tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-118615002024-03-13T00:14:53.317-07:00Lee Lee the Musical BeeExcerpts from life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger273125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-38152854733128399692015-03-12T06:30:00.000-07:002015-03-12T06:30:00.516-07:00The Chrome Plated Megaphone of Destiny<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px;">
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It’s time to put the fucking phone down. There’s a whole world of interesting shit out there, and it’s not inside a screen held in your hand. </div>
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There are so many interesting people to talk to. Some of them are your friends, some of them are your family. They might be total strangers. They might be your kids. Talking to them while looking at your phone doesn’t work. It’s separating you from the people you’re supposed to be connecting with. And no, the people inside your phone don't need your attention more than the people you’re standing next to. The people in the phone can wait. </div>
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I’m as guilty as anyone. Well, not as guilty as that dad at the park staring at his phone ignoring his little 3 year old girl who was trying to climb up a play structure repeatedly asking “daddy, help me” in the cutest little voice that should not be ignored because IT'S YOUR DAUGHTER AND YOU’RE THERE TO SPEND SOME QUALITY TIME WITH HER. To this I say.. Put the fucking phone down.</div>
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(There’s probably some monetizing opportunity to post pictures of parents staring at phones at parks with kids, so please take this idea and run with it and make zillions of dollars selling that picture site to some tired old web company looking for a few more hits before they go the way of the dinosaur. But after taking that picture, put the fucking phone down.)</div>
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I try to remind myself to put the fucking phone down when I think of people like that dad at the park. Or that couple at the restaurant who sits there not looking at each other but looking at their own phones instead. Is that where we’re at? Might as well go completely virtual at the table and pull some oculus rift bullshit and be with the naked person of your dreams… dining at a table at the fanciest fucking restaurant in the universe on a ridge overlooking some sunset Lord of the Rings type waterfall on the side of a glorious mountain. But instead of looking at that, you’re looking at Facebook on your phone. Put the fucking phone down.</div>
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A couple weeks ago I had the pleasure of running into a guy that I hadn’t seen in years. He told me all about his wonderful business and his little family, and when he finished and it was my turn to talk about what I’ve been up to the past few years, he dug into his pocket, pulled out his phone and started typing who knows what. Is that where we’re at? "Okay now that I’m done speaking, perhaps there’s someone in my phone who needs my attention more than you, the person I’m right next to." And in case you, guy I hadn’t seen in years, are reading this: Put the fucking phone down.</div>
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I repeat, I’m as guilty as anyone, but knowing that this is a really stupid state we’re in, I’m usually reminding myself to put the phone down. The quickest way to do that is to think “what did we do before smartphones?” and the answer is always to put the phone down. We didn’t need it before, and we don’t need it now. And to the generation of kids who don’t know life without smartphones: Put the fucking phone down.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-57863307767376400622014-04-10T08:18:00.001-07:002014-04-10T12:46:29.463-07:00Cuts Like a Knife<div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">
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Bronchitis. It's what's for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At least it was for me when I returned from my business trip a couple weeks ago. I was laid up in bed for days, coughing up a lung, shivering, sweating, and generally feeling run down. A few days later my head started to clear up, I took a look in the mirror and noticed that the stubble on my face had taken over. I reached for my travel bag and searched for my razor. No dice. Looked through my suitcase. Not there. So I called the friend I stayed with on the road, and he confirmed the razor was at their house. Damn.</div>
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So I ventured out to find the identical razor so my existing cartridges would fit. I went to my local RiteAid, which seemed like a good candidate to carry the Gillette Sensor Excel razor. But after navigating my way through the labyrinth of aisles to the men's grooming section, I found only bare shelves. All the razors were piled high into two nearby blue RiteAid shopping carts next to a RiteAid employee who was spraying some fragrantly toxic cleaning solution over the shelves. She looked up from her spraying and said "Oh I'm so sorry, all the razors are here", pointing at the full carts. The toxic aroma didn't allow me a moment to think of digging through the bins, and I high-tailed it out of there.</div>
