying the game, there were fewer obnoxious Dodgers fans trying to fight them, and the Cubs pulled out a victory. All in all a successful day, even with the drunk dude right in front of us from North Carolina that knew nothing about baseball and only talked about stupid drunk dude stuff the whole game. Yes, even he was tolerable.

Til Next Time

P.S. There were a lot of beach balls that were being tossed around. A highlight of Sunday's game was when a rather confident Cubs fan was bonked in the head with one and proceeded to grab and deflate it. His response to the many boos that came his way was a simple, "Watch the game!" It was awesome.

States: 27
Countries: 8

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
Dodgers fans can be surly.
Cubs fans can be idiots.
All you can eat is awesome...especially with nachos.
Cubs win...on Sunday.

Where in the World...Is Jeff Bazarko

I just want to say that I am still a blogger. I have not given it up quite that easily. It's been difficult lately, however, because I have been busy at work and my social life is booming. (Only one of those statements is sarcastic...I won't say which one)
The point is I have lots to talk about and I'll get to it. You just need to be a little more patient and stop it with the attitude. I'll get to writing and sharing when I darn please and I'm tired right now.
So, stayed tuned.

Til Next Time

P.S. I'm now 27.

States: 27
Countries: 8

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
Hold your horses.
I'm tired.

We All Scream For Ice...Pan?

A coworker was having a bad day yesterday (actually she was having a bad past couple of weeks), so I did what any normal person would do and offered to take her out for ice cream. She hesitantly accepted (I'm not sure the cause of hesitation but rest assured, it didn't bother me).
So, after work she got in her car and me in mine and I followed her to the designated gelato shop (she's too good for the run of the mill ice cream (read "high maintenance")). When we arrived in the parking lot and got out of our cars she was on her cell phone which proved confusing when we realized the gelato shop was closed and we needed to discuss where to go next.
Undeterred, she motioned for me to follow her as we both got into our respective rides. We traveled up the street a couple of blocks until she starting waving and pointing hysterically as she drifted into the left turn lane. It was then that I saw the reason for her excitement. A small sign at the entrance of the parking lot read, "Custom Made Ice-Cream" and if that doesn't get you excited then you better check your pulse.
So, into Ice-Pan we go wondering exactly what qualifies their ice-cream as "custom." I casually stroll up to the counter and politely ask the high school girls, "What exactly makes your ice-cream custom?" Their answer was practically incomprehensible. It was a jumbled mess of pauses, giggles, incorrect inflections, and blank stares (read "they seemed to be on drugs"). Surprisingly, however, I was able to gather the vital information about this amazing establishment:

Step 1: Pick a flavor of ice cream (they have many...but not 31).
Step 2: Pick your milk (whole, low fat, skim, soy)
Step 3: Pick your mix-ins (stuff they crush and mix into your ice cream...hence the name)
Step 4: Pick your toppings (stuff they put on top of your ice cream...hence the name)
Step 5: Pick your size (they have 2...shouldn't be too difficult to decide)

Once the order has been placed, the magic happens. The stoned workers mix up your custom ice cream mix and turn on the magically ice pans. Once the mix is properly blended the master steps in to turn your dream into a reality. He is a quiet, polite man who graciously takes the mixtures of cream and sugar and spreads them evenly over the ice pans. Almost instantly ice cream starts to form. He starts to scrap and fold the thin layer into a thicker layer and eventually into a soft scoop. The scoop then gets flattened and your mix-ins are crushed and ... mixed in. The glorious hunk of creamy flavor is then gathered into a modestly sized cup and topped with your ... toppings. The entire process is then finished with a warm smile from the master himself as he hands over his creation. That's when you are granted permission to eat your new found ice cream.
We were both thoroughly enjoying our ice cream. I think I finished mine in record time and sat there waiting for my friend to finish hers. Good company, good conversation, and great ice cream were quickly interrupted when she discovered a long blond hair as a bonus mix in. She sat there disgusted and dumbfounded and I probably mirrored that same expression. Eventually, of course, she presented the "hairy" evidence to the high schoolers on drugs and they, of course, made her a new one. When she held the second sundae in her hand I couldn't help but feel amazingly jealous. She went home that night half disgusted and half excited about the bonus ice cream. I went home that night trying to figure out how I might score a bonus scoop next time I go to Ice Pan.

Til Next Time

P.S. I returned to Ice Pan the next night...I did not figure out a way to get a free scoop.

States: 27
Countries: 8

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I went to get gelato.
It was closed.
I went to Ice Pan
They make frozen magic there.

Abbreviations ...Or Abbr.

If you enjoy pop culture then you probably have an impression of what Southern California (So. Cal to the locals) is like. There is the glitz and the glamor of Hollywood, the beautiful beaches with beautiful people, and the super violent crime of South Central. While some of this may be true, the one thing that I've noticed more than anything about So. Cal is that people here love to abbreviate.
Some of these abbreviations are warranted. For example, Pacific Coast Highway is a mouthful and I could see how saying "PCH" could streamline a conversation. Plus, PCH has a nice ring to it. It almost begs to be said. The same can not be said about "BH," which is the common abbreviation of Beverly Hills. To me it just seems ridiculous. Beverly Hills itself has a better more inviting sound than the sluggish "BH." In this "LOL, OMG" world in which we now live, I'd put money that those shortcuts originated here in Los Angeles county.
I didn't surprise me then when I took a field trip to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and I saw that it was shortened to LACMA. What did surprise me was the common practice of not only using the acronym of the museum but that the acronym was then pronounced as a word (i.e. Lack-Ma). Furthermore, the new Broad Comtempory Art Museum on the LACMA campus is shortened to BCAM and then pronounced "Bee-Cam." Why not "The Broad?" That's got a good ring to it.

All I'm saying is, "PICK A SIDE PEOPLE!"

If you make an acronym try to stick to it as an acronym (unless it actually makes a word that has relevance to its subject (i.e. D.A.R.E. or M.A.D.D). If you can't stick to the acronym, try shortening it to a word or two that gets the idea across. I'm all about efficiency, but I also enjoy crisp clear communication...call me old fashioned.
Perhaps I'm making too much of this but its my refusal to use such shortcuts that make it quite obvious that I am not in "the know."

TNT

Post Script: In honor of this entries subject matter, I took the opportunity to keep it short.

States: 26
Countries: 8

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
So. Cal. people like to abbreviate.
I don't really like to abbreviate.
Sometimes they pronounce the abbreviations as words.
Pick a side people!

Surprise!...Someone Gave Me Something!

First, let me say this: I told myself when I started this blog that I would never blog about blogging. As you can tell for the previous sentence, I am breaking that rule. No, I'm not going to rant about blogs, bloggers, or blog readers. No, I'm not going to say I've run out of things to write about. No, I'm not going to do either of those things. All I'm going to do is acknowledge that I've fallen a bit behind on the blog this past week. I have no excuses. I have let you down, dear reader. I am sorry. Please forgive me and continue to read in the future. I like when you read my blog. I makes me feel interesting and sometimes cool (only sometimes). I will do my darnedest to never let this web log fall behind again. That being said, I have a quick story to share:

Not too long ago I returned home from work, took my shoes and pants off, turned on the TV, and plopped on the couch. Almost immediately I realized I had to run to the store (for what, I can not remember). So, I slowly rose from the cushions, put my shoes and pants back on (not necessarily in that order) and drove out into the Californian unknown.
My experience at the store was uneventful so I won't bore you with those details. Something interesting did happen upon my return home, so I will bore you with those details.
By this time in the evening the sun was well on its way to setting. I believe the correct term for such times is "dusk." The streets were dark and full of shadows but as I pulled into my parking lot I noticed a beaming white object hanging on my door.
As I parked my car I realized that it was a plastic grocery bag not unlike the ones sitting in my trunk. I put my car in park and removed the keys. I sat there wondering who could have placed this mystery bag on my door in the 20 minutes I had been gone and further more, what was in it? A mystery indeed.
I popped my trunk, slowly exited my vehicle, and cautiously grabbed the 4 plastic grocery bags containing my recent purchases. As I drew closer to the mystery bag my heart raced. The white plastic mocked my every step begging me to come closer. As I reached my door I didn't blow up. I consider that a small victory, but my palms began to sweat as I inched my right hand towards it. I grabbed one of its two handles and slid it off of my door handle. I pulled the bag wide open and hesitantly peered inside. To my amazement I found 4 items all belonging to a recognizable set. This bag, that someone felt compelled to leave on my doorstep held 3 dry erase markers and a corresponding dry erase eraser. I considered this a major victory. Now I need to by a dry erase board and I'll be set.