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I continued on to Vons, CVS, and Walgreens in search of the elusive Gillette Sensor Excel razor. None of these stores carried it. What they did carry were those razors that have no fewer than 5 blades in a cartridge. Which reminded me of every SNL/MADtv skit ever created mocking 14 & 20 blade razors. No need to be shaving with something the size of a hockey puck. Besides, every store put every single razor and box of cartridges behind a security barrier, so that a customer would then have to summon an employee just to ask questions. No thanks.</div>
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Surrender was imminent when I pulled in to another CVS to buy whichever razor seemed the least ridiculous. But this magical CVS stocked the Gillette Sensor Excel! The search was over. Except the razor was barricaded behind some security contraption. Fortunately CVS had the good sense to place a big red button the size of a Staples EASY button nearby which read "REQUEST CUSTOMER ASSISTANCE". I pressed the button, which momentarily interrupted the Bryan Adams song blaring throughout the store to announce "CUSTOMER ASSISTANCE REQUESTED IN SHAVING". I had inadvertently pressed it twice, so it delivered the message two times in a row. And then Bryan Adams came back on. </div>
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I waited. I didn't want to press the big red button again, but nobody was coming around to unlock my razor. Another Bryan Adams song came on. I pressed the red button. "CUSTOMER ASSISTANCE REQUESTED IN SHAVING" boomed over the PA. I began to feel like the test rat who presses a button repeatedly in order to get the cheese, or the chocolate, or the cocaine, or whatever. I briefly thought about breaking the anti-theft device so I could get the hell out of there. But an employee poked her head around the corner to tell me "I'll be right there, I just have to get the key."</div>
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She returned with the key and fumbled with the lock for a few moments before handing over the razor. I told her "I had no idea these were such high-theft items." She replied "Yep. Gotta keep the homeless people from stealing them." I nodded my head. "Or else we'll have a lot of clean shaven homeless around" she joked. I told her "Thank you" and walked toward the registers to make my purchase. </div>
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On the way to the registers, I thought about how ironic it would be if I just walked out of there with the razor. But I noticed the magnetic security sticker on the packaging, and I compulsively began peeling it away until a voice at the self-checkout startled me: "You can checkout over here." I looked up and a CVS employee was waving at me, smiling. I asked her "But this has a security thingy on it. Can you take care of that?" She waved me over, and swiped the razor over the scanner and put it in a bag. Didn't even demagnetize it. Those security swindlers. And I was on my merry way to a clean face.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-49856317931569275562014-04-03T08:49:00.001-07:002014-04-03T08:49:42.920-07:00Lust for Life<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">A couple weeks ago I had a tough decision to make when my bag of coffee beans reached its untimely end: Buy more now or wait to buy more? I realize that's not a tough decision at all, and it probably</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue'; font-size: 14px;">sounds </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue';"><span style="font-size: 14px;">really stupid. You run out of coffee beans, you buy more coffee beans right now because if tomorrow morning comes and there's no coffee in the house, you'll be frantically scrambling for a way to avoid the dreaded caffeine-withdrawl headache at all costs.</span></span><br />
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But as I stared down the barrel of the empty coffee bag, the consideration of my impending business trip made me think twice about being mindlessly drawn as if through a tractor beam to my local bean provider to secure coffee for another couple weeks. I'd be gone for 11 days - plus the 4 days until I departed. For a coffee purist like myself (don't get any wise ideas about calling me a coffee snob), that's a little too long to let good beans sit around. So I decided to put off the bean purchase until I returned from the trip.</div>
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It started off simply enough. The first morning I just looked to our box of teas in the pantry to fill the caffeine void. Because the wifey only drinks decaf teas, there should be plenty of remaining caffeinated options. And there were. Options like tea labeled "Best consumed before 2012". I grabbed a caramel vanilla black tea and steeped it for as long as I could take before needing a fix. It was tasty, but not satisfying, and an hour later I could sense the subtle notes of a headache creeping in. Fortunately I knew we needed groceries from Trader Joe's, and TJ's always has the pot of complimentary coffee in the middle of our neighborhood store. Caffeine-withdrawl headache day one averted.</div>
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Now that I had the Trader Joe's option in my back pocket, the next two mornings were crafted around visits to TJ's to buy one or two items. All the while sneaking back to the coffee pot to fill up those little tiny dixie-sized cups that don't amount to the volume in a regular ceramic mug. Unless you go back several times trying not to draw the attention of the employee making samples of gluten-free vanilla granola submerged in whipped cream and organic strawberries. Hello again! Slurp. I told a co-worker of mine about my borderline homeless person behavior, and he said I displayed traits more like a junkie.</div>
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On the final day before departure, my coffee sneaking paranoia got the best of me after I had visited the last of the Trader Joe's in my area. So I was struck by the brilliant idea of killing three birds with one stone by visiting a studio where I've freelanced in the past year. I could grab a cup of coffee while visiting with the Executive Producer, meanwhile giving my money to a betting pool surrounding a certain sporting event which happens mostly in March but continues into April. It's a donation really. There's no expectation of ever seeing that money again. I finished my visit, put the coffee mug down and walked out with a caffeinated bounce in my step, knowing that I'd made it through the final morning at home without having bought a new bag of coffee beans.</div>
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The next cup of coffee landed at my tray on the airplane after my brief runway-wobbling induced nap. I was traveling to the land of coffee, so I knew the next 11 days would be a snap. As I reached the last day of the trip, I reminded myself several times that I needed to buy beans. I stopped into my favorite coffee roaster away from home and requested the same bag of beans I bought last time I was in town: Harar. The barista said "Oh the light roast?" The last time I bought Harar it was medium roast. I said "Is it light? I thought it was medium." She replied "No it's light. If you want medium you should buy the Sumatra." So I bought a pound of it. The next morning at home I opened the bag and it was dark roast. The bulging bag of Sumatra makes me pine for the days of my junkie visits to Trader Joe's.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-44645711678416582322012-08-02T10:51:00.000-07:002012-08-02T10:51:15.314-07:00Le Voyage Dans La Lune<br />
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"You really whacked it off good" she blurted out emphatically. I snapped out of my momentary spaceout to look back at her and say "Yeah, it doesn't look the same anymore when it's that long". She handed me back my driver's license and said "Well your hair looks nice short, so it's all good". And with that, I was through LAX airport security and on my way back home to the Pacific Northwest to see my folks.</div>
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My mom was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, and because my sister was already taking our mother to and from nearly all her doctor appointments, it was well beyond time for me to help carry some of the load. I had spent the previous few days neurotically checking the Alaska Airlines website at hourly intervals in order to find a better seat than 26C in the back of the plane when I had initially purchased. The day before the flight a lovely aisle seat became available forward of the wings and I pounced on it. If clicking with a mouse could ever be considered pouncing.</div>
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After getting groped by airport security, I grabbed a cup of Major Dickason's from the cafe, showed my boarding pass to the boarding pass people and strolled onto the plane. I always like to board the plane last because I don't enjoy sitting on a plane that's not in motion. I did the usual countdown to my seat as I passed rows. 1D, 2D, 3D, and so on until I reached 7D, where the nice stewardess was standing.</div>
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"Oh hi, are you in 7D? Would you like to exchange seats with the passenger in 11C so she can sit next to her husband?" the stewardess asked in her cordial stewardess tone.</div>
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I looked at the wife, then the husband next to the stewardess, raised my eyebrows and thought about it for approximately .5 seconds, during which the memories of every single time I checked on the Alaska Airlines website to get seat 7D rushed through my brain. </div>
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"Does that seat recline?" I asked.</div>
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"No, that seat is in front of the emergency exit, so it doesn't recline" she replied.</div>