Til Next Time

P.S. I went to another Hollywood party this past weekend. I scared plenty with my dancing.

States: 26
Countries: 8

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I'm sorry for not writing.
I took off my shoes and pants.
I ran errands.
Someone left a mystery package on my door.
I didn't blow up.

Don't Believe Everything You Read...Unless it is a Clearly Posted Warning

This past weekend a couple of friends came to visit from Chicago. They flew in on Thursday night and left on Sunday afternoon which gave us practically 3 days for activities. It might be interesting to you then that my favorite part of the weekend involved a shady novelty store along the "Walk of Fame" and a certain loose rodent.
I'm not sure exactly what this store sold but it is a safe bet that it was 1 of 3 things: electronics, vintage clothing, or drag queen attire (at least that's what I took it to be). I do know, however, that there was a squirrel inside this particular store. Why? Because on the door there was a sign held on by a solitary piece of scotch tape with the following written in black marker:

"Squirrel in store!"

Notice the exclamation point. This store owner was not only telling/warning you about the loose squirrel in their store, they were screaming it from the mountain tops!
This sign on the door is where my knowledge of the subject stops, but it raises a few questions for me. First, was this a prank? If so, was it the owner of this store that put up the sign or was it the owner of the store across the street that tried to dissuade patrons from that store into their own? Secondly, if it wasn't a prank, why not call animal control or make some other attempt to let the animal free (i.e. trail of popcorn)? Lastly, at what point do you give up trying to get the squirrel out of your store and say, "Eh, just put a sign up," as to try and limit liability when somebody contracts rabies while searching for that perfect vintage jacket? These questions and countless others go unanswered.
Regardless, we didn't enter the store, but one of my friends did mention the possibility that it could be a caged squirrel on exhibit and the sign was to attract costumers not detract costumers. Yes, that is certainly a possibility but I have to imagine that if you can afford a squirrel exhibit, you can afford a better sign to advertise such things.

Til Next Time

P.S. Happy Cinco De Mayo! I had taquitos for lunch.

States: 26
Countries: 8

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I had visitors from Chicago.
There was a squirrel in a store.
A sign told me so.
I don't know why.

K-Clubbin'...It's the Hip Thing to do in K-Town!

I have a friend at work, a fellow engineer, who happens to be Korean. He was the guy who braved the elements of mild weather to help find me a suitable surf board. This past Saturday, he drove down to my place and we went surfing.
After an exhausting afternoon he made the following offer:

"Do you want to go to Korea Town for some Korean Bar-B-Q?"

It goes without saying that I accepted the offer and soon we were grilling "all you can eat meat" at our table. After an hour of constant eating in Korea Town (K-Town to the locals) we paid the tab and were on our way.
As we were driving my friend pointed at a club looking place and said, "That's a Korean club." So I asked a seemingly ignorant question, "What's so Korean about it?" Little did I know that Korean Clubbing (K-Clubbin' to the locals) is actually a very different club scene.
Now, I'm no clubbing expert (I don't know if I've officially ever been to one actually) but here's what I would do in a normal situation: I would go to the club, I would get drunk, I would make a fool of myself, maybe talk to a couple of girls and therefore scare them away, I would go home (not necessarily in that order). Seems like a pleasant evening.
Here's what would happen if I went K-Clubbin': I would first make reservations for the appropriate number in my party, I would then go to the club with a group of dudes (most likely Korean), we would order a couple of bottles of liquor (probably whiskey), and if we felt so inclined we would ask to be "booked."
Booked? Yes, "booked." Let me elaborate, in a K-Club, there are normally tables of dudes and tables of girls and these tables are mixed amongst each other. The wait staff at these establishments are assigned to a number of dude tables as well as some girl tables. So, if I were to say, "Excuse me fine sir, I would like to get booked," the waiter would then consult his log of tables of girls who have also agreed to get booked. The waiter would then talk to one of these girls, bring her over to me, and introduce her. She would then sit down for some friendly conversation and I am then obligated to give her some of the alcohol that me and my dude friends bought earlier. Let me take this opportunity to clarify something: these girls are just girls that are also attending the club that night. They are not in anyway hired, like some of you may be thinking.
Anyway, it's at this point that the K-Club experience and the normal club experience would probably converge for me. I'm sure I would say something that would scare her off and I'd probably have a good laugh at it, and that's all good. It's ok though because I'm K-Clubbin'. All I need to do if just flag down the waiter again and inform him politely, "I'd like to get booked...again."
Now, I haven't been K-Clubbin' yet, so this is all word of mouth but I need to see for myself how this system works. Who knew social situations could be so structured.
So, I ask you dear readers, "Who wants to get booked?"

Til Next Time

P.S. Do you watch the television series "Weeds?" Me neither, but I've heard of it and I've heard it's funny. Regardless, they were filming an episode on my jogging route this evening. Again, however, I regretfully report that I didn't not see any celebrities.

States: 26
Countries: 7

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I like Korean barbecue.
Clubbing in Korea town is called K-Clubbin'.
If you go K-Clubbin' you can elect to get booked.
Who wants to get booked?

What Makes a Strong House? ... A Healthy Foundation of Course

So, it's been four weeks and you may be wondering, "Are you getting better at volleyball?" The answer, regrettably is a resounding, "No."
Remember how I told you that the intermediate class seemed less intermediate and more, how do you say...athletically incompetent? Well, since then the intermediate class has been split into two smaller classes: Intermediate and Intermediate Beginner. Being the modest and humble person that I am, I choose to group myself with the intermediate beginners where I was promised, "more instruction on the fundamentals."
Let me paint a picture of what the intermediate beginner class looks like: Picture 15-20 people standing on the beach with volleyballs in their hands. The instructor explains the next activity in a moderately to crystal clear manner. The majority of the students respond with blank looks and annoying questions. The instructor, growing increasingly frustrated, says, "Alright, let's just give it a shot."
What happens next can best be described by visualizing a handful of bouncy balls being dropped on the pavement. Can you see it? The bouncy balls are bouncing every which way...they have scattered in every direction. That's exactly what happens every Thursday night in the intermediate beginner class. The instructor says, "Go!" and volleyballs scatter in every direction. It's rather unproductive.
It's ok though, they're nice people. They just need a little more instruction on the fundamentals...me included.

Til Next Time

P.S. I found a place down the street from me that claims to sell Chicago Style Hot Dogs. I haven't tried it yet, but by the looks of it they are missing half of the ingredients. They do, however, claim to use Vienna Beef Hot Dogs and that goes a very very long way.

States: 26
Countries: 7

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
It's been 4 weeks of volleyball.
I'm not getting any better.
Picture a handful of bouncy balls.
We need more instruction on fundamentals.

Stop Bugging Me...Said the Annoyed Cockroach

As I may have mentioned before, my apartment is owned and operated by a church. My apartment building resides quite obediently in the dunce's corner of said church's parking lot. There is at least one pro to this situation: lots of parking, but there are certainly cons as well: lots of local parking on drunken nights (Thurs.-Sat.).
One con that may not coming instantly to mind is this: there are always people around my apartment in the mornings. These people aren't residents of the apartment building like some of you might be thinking, they are just people who for one reason or another decided to park in the church's parking lot. Take the construction workers across the street for instance, they all gather 'round their trucks and drink their morning coffee and love to make a lot of noise (mostly in Spanish). Take the little old lady cleaning up the parking lot, she is doing a good deed (surely as a volunteer since she wasn't wearing a bright orange jumpsuit) yet she seems very upset and quite surly. Perhaps that's because of the young punks that are skating on the other end of the parking lot, shouldn't they be in school by now? Stupid punks.
So you get the idea: there is a wide variety of people that I see in the mornings. This morning, though, I was a bit taken aback by what I emerged to see. Just as I opened my door to leave for the morning I came face to face with an exterminator. Yep, a real honest to goodness exterminator. I said a "Good Morning," he reciprocated and as I got into my car I thought to myself, "Ah, the good church is taking precautions." You see, the exterminator was hard at work spraying the exterior of the building and that made me feel good...a landlord that cares. But that thought quickly faded and was replaced with, "What could have happened here to make an exterminator necessary?"
So my ride to work this morning (which was longer than usual, mind you) was filled with thoughts of gigantic ants and intergalactic roaches. I pictured huge space slugs sliming over all of my things and eating all that is made of paper. The spiders that scurried about in my head weren't really spiders. You see, normal spiders have eight legs, mine had 15 and were the size of small eco-friendly hybrid automobiles. The kind of nightmarish visuals that I conjured up this morning only belong in movies and the amazon (especially movies about the amazon). It was a hellish morning commute indeed.
Then, as I got a grip on reality, I flipped to the other side again thinking, "Regardless of what the infestation is or was, the good church has hired a helping hand. That's a positive thing." But, I couldn't help but think, "Good thing I live by a church because only god's exterminator would have a chance against the devil bugs that live under my apartment. Those horned creeps are tough and in a battle between holy bug spray and evil bugs, evil is bound to win. Evil just has too many legs."
But, at least they're fighting the good fight.