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I told her "no", stuffed my laptop bag under the seat and sat down, knowing full well I'd get the stink eye from the husband for the rest of the two hour trip. I didn't care. I was going to sleep.</div>
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Little did I know that the husband had more than the stink eye as his weapon. He had the stink breath. His wife made it a point to camp out in the aisle next to my seat to speak to her husband in French. I have no problem with the French in general, however I do have a problem with <a href="http://beemirror.blogspot.com/2005/08/take-that.html" target="_blank">being on planes next to them.</a></div>
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His garbage breath nearly made me puke or exchange seats with the wife, but the thought of the last time I had close quarters on an airplane with a Frenchman made me dig in my heels and persevere. I have to hand it to them, they really turned it up a notch what with the death breath and Frenchman husband getting up every 5 minutes to visit is wife who had just been standing next to us chatting for 5 minutes. </div>
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Finally things calmed down and I was able to dig out one of two magazines I brought with me. It struck me as odd that the <a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4exs8FlhP1r9zbojo1_500.jpg" target="_blank">cover of the magazine</a> read "Mom, I Love You. I Also Wish You Were Dead." Not a magazine I'd be sharing with my mother when I arrived. </div>
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I was able to collect about 3 minutes of shuteye before the beverage cart arrived at my aisle. I ordered another coffee. The stewardess turned to the other side of the aisle and began speaking the words "Sir, since you were so kind as to exchange your seat with another passenger..." and I swear she was turning her head toward me and speaking louder as she continued, "...we'd like to offer you a complimentary adult beverage of your choice." By the end of this sentence I was revisiting my decision to stay in seat 7D. I think Frenchman coughed up a hairball into my coffee and stewardess glared at me as I considered what I might have ordered. A Bloody Mary? A double? Nah. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-67388454975419730472012-04-19T08:26:00.002-07:002012-04-19T08:26:50.296-07:00<br />
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TV is dead. It is. I saw the proof just yesterday during the latest episode of 30 Rock playing from my DVR. See for yourself:</div>
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See? Told ya. And for those of you who aren't fluent in the jargon of making television, that little screen will tell you only one thing: TV is dead. (It also means the pictures that were connected to that shot aren't connected anymore) Don't even watch any further, because we've now crossed a line that can't be backtracked on. We've exposed the person behind the curtain. And it's only a matter of time before all quality in television is completely erased.</div>
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There I was, watching 30 Rock, happily skipping through the commercials 30 seconds at a time like every other schmo with a DVR these days, and I caught that frame of MEDIA OFFLINE. And if you've spent any amount of time with any form of editing system (like I have), it's a picture that screams out at you "SOMETHING IS VERY FUCKING WRONG HERE", and it's impossible to do anything but become alarmed. </div>
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I said aloud "no fucking way" and rewound and fast-forwarded and frame-by-frame jogged until I landed on the picture of failure. I shook my head. I chuckled. I couldn't believe my eyes.</div>
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There used to be a bunch of us huddled in a freezing cold room looking at monitors in weird cross-hatch blanking measuring interval world, or not even looking at the picture at all but instead getting green vector lines laser burned into our young eyes as we QC'd spots. You'd definitely see a goddamn picture of something that only showed MEDIA OFFLINE if you were looking to make sure the VITC was on lines 14 and 16 or 16 and 18.</div>
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Or later there would be four of us in the film transfer room each choosing a quadrant of the 4 by 3 screen to stare at without blinking for 30 seconds to make sure there wasn't a piece of dirt for like one single frame out of 30 (not 24 you soft punks) per goddamn second. If some frame came up that said MEDIA OFFLINE in some crazy-ass blood red, you think one of us would probably see that? Hell yes we would.</div>
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But now it's all over. No need to care about quality I guess. Maybe I'm taking things a little too far. Yeah, it was only one frame, but this little tidbit showing itself during a hugely popular show like 30 Rock is a bad omen. TV is dead. I'm gonna go make some more TV.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-27546718782955515232012-01-12T07:31:00.000-08:002012-01-12T07:31:00.873-08:00Heartbreaker<br />
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The receptionist sauntered into my edit suite late yesterday afternoon and started straightening the pillows on the sofa. And in a completely nonchalant and unexcited fashion mentioned "That's so sad what happened to Derek today." Derek is the other editor at the place I'm working these days. I spun my chair around toward her and asked "What happened to Derek?"</div>
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"Oh you didn't hear?" she asked in a shocked tone.</div>
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"No, what happened?" I replied in a shocked tone.</div>
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"He's in a heart-attack induced coma."</div>
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I was floored. "What? When did this happen?"</div>
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I couldn't believe it. I had just had a conversation with Derek that morning. The strange thing was I didn't remember any commotion or stress like someone having a heart-attack at work. I thought "Why isn't everybody here freaking out like I am?"</div>
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"It happened this afternoon." she told me.</div>
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"Wait, where was he? At work?"</div>
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"No" she said "He must have been out at lunch and his son called and said he was in a coma because of a heart-attack."</div>
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I was in complete shock. The idea that it could happen to me made me forget all about work and think about my family, my friends, and the fact that I should probably change my diet. Eating those chocolate chip cookies they bring into edit suite every day can't be good for preventing cardiac arrest.</div>
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The receptionist probably didn't know what else to say, so she left the room. I needed more info so I walked into the producer's office to see what I could find out. </div>
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She was zoned out on her e-mail, but her long face confirmed what the receptionist said.</div>
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I asked "What's this that happened to Derek?"</div>
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The producer turned away from her computer and paused. "Oh did you hear?"</div>
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"Yeah, he had a heart-attack? He's in a coma? When did this happen?"</div>
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"No, it was his dad! Who told you it was Derek?"</div>
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"Diana told me." I felt totally stupid, but she was laughing at me, which felt kind of morbid because somebody was still in a coma even though it wasn't Derek.</div>
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"Oh wow. That's a relief" I said. Still felt morbid to be relieved that it was somebody other than Derek in a coma.</div>
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I walked out of the producer's office and went back to the edit suite. I was still a little shaken, but luckily there was a chocolate chip cookie there to calm my nerves. Yum.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-23426941060368479112011-11-03T11:16:00.000-07:002011-11-03T11:16:42.620-07:00Violent FemmesI finally found the scarf I've been looking for! What do you think of it?
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Somebody hand me my MBA right now.<br /><br />I got caught up in the HP Touchpad hoopla during the fire sale a couple months back. I mean who wouldn't want a tablet for 100 bucks? If for no other reason than to hand it to the kids and keep the iPad safe. I spent every available moment that weekend refreshing the HP store page, the Radio Shack page, searching the online forums to see where anybody scored one. No luck.<br /><br />The word on many a website was that if you physically went into a Best Buy store as soon as the doors opened in the morning, you'd be able to get one. So I grabbed my coffee mug on a Sunday and drove to the Culver City Best Buy in the Culver City Center shopping center, which isn't in the center of Culver City. <br /><br />There was already a line of about 12 dudes all looking desperate for some hundred dollar tablet love. Right at 10 am they opened the doors, and the male horde trudged over toward the computer area only to be met by the standard Best Buy-looking manager guy waving his hands furiously at us like he was about to be stampeded. "We're all out of stock of touchpads!" he stammered, probably hoping to avoid any confrontation. The horde let out a collective groan and did a 180 back toward the front door.