Til Next Time

P.S. Yes, I went surfing again this weekend. I'm not bleeding (at least not any more than I already was) and I did stand up on my board. Staying up, however, is a different thing.

States: 26
Countries: 6

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I live in a church parking lot.
The devil has sent his bug army.
Evil has too many legs
The church is fighting a good fight.

Cow and Pig Parts...An Ode to the Hotdog

There is a hot dog joint in Chicago that calls itself "Hot Doug's" and on it's wall it proudly displays the following phrase:

"There are no two finer words in the English language than 'encased meat,' my friend."

Amen Doug. That is, as long as the encased meat doesn't come from one of California's biggest fast food chains, "Wienerschnitzel."
Over the weekend I had a taste for a hot dog and figured it was time to see how the Californian's do it. The aforementioned establishment seems to be the only operation in town specializing in dogs so my choices were limited. I checked online for the closest locations even though I already know where one was. I figured I could check out a new area in the process and broaden my horizons a bit. So, that's exactly what I did. I got in my car. I drove to unfamiliar territory. I questioned my orientation (spacially speaking). I made numerous wrong turns. I found my destination. I pulled into the parking lot. I parked my car. I walked up to the window...and they're closed. "Will Open Again Tomorrow," says the crudely written sign. I was certainly way too hungry to wait until tomorrow to eat, so I had to make a decision.
I had two choices: first, cut my loses and find something else to eat on my way back home or alternatively, backtrack and drive to the other local Wienerschnitzel location in an endless pursuit of a hot dog. You can probably already guess that I opted with option number two. I wanted to try those hot dogs so badly that it was going to take much more than a sign (albeit a crudely written one) from a higher power to sway my determination.
So, I drove back into familiar territory. I found my way quite easily. I parked my car...again. They were open. I was happy. I ordered my food. I took it home.
It's at this point in the story where I actually ingest a chili dog, an Italian sausage, and some fries, but I will spare you the details. Not because it is a long winded story. Not because it is a boring story. I spare you because I don't want to make you ill. I spare you because it was an agonizingly unpleasant experience. Every successive bite solidified the scowl of disgust on my face. I'm not sure what I was eating, but it was no hot dog and certainly no Italian sausage. I felt so ashamed to have taken part in this travesty. I still have nightmares.
Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Why did you continue to eat it if you weren't enjoying it?" The quick answer is spite. I didn't want those Wienerschnitzel people thinking they got the best of me. I'm too proud of an eater. Plus, I'm just too darn lazy to make/buy something else.
Needless to say, I won't be going back anytime soon, but I do have a suggestion for a phrase they can put on their wall:

"Nobody actually knows what a hot dog is made of, but our dogs redefine the term 'Mystery Meat.'"

Til Next Time

P.S. In case you're wondering, I canceled my return trip to India and decided to buy a new pair of shoes instead. Turns out it was cheaper that way.

States: 26
Countries: 6

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
Don't eat Wienerschnitzel.
I have the ability to eat for spite.
Nobody knows what is in a hot dog.

Today I Surfed...And Now I'm Bleeding

Since I've moved here I have inquired to everyone I meet about surfing. If surfing comes up in the conversation, I pick their brain a bit about how to get started. Take a conversation I had with a guy in my volleyball class:

Me: "Oh, you surf huh?
Guy: "Like every day."
Me: "How would I get started?"
Guy: "Buy a board and walk into the ocean."

Sounds simple enough. It's a heads-on approach. I like it. He then follows up with the following:

Guy: "Don't be a toolbox."
Me: "Look at me, do I look like a toolbox?"

He didn't answer the question, he just continued with his point and warning:

Guy: "There are a lot of toolboxes that think they want to surf because it's cool and then they find out it's too hard."
Me: "I assure you...I am no such toolbox."

While I wondered deep down if I was indeed an aforementioned "toolbox," I still followed his advice and with the help of a coworker found and bought a used board. I later went to a different surf shop to find a wetsuit and since it is the spring, these places are having plenty of sales on the older stock. Lucky me.
I found a sales associate to ask for some advice. When I found him I looked him straight in the eye and asked, "What size would you suggest for me." He looked me over, asked my height and weight, and said with a straight face, "Definitely a medium." I'm not one to ignore advice so a medium is what I picked from the rack and I headed to the fitting room.
In the fitting room I disrobed and stepped into the wetsuit. Sure, it was tight around the legs, but they're supposed to be tight...so I continued. Sure, getting my arms in was a bit of a struggle but the material stretches...so I continued. Yeah, I felt a bit snug across the chest, but it'll loosen up...so I continued. But when I started to zip up the back I felt a pinch. That is when I thought to myself, "Perhaps a medium is a bit too small." I promptly started to peel off the wetsuit and as I looked in the mirror I notice my back was bleeding. It seems my skin had gotten caught in the zipper and gave me a bit of a cut. I had sustained a surfing injury without even setting foot in the ocean...quite an astonishing feat.
I continued to peel the wetsuit off of my body and cleaned the blood off of my back. I resorted to using the inside of my favorite sweatshirt and as we all know blood is quite a stain, so I was not happy. And, regardless of how much I cleaned it up, my t-shirt was sure to get a stain as well when I put it back on...it did and I was even unhappier still. With two articles of clothing down, I refused to leave the store without making purchase. I had to make it worth it. So I tried the next size up...a large short. Needless to say, I approached this fitting with a bit more caution and when it was all said and done...it fit like a glove...absolutely perfectly. So, I bought it and was able to go surfing this morning (if what I did qualifies as surfing...but that's a different tale).
Moral of the story: A surfer dude's advice always runs small.

Til Next Time

States: 24
Countries: 6

P.S. I think my sweatshirt can be salvaged as long as I'm OK with blood stains on the inside, but I'm afraid that I had to say goodbye to that loyal and loving t-shirt. Morale in my closet is at an all time low.

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
"Buy a board and walk into the ocean."
I did.
"You're definitely a medium."
No I'm not.

Yep, I'm New...I'm Still New

I'm still new enough at work (and the company is big enough) that it isn't uncommon for me to meet someone new on any given day. Today was one of those days. We did the whole introductory thing like normal people do (I have my half of the conversation down to a routine) but then she asked, "So, are you settled in?" My answer to that question (on which I had no rehearsed response) was as follows: "Well, when I'm out in public, I don't feel like people are staring, pointing, and snickering at me thinking, 'That guy is from out of town.' So that is a good feeling."
Reflecting upon that conversation I wondered if it is a common thing to walk the streets of a new place in constant paranoia. I'd like to think it's not that common, but I also like to make excuses as to why I'm special (Did I ever mention that I'm left handed?).
Regardless, actually settling into a place is a blessing and a curse. Sure, I may be able to tell you where the closest gas station is, or where you can find some decent food, but I can no longer say, "Sorry, I can't help you. I just moved here." And let's be honest, pleading ignorance is just easier.

Til Next Time

States: 24
Countries: 5

P.S. For those of you who were concerned, I have good news. British Airways finally located my bag and delivered it to my door. The bad news is that I evidently forgot a pair of shoes in India. So now I have two choices: go back and get them (they could be any number of places) or buy a new pair. I'll get to packing.

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I'm not that new, but still new enough.
I meet new people from time to time.
I was paranoid for a while.
Ignorance is bliss.

Volleyball...AKA "How I Plan to Look Awesome on the Beach"

When I moved to Southern California (So-Cal to the locals) in January there were two activities I told myself I would try. One was surfing, which still seems quite intimidating, and the other was beach volleyball. The entire time I've lived here I've told myself I would take steps towards these goals "as soon as I get back from India." Well, here I am, back from India.
You can imagine my excitement then when I had the following conversation with a friend at work:

Me: "I'm bored and I'm procrastinating."
Friend: "My friends and I are signing up for a volleyball class, wanna join us?"
Me: "Like, totally."

So, I did. For this particular class there are three levels of beach volleyball competence: beginner, intermediate, and advanced. My friend and her friends took it upon themselves to sign up for the intermediate level which made me a bit uneasy. Sure I've played a little ball in my day, some of which even took place on a beach, but people here take volleyball to a different level. I'm pretty sure (but don't quote me on this) that if a child can't serve a volleyball effectively by the age of three, the parents ship the kid to a colder climate (i.e. Montana or Canada) as to not embarrass the family. So the pressure was on.
This past Thursday was my first class and here's what I saw: a beginners class that looked surprised when someone held up a volleyball and told them quite accurately, "This is a volleyball," there was an advanced class that seemed quite comfortable on the court (read: they look awesome), and then there was the intermediate class. The intermediate class seemed split 30/70. Only about 30% could probably be described as intermediate volleyball players while the remaining 70% were only slightly less surprised when someone showed them what a volleyball looks like.
My point is, I think I made the right choice in choosing intermediate...being the natural athlete and all. And maybe I jumped to conclusions about how seriously volleyball is taken around here.

Til Next Time

States: 24
Countries: 5

P.S. I saw a license plate frame this morning that read, "My Other Car is an Enterprise Rental." To me, that doesn't make much financial sense.

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I moved here in January.
I want to surf and play volleyball.
People here disown their children who are horrible at volleyball.
I am a natural athlete.

Welcome to India...AKA The Land Where I Sweat Always

I may have mentioned in the past that I'm sick of talking about the weather. Living in Southern California (So-Cal to the locals) and having moved from Chicago, everyone here wants to talk about how cold it is back home and how I must be loving this mild weather. Meanwhile, back home in the windy city, all my friends and family talk about how they are sick of the cold and how jealous they are of my new, more mild climate. Therefore, I'm sick of talking about the weather. It may come as a surprise to you then that this blog entry is about just that.
Two weeks ago, it was sunny and 70 in Los Angeles, just like it is most days it seems, and I was on my way to the airport (LAX to be exact). It was from this international hub that I departed on my journey to the far off land of India. Turns out, however, that I needed to stop off in London for a bit (7 hours to be exact) and wait for a different plane to complete my journey. No worries, I have a friend in London and perhaps he'd like to grab a bite to eat and have a couple pints. He agreed. So I left London Heathrow airport to meet my friend and was greeting by a dreary overcast day with temperatures hovering around the mid-40's. I hadn't considered that I was going to be in cold weather and I was hardly dressed for the occasion. It was quite uncomfortable.
A couple of pints and a lot of chicken later, I was back on a plane towards the mystical land of tigers, elephants, and cobras. A couple of movies and a few naps after that the plane was in its final descent into Bombay (now called its original name of Mumbai) where we landed and exited the aircraft.
Now, having boarded the plane from a quite chilly 45 degrees, my mind wasn't ready for what happened next. I took one step out of the plane and the hot stale air of India hit me like a sock full of quarters to the face. From there it only took 10 steps for me to start pouring sweat (for those of you that know me well enough, you understand that the use of the word "pouring" in this context is quite an understatement). 10 minutes later, I was still walking through the terminal trying to reach the baggage claim while fighting off dehydration. This was not a good first impression of India. Don't these people know of the 8th wonder of the world called "air conditioning?"
My point is this: I hate talking about the weather, but it's a pretty hard topic to avoid when you are quite visibly the sweatiest man on the continent.
Now, given this experience, when someone wants to chat about the weather, I can always say, "Sure is hot, but at least it's not 'India hot'. Have you ever been to India?" The weather can now be my segue into bragging about world traveling. Perhaps there are worse things to talk about.

Til Next Time.

States: 24
Countries: 5

P.S. If jet lag is the term used to describe the difficulty your body has adjusting your sleep schedule to a new time zone, is there a term for the difficulty of adjusting to a new meal schedule? I seem to be hungry at the most peculiar times. I wish I knew how to describe what I'm going through accurately and with the utmost brevity, but I know of no such word or phrase. Sigh. I'm hungry.

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
Chicago is cold.
London is dreary.
India makes me sweat.
Let's stop talking about the weather.

And I'm Back...But What About My Luggage?

I am now back in Sunny Southern California (Sunny So Cal to the locals) and it feels great. I've already eaten a big fat greasy hamburger for dinner last night and an even greasier burrito for lunch this afternoon.
You see, it seems the only food you can get in India (or perhaps just the only food I was given) is Indian food. I enjoyed the local cuisine just fine and I even occasionally venture out to an Indian restaurant at home (if for nothing else to act more cultured at dinner parties...which reminds me, I need to attend more dinner parties), but I can only take so much.
It was because of this that it dawned on me that we, as Americans, are amazingly spoiled with the immense variety of food available due to our "melting pot" culture. It's a luxury few realize.
But let's get to the really exciting part of my trip.
Some of you may have heard that wonderful Heathrow Airport in beautiful London, England opened its long anticipated Terminal 5 (T5 to the locals). Some of you may have heard this because of the mass chaos, delays, and baggage problems that were inevitable on T5's first day. I heard about it because I was part of the mass chaos, delays, and baggage problems.
When I first checked in at the Bombay airport for my long venture home, the British Airways representative was very excited to inform me that I would be one of the lucky passengers to pass through the new terminal on its inaugural day. His excitement rubbed off on me and I was ready to brag to all my friends about this historic event.
Turns out, though, it wasn't such a good thing. Sure, we boarded our plane on time (actually 5 minutes late, but who's counting) and yes, I was sitting in an empty row, so I was happy so far. 25 minutes later, however, the captain announces that there has been a mix up with the luggage and they are re-consolidating on the tarmac and we'll be moving shortly. 20 minutes after that, he again announced a mix up with the baggage (apparently the computers thought our plane had already left and it sent the baggage back to the airport...stupid computers) and we'll be moving shortly. 15 minutes later, we're finally on our way, but you can feel the tension on the plane. There wasn't a single passenger on the plane that felt their luggage would make it safely (except maybe the crying baby, but he/she openly admitted to being an uncompromising optimist).
Sure enough, when we land at LAX, our friendly captain announces that only half of the baggage has made the journey with us and to find a British Airways representative to see if your name is on the list of missing bags. So I did. I was lucky enough to have one of my bags arrive and also unlucky enough to have one of my bags missing. This is a first for me. I've never had baggage problems before (except in my personal life but that's neither here nor there) so I'm not exactly sure how it all works. Apparently I'm going to be contacted shortly, so that's nice. They seem to have it under control, I trust them. T5 is exciting.

Til Next Time.

States: 24
Countries: 5

P.S. Someone (they didn't leave their name) posted a comment on my last post complaining that my writings are too wordy and to add more pictures. While I have no intention to add pictures, I will humor their request from now on. Please see below for the most recent feature or my blog.


This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I like Indian food, but come on.
I flew out of the new Terminal 5 at London Heathrow and they lost one of my bags. I also met the youngest optimist in the world.
T5 is exciting.

If Jet Lag is Wrong...I don't Want to Be Right

The time has come for me to say goodbye, but not for long. I have a long journey ahead of me to the distant land of India. My old college roommate is getting hitched and I'll be there to make sure it goes off without a...hitch. So, check back in 11 days for I will surely have lots of tales to tell and lots of pictures to share.

Til Next Time

States: 19
Countries: 5

P.S. I know the burning question on everyones mind is, "Did you get drunk this past weekend therefore fulfilling your half plans?" The burning answer is, "Yes. Yes I did."

"What are you doing this weekend?"...And I Don't Want You to Recipricate That Question.