<br /><br />On my way out I saw another group of guys heading toward the door in a rush. I hollered "they're all out of Touchpads." Another collective groan from a few of them, while one smarmy fella with smartphone in hand glanced over at me and said "I'm buying one online!" grinning from ear to ear. Yeah. Sure you are.<br /><br />A few thousand clicks later at home, I managed to track down one online store on Amazon that had them in stock. "In Stock" is what it said on the Amazon storefront of an unknown shop called OnSale. I immediately bought it. I felt like I won the lottery or something. But I won a stupid little obsolete tablet. Or so I thought.<br /><br />Three days later I noticed that my credit card had still not been charged. And still no confirmation letter from OnSale. After a bit of research, it became clear that many online stores that had sold the Touchpad didn't have any stock to begin with. My Touchpad stock. I received an e-mail from Amazon later that day: "Greetings from Amazon.com, We're writing to inform you that your order from OnSale has been canceled because the item(s) you purchased were out of stock. Please return and place your order again at a later time."<br /><br />I was livid. More than a hundred dollar tablet livid. Wait, but you said it was in stock! It said it right there on your page! I did what any normal, red blooded, easily-annoyed-at-customer-service consumer with too much time on their hands would do: I wrote a letter. A letter to Amazon. A letter to OnSale. When I discovered that the parent company of OnSale is indeed MacMall, I wrote a letter to them too. And when I eventually realized I was shouting at what amounted to a brick wall, some spurned Touchpad buyer on a random forum mentioned writing a letter to the Better Business Bureau. So I did. And then I let it all go.<br /><br />No HP Touchpad, no big deal. It was over. It was over until about two weeks ago when my phone rang. A representative from OnSale was calling to ask if I wanted a Touchpad. I thought it must be a scam. The representative said that OnSale had received some Touchpad inventory and was offering them at the same price as before, but only to customers who had written the Better Business Bureau. Thanks BBB! To assure me that it wasn't a scam, the guy gave me his number and extension and told me to call him back. I quickly navigated to the OnSale page and looked up their contact info. Same number.<br /><br />I called him back. I gave him my credit card info. I was getting a Touchpad. He said it would be shipped in 5 business days. 5 business days later I checked the status of my order. No shipping info on the OnSale site. I checked my credit card activity. No charge for a hundred dollar tablet. It wasn't looking good. A few days later I called OnSale.<br /><br />The man on the phone with my order information said in robotic form-letter tone: "We regret to inform you that we cannot fulfill your order because we do not have the item in stock."<br />"Hold up" I said. "You mean to tell me you don't have my order in stock?"<br />"That's correct sir."<br />"Wait, your company called me. I didn't place an order out of the blue. Someone called me and told me they had it in stock."<br />"I'm sorry sir"<br />"Why would someone from your company call me to tell me they had it in stock if they didn't?"<br />"I don't know, sir" the employee said, then continued in his form-letter tone, "Perhaps it was in stock, and your credit card information did not go through and then it was sold out."<br />"But wouldn't somebody call me to get that straightened out before selling my item?" I asked.<br />It felt like I was part of an FAQ read through.<br /><br />"I'm sorry sir, but what we can do is offer you a fifty dollar store credit."<br />"I highly doubt that I'll be buying anything from OnSale."<br />"I'm sorry sir, but we can offer you hundred dollar store credit."<br />He was starting to sound like a computer. A not so okay computer.<br />I upped the ante. "How about you give me a hundred and fifty dollar store credit?"<br />"Please hold sir while I check with my manager"<br />As I waited I wondered why I was wasting my phone minutes with this nonsense. He returned.<br />"Sir, my manager has authorized me to send you a one-hundred dollar check."<br />I almost laughed at the idea of it. "You mean to tell me you're going to send me a hundred dollars. I don't know why I would believe that you're actually going to follow through with that, but yeah sure why not."<br />"I will make sure to follow through and get the payment processed immediately."<br />We said our goodbyes and he thanked me for shopping with OnSale, nevermind the fact that I hadn't actually bought anything. <br /><br />100 dollars. It's coming in the mail. I know it. I can feel it. There's probably a better chance of me putting a hundred dollars under my pillow at bedtime and waking up with an HP Touchpad in its place.