It's Thursday night. The weekend is upon us and it's that point in the week when I consider possible activities for the days ahead. Normally I promise myself to do something outdoors...hiking perhaps. I may consider hitting up a tourist attraction (I am, for all intents and purposes, a tourist) or I always have my backup plan to attend a screening of a classic film at The Old Music Hall in nearby El Segundo. This weekend, however, feels different. For some reason I don't feel like doing anything. That puzzles me since every weekend I plan on doing something and then don't end up doing anything anyways. Maybe, if I don't plan on doing anything it'll work out so I actually end up doing something. However, this is an interesting weekend to choose not to do anything, for it is the celebration weekend of St. Patrick's day. This weekend is normally reserved for green beer and drunken shenanigans (a weekend I always look forward to).
So, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to half plan my weekend (as opposed to fully plan half of my weekend): I plan on getting drunk. That's all I plan on doing. Then we'll see where that takes me. I've got $10 that says it doesn't take me very far and I've got another $25 that says I don't follow through with my half plan and end up doing nothing again. Although there is that parade down the street and they do throw candy out into the street. I do like candy, so we'll see.


Til Next Time

States 18
Countries 5

P.S. You know that bulldog I had previously mentioned? The one in the stroller? I saw him again. I swear that guy is pushing 75 lbs. He is a massive bulldog.

Give Money to the Old Music Hall...and Become an Organ Donor

Last week I went about my usual business doing my usual routine. Come Friday afternoon, the usual laundry had piled up into the usual pile. So, I gathered my supplies and headed over to the friendly neighborhood laundry matte. I stepped through the usual steps and paid the usual amount to get the machines running. I then walked over to the community benches and picked up a community magazine. This particular magazine highlights events in the beach communities (3 others besides my town of Hermosa Beach) and is some pretty awful reading if you're new to the area or if you happen to be under the age of 45. Regardless, I pressed on through the nonsensical headlines as I had nothing else to occupy my time. Then, as I was flipping the pages, I happened upon an advertisement that would forever change my life. It was an advertisement for The Old Music Hall in neighboring El Segundo and it was glorious.
This old theater, as the magazine informed me, had regular screenings of classic films from the silent era with live organ accompaniment. Now, I like to watch movies. I particularly like watching old movies just so I can sound more cultured and intelligent at dinner parties (which reminds me, I need to go to some dinner parties), and I especially wanted to watch an old movie that had live music accompaniment. So, my Saturday night was planned.
Come 8:00pm on Saturday I was walking to the ATM around the corner from the theater. Turns out this theater wants to remain as historically accurate as possible by limiting the admission currency to cash. When I returned I purchased a ticket and a historically accurate Snickers bar (which tasted more like the 1970's but I didn't want to say anything). I then took my seat towards the back of the 200 seat theater. Up front, on the slightly elevated stage, I saw the beast, The Mighty Wurlitzer.
Up until show time, I thought I new enough about organs. I thought, yes they are big, yes some can be bigger, yes they have a lot of knobs, and yes some can have more, but I guess I didn't have a grasp of the versatility of a theater organ.
So, they old man that took my money in the beginning of the evening strutted up the aisle and sat down on the console. He turned to the audience, rattled off a bunch of titles of things, and then began playing. As he started, the curtains opened and unveiled a magnificent sight. Only now could I understand what a big deal The Mighty Wurlitzer actually was. Sure, the normal pipe organ sounds emanated from the normal pipes, but did you know that this thing has a xylophone? Did you know it plays wooden blocks? What about a series of drums? And how about all those things that I saw moving and couldn't distinguish what they were(neither by sight nor by sound)? Did you know about all of this? Car horn? Yep, it had one. Lightning and thunder effects? You bet! This thing was incredible. Why did I not know this about organs?
So, the old man finished the overture as the movie screen came down. A few slides showed what was to be expected at The Old Music Hall in the upcoming weeks. I was also informed that the theater is a non-profit organization which is in need of financial assistance (totally tax deductible). Then something extraordinary happened. We had a sing-a-long. There were about 5 songs that were played with accompanied vintage slides displaying the words so everyone could sing. I figured that everyone would be ho-hum about the singing thing, but to my surprise everyone was really singing. The audience was really into it. The only song I recognized was "You're a Grand Old Flag," but the others were easy to pick up. It's also pretty easy to sing when you're the youngest in the room by about 25 years.
After the sing-a-long we were shown a Laurel and Hardy comedy short entitled "Another Fine Mess," which was a talkie so the old man got to take a break. Then we took a break with an intermission.
The movie that followed was Buster Keaton's "7 Chances," which was remade in the 90's as "The Bachelor" starring Chris O'Donnell. I've never seen "The Bachelor," but I'll tell you that it has a lot to live up to. "7 Chances" was awesome. Dare I say it was hilarious? I think I dare.
As you can probably tell I was really excited about this experience. I already plan on taking anybody who visits to The Old Music Hall. So, if you visit and I say, "I've got a great idea for an activity on Saturday night," be prepared to battle The Mighty Wurlitzer.

Til Next Time

States: 18
Countries: 5

P.S. The Old Music Hall will be closed March 21, 22, and 23 in observance of Easter. FYI

I Haven't Been Sleeping Well...I Think It's the Sparks

I have been having a little trouble falling asleep as of late. I don't know why. Nothing has changed in my life. I still work my job. I still watch movies. I still have my hobbies. I still think my bed is really comfortable (it is after all a bed). What then could it be? Oh, it must be the Sparks.
Let me take you back to the not so distant past, a simpler time when I had roommates and friends. A time when these friends would ask, "Hey, you want to go get drunk?" And I'd say, "Yep," and we'd go to the neighborhood bar and drink Old Style or Pabst until we ran out of singles. Ah yes, those were some simple times.
One night, a night just like the one mentioned above, started a bit differently, however. My friend asked, "Hey, you want to have a Sparks party?" I responded with a curious tone, "I don't know what that is." He then explained, "Sparks is an alcoholic energy drink that supposedly tastes like smarties." I excitedly replied, "I like smarties." So the Sparks party was on. Three of us agreed to partake...and partake we did.
A few Sparks (and beers) later, our bodies didn't know whether to pass out or to run a marathon. Every time I closed my eyes to relax, the rapid, seemingly unnatural beating of my heart would keep me awake. So, we had no choice be to play video games until 4:30am. Even then, after I choose to hit the proverbial hay, I ended up staring at the ceiling until I could see the sun starting to color the sky. That night, I did not sleep well, but I think the Sparks party itself could still be considered a success. We did, after all, drink Sparks.
Now, flash forward to last night (a Thursday night). I live in an apartment that is basically in the parking lot of a church. I also happen to live in close proximity of the local nightlife. So, when the bars get crowded and parking becomes more difficult, it is only natural for the traffic to spill into the parking lot right outside my bedroom window. It happens every weekend. Last night, I was laying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. I was in that sort of half dreaming and half awake mode (one of my favorites). I was laying there in the wonderful silence anticipating the next morning. Then, there were faint female voices. Laughing was the first thing I heard (could also be classified as cackling). Then I heard someone talking really loudly (borderline yelling, but not in an angry tone) followed by more outrageous laughter. It was then I knew they were coming into my parking lot for this behavior is typical of someone coming from the bars. The talking and laughter got louder until it sounded like it was right outside my window (which is a very accurate description because they actually were right outside my window). The talking/yelling/laughing/cackling continued as one of them (I think there were 4 in total) tried to wrangle them into the car. This was followed by the sound of someone dumping a bucket of water onto the sidewalk. I too, thought that was strange and wondered what they were doing. Surely they didn't actually have a bucket that they just dumped into the parking lot. An answer was quickly provided to me as I heard one of them say, "Oh my god. I totally just yakked everywhere." Everyone then laughed (including yours truly) outrageously hard and when they finally caught their breath, one of them said, "It was probably all that damn Sparks you drank." Then they drove away and I was left with two empty Sparks cans and a buckets worth of yak on my sidewalk. A charming way for Sparks to sneak back into my life and keep my heart racing.

Til next time.

States: 18
Countries: 5

P.S. Barbie turns 49 this weekend. I know this because today was "Wear Pink to Work Day." I was complimented on my subtle use of the color. Nobody has ever complimented me for my fashion sense before. Leave it to Barbie.

A Place to Hang My Hat...And Unpack My Stuff

For the last month and a half I've had three boxes full of unpacked goods sitting on my floor. Let me tell you this...those boxes are on my floor no more. I can officially say that I am unpacked and it feels awesome. I can look around and say, "Everything seems to be in order here," with a reassuring nod (arms crossed of course). Or I can sit back, watch a movie without having to say, "I wonder when I'm going to unpack the rest of my stuff." And when I go to the store I can finally start buying the "non-essentials" in life, like compact discs, adhesive bandages, and toilet paper. Oh, it is a good day. A good day indeed. Perhaps tomorrow I'll splurge and buy some condiments.

Til Next Time.

States: 17
Countries: 5

P.S. I was sitting at a stop light the other night and a man ran across the street pushing a stroller. Not an uncommon sight except the stroller was not for a child but for the biggest, baddest, most awesome looking bulldog I've ever seen. I looked around and every other driver at the stoplight was equally awestruck, but I seemed to be the only one laughing hysterically.

Burning Rubber...Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Change My Tire

Many people name their vehicles. Why? I don't know. Usually, these names are of the female persuasion. In April of last year, I bought a car. The burning question now of course is, "What did you name it?" I named her Chastity.
I named my ride Chastity because of it's irony. An irony shared with so many women across this fine nation who earn their living one dollar at a time (if you catch my meaning). I named my car Chastity because when I look at her, I see an ironic stripper.
Now, to let you in on my weekend, I did a little rearranging. This meant buying some new furniture and since I can never find anything I really like, I purchased some "it'll do for now because it's amazingly cheap" furniture from Ikea. On my way back from the big blue amusement park for consumers I was greeted with a rattling sensation and the smell of burning rubber on the expressway (the freeway to the locals). Yes, that's right, I'm sorry to report that Chastity lost one of her greatest assets. One that really earns her the money...her front tire (many "deflated," "popped," "flat," jokes can be made here...but I'm above that).
So, I pull over, empty the cheap furniture from my trunk onto the side of the road and get to work. I pull out the spare. I drag the "tire change tool kit" into action and I start to loosen the...wait a sec. It seems that these lug nuts are of a certain "theft proof" design. No worries, I dig around in the "tire change tool kit" for a while...no "theft proof wrench." I stand there staring at Chastity in disbelief. I dig through my trunk some more hoping the elusive tool will present itself...nothing. I stare at Chastity some more hoping she will puke it out and say, "Ha, you should have seen your face!" I understand, though, that automobiles do not talk nor do they puke essential tools for those in dire need. So I move on and consult the owners manual (very emasculating to have to look up how to change a tire) and confirm that there should indeed be a tool in my "tire change tool kit" to aid in this exercise. What am I going to do? I start assigning blame. I blame my car for being different (or special depending on your outlook), I blame German engineering (she's a VW), I blame myself for not checking the tools prior to this, I then blame Carmax (the bigbox car superstore from which she came who should have made sure the tools were present at point of purchase). I then remember that I paid a sum of extra money for some service warranty thing from Carmax. Perhaps they could be of service.
I find my "service protection plan" card and give them a call hoping they have roadside assistance...they don't. I further explain my situation and I get transferred to a manager. Perhaps my desperation is vocally transparent. The manager is kind enough to investigate the problem from his end. "If I have that tool," he says, "I'll try to get it out to you. Give me a minute. I'll call you back." Ok. Sounds good.
I wait for not one minute, but twenty until he calls me back. Twenty minutes on the side of the expressway with my car being shaken with every truck that passes. Twenty minutes just knowing that every car that passes knows that I've been there for twenty minutes unable to change my own tire (emasculating comes to mind again). Then I get the call.
The manager from Carmax was unable to locate said tool. He was, however, able to obtain a nugget of information much more valuable. It turns out that this "theft proof" design is only a facade...literally. The tool in question is used only to remove pieces of plastic that then reveal your standard lug nut to be removed with your normal tire iron. These pieces of plastic can easily be removed with a screwdriver, a car key, or anything else that can be wedged in there. These "theft proof nuts," the bane of my existence for the past twenty minutes, don't need a special tool after all. I am in shock. I told the manager that I'm a moron (he assured me that I'm merely stupid and to not be so hard on myself) and, as I was advised, I used a screwdriver to remove the plastic and change my tire as anyone would normally do. I loaded my cheap furnishings back into my car and was on my merry way. At least I got to take in the wonderment of the Los Angeles freeway system...it's quite impressive.
Turns out that "theft proof" actually means, you guessed it...emasculating. Good to know.

Til Next Time.

States: 15
Countries: 5

P.S. On a positive note, I got a free toy from work on Friday. Some rad car that turns into a menacing robot. No, it's not a transformer. No, it's not a GoBot. It just acts like one.

First the Country...Then the World

In my previous post I left you on a bit of a creepy note. To reiterate, I signed off by saying, "I know where you live." Creepy, I know, but true. No, I don't know exactly where you live, nor do I know exactly who you are, but I do know that someone in your city has read my blog.
You see, I track the traffic of the people who pass through and partake in my ramblings. I can read a report every 24 hours that will tell me from which cities my posts are being read.
Currently I have had people check in from 5 different countries. Impressive I know, but there is 1 country (I won't name names to avoid embarrassment) in which I cannot place a friend. Whoever they are, though, they are very avid readers. Likewise, I can claim 15 states across our fine country with at least 1 resident who has taken a gander at my humble journal. Yet, in 2 of those states (they again remain nameless) the reader is a mystery to me. Perhaps they are old friends that I've lost touch with. Perhaps they're friends that I have kept in touch with, yet completely forgot where they live. Maybe they were just vacationing and had nothing better to do than to read about my antics (some vacation). Regardless, it is pretty exciting to look at a map and realize how spread out your acquaintances are (even if I don't know if I know them). But let's not stop there.
I have a goal. I want to put a check mark in every one of our 50 states. I want my reach and influence to be felt from the deepest valley to the highest mountain, through the amber waves of grain, from sea to shining sea, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, and justice for all, USA. So, pass a link to your friends. All I need is for them to click on it once, but hopefully they'll enjoy it and keep coming back or pass it along to another friend who will in turn pass it on again etc, etc. To keep it interesting for you, the reader, I will post the number of states I have checked off (again, they will be nameless so stop asking) at the end of every post starting with this one. We'll see what happens. Go get 'em.
First the country, then the world.

'Til Next Time

States: 15
Countries: 5

P.S. Did I ever mention how everyone at work has glitter on their face? Girls love glitter, so Barbie loves glitter, so there is a lot of it around. Today I found some on my steering wheel. Sigh.

I'm a Real Boy...A Real California Boy

It's late and you're tired, so I'll keep this short. I am now in possession of a real California drivers license. Now, I know what you're thinking, "I hate the DMV." I couldn't agree more, but I wasn't within a mile of that god forsaken place today. Nope, my license was delivered straight to my door, through my mail slot, and onto my floor. Two weeks ago, however, I was stuck in the aforementioned governmental building for two long, hot, uncomfortable hours. I waited in line, I took my test, I waited in line, I filled out paper work, I waited in line, I got my picture taken, and then I was told, "Your new license will be arriving in 2 weeks. Give me your old Illinois license. You have no identity until then except for this flimsy piece of paper." He then handed me a flimsy piece of paper.
I walked out of that experience feeling empty, alone, and robbed of something personal. Today, that something was laying on my floor when I got home. I am complete again. I am somebody.

Til Next Time.

P.S. I know where you live.

I Don't Mind Being By Myself...But This is Ridiculous!

I've gotten used to doing things by myself. I don't hesitate to go out to dinner and request a table for one and I don't flinch at going to the cinema alone (it's a lot easier to find a single seat in a crowded theater that way). Last night I went to watch Persepolis, an animated movie playing in an art house theater animated for art house crowds and I found my seat 10 minutes before the lights dimmed. It was easier than normal to find an empty seat this time as it seemed I would be the only patron enjoying this fine film. That's right, my solitude had reached new heights.
I watched the minutes count down to show time. The trivia slides had gone through their third cycle, and still I am by myself. My phone reads 1 minute left, and the same stifling silence. And just as the first commercial began to air I heard the welcome voices of my fellow man (women actually). They sat a few rows behind me seemingly excited about the upcoming picture. During the previews they discussed what they'd like to see and with whom, or what they didn't care to see and why not. So, it was me and two middle aged women watching Persepolis and they loved their popcorn. They really knew how to rustle the bag down to the last kernel. I wouldn't classify their eating style as...shy. No, they were quite bold about it actually. Quite loud. But then again, I was at the movies.

Til Next Time.

P.S. I had my hair cut this afternoon (or as my grandfather used to say, "had my ears lowered") which was an all around pleasant experience, except the hairstylist's hands smelled like onions. She must have had an onion laced sandwich for lunch.

The Great Frame Up...On Wheels

On my first day at Mattel, as I sat amongst strangers in orientation, I was given a 'Welcome to Work Goodie Bag.' In this bag was a travel mug, a mouse pad, and a notepad (all of which were proudly displaying the Mattel logo), but also included was a license plate frame. This frame was a bright shiny chrome plated symbol of status that tells everybody that "My other car is a Hotwheels." I was really excited about this because currently my car tells everyone that I'm too much of a wuss to haggle the price of my car down by letting them know, "I bought my car at Carmax." So, no longer will people think, "Hey, there goes an easy target." They'll now just wonder, "How does he fit into that other car of his."

Til Next Time.

P.S. I saw a license plate frame yesterday claiming the driver was a member of Mensa. Nobody said geniuses were humble.

It's Party Time...In About an Hour

My parents were in town this weekend, but enough about them. Let me tell you about my Valentines Day. A friend at work (yes, I am capable of making such acquiantances) asked me ever so generously if I would like to join her to her friend's party. Having not left the house for anything other than survival (food, exercise, movies, etc.) since moving here I quickly agreed (although I made it sound like I may have something else lined up and I'll have to check my calender). So, she told me that after she picked up her friend she'd swing by and pick me up and we'd be on our way to a party in Hollywood. Oh, and she said I had to wear black. Good thing I have a black polo for just such social emergencies.
So, off we go, two ladies in the front and a Jeff in the back. The ladies, having lived in the area for quite some time, briefly discuss the best way to get there. Just to join in, and to feel like I am contributing, I inform them that I just moved here and I don't know how to get anywhere, let alone the best way. They humor my comment with a quick laugh, but get right back to business discussing freeways, shortcuts, and their boy problems. Again I chime in stating I don't have boy problems, once again citing the fact that I just moved here. An awkward silence followed.
Good thing a decision needed to be made post haste. The silence was broken as we needed to choose between continuing on the freeway or taking the old proverbial shortcut? I sat in the back seat of this fine BMW anxiously waiting the decision. The driver was clearly distraught. Sure traffic is moving fine now, but this is LA…anything can happen (all this time I thought Tokyo is where anything can happen i.e. Godzilla). She makes her decision at the dramatic last moment and I can finally relax as we decelerate down the offramp. Ah, that's better. I feel so relaxed with the leather interior cushioning every subtle bump the road serves up. We should be there in no time.
After a little small talk about Chicago weather (that's the only thing people want to talk to me about) we're lost. Wait, are we lost? No, we're not lost. She knows where she is. Nope, she's lost. Very lost. She claims she never gets lost. She just did.
So, there I am, sitting in the back seat listening to frantic cell phone calls trying to figure out where we are (not the best neighborhood) and how to get to the party (Hollywood). To make things more interesting, the passenger in the seat so aptly named is extremely sensitive to motion sickness. When she doesn't have her head between her knees she has it sticking out the window. I quite enjoy it when she opens the window…the tension in the car is stifling and the cold air against my face is invigorating. We push on against all odds. We have our bearings once more. Then quickly lose them again. Then regain them! We think. Yes, it is confirmed we know where we…wait…nope. Yes! We DO know where we are and we truly should be there in no time. Onward my steed, show me the meaning of haste!
So, we finally arrive at our destination. We drive past it at least. We drive past it at least five times. Parking in the area doesn't seem to be very forgiving. Around every block it was the same drill: we pull up on a fire hydrent, driveway, or alley and get excited and then very dissappointed, excited, dissappointed, excited, dissappointed, excited, apprehensive, more excited, and then finally relieved. When we actually did park, the car was bathed in the flashing neon glow of an establishment that claimed they had girls, girls, girls, and there was something about nudity in there as well. I really didn't pay too much attention.
So, we finally actually arrive at our party. What should have taken 25minutes took 1hour and 15minutes and we're still the first ones at the party. So I go about meeting the gracious hosts and complimenting their place and making the same small talk again (that same small talk will be repeated numerous times throughout the night). Most importantly, however, I got first dibs on the heart shaped brownies…totally worth the trip. It actually was a good time though, I tend to downplay things.

Til Next Time.

P.S. My parents actually were in town this weekend. It was lovely.

Computers are amazing...they can read my mind.

There is this thing out there called the internet (if you're reading this chances are you've heard of it) and it is an amazing thing. One of it's capabilities is electronic mail (e-mail to those in the know) which is exactly like it sounds: sending letters over the internet (if you've never done it put it on your list of things to do before you die). This feature (e-mail) has gotten rather popular over the years and there are companies out there that would like to capitalize on it's success, mostly advertisers. Furthermore, there are companies out there that would like to facilitate those other companies and give them somewhere to place said advertisements. This is where Google comes in.
Google has many free services and I use a lot of them (if you're reading this you are using such a service) mainly Gmail (which is actually e-mail, stay with me). Gmail (and Google) have a very sophisticated system of advertising: the computer finds key words in your messages and provides relevant advertisements to that person. For example: If you wrote to me saying how much you love BBQ sandwiches then Gmail would notice "BBQ" and put up websites that sell BBQ products. The idea is to target the appropriate audience for the specific product and apparently it is very well received (I think Google made $3.47 Trillion Billion last year).
So, more to my point. I was checking my Gmail the other day and I noticed the following advertisement:

"Free Fart Video

Watch Hilarious Fart Videos Like Horse Fart Sets Girl On Fire & More"

Now, anybody who knows me knows that I enjoy a little toilet humor (or a lot of toilet humor) and heavens know this video they are selling me sounds amazingly epic and a must see (provided the girl who was set on fire by careless horse fart was unharmed or has recovered and is in good spirits), but what are my friends sending me in their emails that would make Gmail think I was interested in such filth?
When I saw the ad, I stopped what I was doing and quickly looked around in the recent emails to try to find some hints of gas, flatulence, fart, shart, buster, flutterblast, barking spider, the dog did it, stepped on a duck, boofer, crop dust, pebble putt, ass explosion, crap, poo, poop, number 2, accident, butt rot, bomb, floating a biscuit, great brown cloud, killing the canary, doorknob, the sound and the fury, back door breeze, or cheesin'...but not one instance. There was nothing sent to or typed by me that could possibly resister relevant to fart videos. Why then, would I be targeted?
The only explanation is that the computer read my mind because I actually am the target audience they should be looking for. Creepy how that works. Pretty soon computers themselves will be farting and humans and horses will be obsolete...a frightening thought. I will probably lose sleep over it.

'Til next time.

P.S. Don't be surprised if you get the same ad now that you have read this...there may be a few buzz words in the body of this post.

So You Want Celebrities...Well, I Got the Next Best Thing

There is a friend of mine from Chicago in town. She is here on business. Her business provides her with luxurious hotels and drink. Last night she invited me to join her and her coworkers to have said drink in the lobby of said luxurious hotel. Last night was also the annual ceremony celebrating achievements in the music industry...aka "The Grammys."
So, given my position in a fancy schmancy hotel in Santa Monica sipping on fancy schmancy drinks, I was able to view the music elite. That was the theory anyway.
Sure, I saw a lot of gentlemen in tuxedos, a lot of women in gowns, a few looks of defeat, and a couple joyous celebrations, but I saw no trophies, no speeches, and certainly nobody I would consider a celebrity. Now, I pose you a question, "What good is living in or around Los Angeles if you can't see the people of which the entire world is envious?"
All I want is to see somebody who is super famous so I can say, "I totally saw Brendan Fraser yesterday. We hung out a little from across the room. His kids are totally fine. They are growing up so fast! I told him I didn't have any and he told me I should think about having some. So I'm thinking about it. He seems to know what he's talking about. I mean, he's Brendan Fraser. Then we totally did our secret handshake (I point at him, he ignores me, I pull the point back into a fist and I pump it ever so slightly). No big deal. It's hardly even worth mentioning. Next time I'll totally tell him you said "Hello."
But that didn't happen...not yet anyway.

Til next time.

P.S. So far, Hermosa Beach California is 0 for 2 on Mexican food. I'll let you know when I find a good place. Interestingly enough though, it is also 1 for 1 in Cajun cuisine.

Happiness is a Warm Bun...Covered in BBQ Pork

I've never been accused of eating extravagantly. Sure I love a lovely meal now and then, but I tend to eat simply. For instance, I love Italian sausage, Italian beef, Polish sausage, hot dogs, nachos, deep dish pizza, thin crust pizza, pizza puffs, chicken wings, chicken fingers, General Tso's Chicken, hot links, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, bratwursts, french fries, onion rings, White Castles, burritos, burritos, burritos, and of course anything BBQ. Nope, nobody has ever accused me of being sophisticated, but let me get into more detail about my eating habits as of late.
There is a chain of grocery stores here in southern California (So Cal to the locals) that goes by the name of Ralph's and if you've seen "The Big Lebowski" you'll know why I shop there. Ralph's, like many other grocers, has special deals for those that hold some special card and I was quick to sign up for one (they recommend keeping it in your wallet, but I keep mine close to my thrifty-sale-loving-heart). And it was this card and those deals that took me to new lows. Ralph's had a sale (for card members only please) on Lloyd's BBQ products (which are little tubs of precooked wonder meat slathered in the blood of BBQ fairies). The sale read as follows:
"Buy 1 Get 1 Free"
So I freaked and bought 2 (might I also mention that it was really hard to contain my joy as I put those tubs in my basket). I bought a lot of buns. I bought a lot of cheese. I bought a lot of butter (unrelated to the Lloyd's). I proceeded to the checkout and I was on my (very) merry way.
The 2 tubs I bought, lasted only 3 days. 3 DAYS! So, on the 4th day I returned and bought 2 more and I ate. Oh man did I eat! I was in a constant state of pain do to over BBQ eating. I was eating so much BBQ that I started eating it in my sleep. I had to clean my sheets daily. Every morning I'd wake up to a BBQ murder scene. There was sauce everywhere! Once, while I was at work, I developed a sudden headache and I realized I hadn't had my BBQ fix for the day. It quickly turned into the shakes, cold sweats, and desperate phone calls. I started calling random slaughter houses asking for Lloyd and threatening the safety of their families if they didn't put him on the phone.
It was at this point I realized I'd gone too far. I'd lost it. My life was one big BBQ mess. Today was a new day, however. I think I reached a milestone. I did my grocery shopping, reluctantly cruised by the processed food aisle and saw my weakness...at full price. No thank you Mr. Lloyd. You've caused me enough pain. I am strong. I do not need your sauce. Your sauce is NOT my boss. I think I'll take my business elsewhere. So I went on about my business and bought a case extra caffeinated Coke...and the headaches went away.

Till next time.

P.S. Another favorite quote I've heard since I've been here: "AW MAN! I FORGOT TO MEDITATE!" - The Woman in the Park Whose Meditation Clearly isn't Working

I had an interesting weekend...that was hard to say without laughing.

No, I did not have an interesting weekend, but I'll try to summarize as briefly as I can the pertinent information with the following bulleted list:

1. My car passed the "California Smog Test" : My car gives off an acceptable amount of smog, so that means I can register my car in the Golden State. That's good, because I didn't want to start running to work. (At 6-7mph I would have to get up much earlier in the morning to make it in on time.)

2. A restaurant's wait staff is overly friendly when dining alone: It's true, but I'm not sure they realize that it is difficult to carry on a conversation when one is stuffing his mouth with gumbo. (I call that the "dental hygienist syndrome," although I must say that the waiters symptoms are much less intrusive.)

3. Panic didn't overtake me when I locked myself out of my apartment: I was going for a run and I locked myself out, so I didn't have my wallet, phone, or (obviously) my keys. It worked out alright though. After 20 minutes of unsuccessfully trying to break in, I walked to the library, referenced this thing called a "phone book," and used some big device on a desk that functioned just like a cell phone to call my landlord. 3 hours and much wandering later, I was back in business and resumed my life. (By "life" I am referring to "sitting alone in my apartment.")

So, not that interesting.

Till next time.

P.S. Thermal expansion and contraction keeps me up at night, not the complexities of the concept itself but the noise my furnace makes when it heats up and subsequently cools down. It sounds like someone tapping on a baking sheet repeatedly at 3am. It's difficult, however, to tell the laws of physics to be quiet...they have self-esteem issues...and I need those laws for so many things.

I may not be the Top 100 in anything...but my company is.

This was my first week at Mattel and during my orientation on Monday morning I learned of two interesting things: Mattel was named one of "Fortune's Top 100 Companies to Work For" and to celebrate they were giving everyone the day off on Friday. So, my first work week is an abbreviated one which is cool with me.
The interesting thing about the Top 100 thing is the excitement around the company. Having not been in a corporate atmosphere before I wasn't ready for the pom-pom's, the cupcakes (I ate two) and punch (I had two glasses), the balloons, the pins, or the complimentary hats (which I forgot to pick up).
The fact that these things exist means that it is someones job to decide what is an appropriate celebration for such an occasion. For some reason I imagine a Franc-Like Guy (from Father of the Bride) walking around the office with an administrative assistant steps behind jotting down his every word. I imagine this guy waving his arms around talking about ice sculptures, rose petal walkways, and valet parking for Segways. He goes on and on about champagne flutes, fine cheeses, and celebrity raffles (nobody knows exactly what that is). His assistant writes down his suggestions of flame eaters, ice dancers, and hot air balloons. This goes on for hours as he demands live tigers, a hydroponic garden hanging from the ceiling, and a space shuttle launch (which gives him the idea of zero gravity dancing, but even he has limits). Finally he finishes his list with model trains big enough to ride, cities small enough to crush, and porridge that's just the right temperature.
And after all of that someone breaks it to him, "Franc-Like Guy, we only have $99.83 in the budget." So Franc-Like Guy responds, "Screw it, hang some balloons, give 'em pom-pom's and hats, and feed 'em punch and cupcakes...they'll love it."
And they did.

Til next time.

P.S. The most common phrase heard in a Barbie design review meeting: "That is sooooo cute!"

A Walk in the Park...A LONG Walk in the Part

I took the opportunity Saturday to explore Griffith Park. Griffith Park is located on the North East side of Los Angeles and is the largest municipal park in the country (many times larger than Central Park). Here was my plan: drive there, walk around, walk up to the "Hollywood" sign, take a picture and then go home and that's exactly what I did. The problem, again, was the rain.
No, it wasn't raining while I was at the park, but as you know dear reader, it has been raining in LA for some time now and our little friend got the best of this wonderful adventure land.
If I had to describe said park in two words I would choose "very big," but if I had to describe it in only one word it would be. "hilly." Pretty much the entire park is a bunch of walking paths and roads carved into a mountain. It's quite scenic, but what happens when it rains? The roads get covered in mud. What happens when the roads get covered in mud? The roads get closed. And what happens when the roads close? Jeff can't park where he wants and ends up walking for 4 hours...4 hours! 4 hours of walking uphill both ways in the sticky gooey mud and the blistering 50 degree winter weather. 2 hours of wandering around trying to go in the general direction of those gigantic white letters on the gigantic hill. Did I make it? Yes. Did I snap a few photos? Yes, but by that time the sun was starting to go down. So I spent the next 2 hours wandering around trying to go in the general direction of my car (I didn't want to go back the way I came for it was most certainly the LEAST direct way). My physical prowess was tested like it had never been tested before. My legs felt like they could cramp at any moment, my throat was on the verge of being dry, and my sense of direction was fleeting as I spiraled into delirium. So many times I just wanted to lie down, or puke, or both and then ask a stranger to drag me a little ways, but I didn't. I persevered and made it back to civilization just so I could tell the tale. Yes, it was you dear reader who gave me the will to make it out of...GRIFFITH PARK!
Seriously though, I was in bad shape by the end of the day. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Til next time.

P.S. People also ride horses in Griffith Park so take the above tale and add horse manure...charming I know.