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-60308356358788146402011-09-22T10:13:00.000-07:002011-09-22T10:13:34.057-07:00Booty in the Air2 outs bottom of the 9th inning. Full count. Pitcher Lee Lincecum wearing a Seattle Mariners hat readies to throw to Judah something-or-other from the Minnesota Twins. Lee winds up and throws a slider to Judah. Judah reaches the bat down and nails a line drive right into the crotch of the pitcher! Score! Lee collapses down to the ground in a groaning heap, as Judah takes his time trotting around the chalk-line drawn bases in the concrete, hands raised, singing "Booty in the Air! Booty in the Air!" Twins win, by a score of 1 nutsack nailing to 0. Shortly after the game, Lee announces his retirement from pitching. Not for lack of desire, but due to the increased likelihood of <a href="http://beemirror.blogspot.com/2010/03/take-me-out-to-ball-game.html"target=blank>repetitive stress injury</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-69814731534907323282011-07-07T07:31:00.000-07:002011-07-07T07:31:00.557-07:00OutshinedI love dogs. Always had dogs when I was growing up. I want a dog now, so my kiddies can experience life growing up with one. But two young children seems like enough on my plate and I don't need to add a backyard full of poop to pick up constantly. Instead I have a front yard full of poop to pick up from dogs who don't belong to me. Constantly. So much so that I've become Mrs. Kravitz peering out the windows keeping an eye out for dogs scuttling their way across my lawn.<br /><br />A few weeks ago I spotted one such dog sniffing around on my block without an owner attached via leash. And as expected, this chihuahua arched its back in the "drop-a-deuce" position and laid down a log right on the patch of grass just this side of my property line. I slowly crept out the front door saying "here nice doggie" trying to coax it into my grasp so I could locate the address on his tag and deliver the package that rightfully belonged to the dog's owner.<br /><br />The chihuahua started growling and backing away. I kept moving forward. A chihuahua bite wasn't going to stop me from nabbing the suspect who was most likely crapping on my lawn on a regular basis. Before I knew it I was in full jogging mode trying to grab the dog. We rounded the corner, and several neighbors from adjacent streets were staring at me as if I were insane. One guy yelled "Is that your dog?" And I yelled back "No!" The chihuahua darted into an intersection narrowly missing a car, or maybe it was the other way around.<br /><br />Finally the dog scampered up the walkway to a house. There were more than a few piles of chihuahua-sized droppings in the yard, so I figured it had to be his abode. "Is this where you live?" I asked the dog, who had settled down enough for me to take a look at his collar, which was adorned with the Harley-Davidson logo. The front door of the house opened, and a guy walked out who thankfully didn't look anything like the stereotype of a Harley-Davidson rider. <br /><br />"Oh thanks for bringing him back!" he said. I tried to appear level-headed and composed, which was next to impossible while panting heavily after chasing a chihuahua around the neighborhood. "You should probably keep your dog on a leash... because he ran out into traffic... and almost got hit by a car.... And he also took a crap... on my lawn." The guy's friendly tone disappeared in an instant. "And? What would you like me to do about it?" Blaming the victim, I see. I told him "I'd like you to clean it up". Seemed reasonable enough. But this guy obviously didn't like to pick up dog poop even in his own yard. I told him my address, said "thanks", and walked away. <br /><br />I spent the next hour looking out my window waiting for the chihuahua owner to come and get his prize. No such luck. We had to go to a kid's birthday party, but when we came back, the poop had magically disappeared. I wondered if I was being too obsessive about dogs crapping on my lawn. That is, until Lily told me a story that she was outside and saw our neighbor come barging out his door yelling "HEY!" and startling some old ladies who had neglected to notice their dog pooping on his lawn. I guess if I'm not ready for to add a pet to the mix, I can always pretend that it was our dog decorating the yard.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-16744439946387332802011-06-16T15:30:00.000-07:002011-06-16T15:30:53.601-07:00Critters Buggin'Recently I was putting something away in the garage when I noticed that the little screen that covers the breezeway under my house was bent open. I didn't want some some vile varmint to crawl under my house and die, so I grabbed some wire screen that I had previously bought at The Home Depot to prevent that very possibility. I cut, twisted, pried, and finally inserted the screen into place over the old bent one. Not a perfect match, but it would do the job. <br /><br />Later that night while I was retiring in the bedroom, I heard something outside that sounded like bending bending and creaking. "That little fucker" I muttered as I went to the sliding glass door to see what was undoing my fresh screen handiwork. Turned out the fucker wasn't that little. A huge raccoon, probably as wide as a pig, was pulling at the screen. I knocked loudly on the window and the raccoon startled and slowly turned to leave. I opened the door to hurry his ass up, but then I remembered those raccoons have claws and aren't afraid to use them.<br /><br />The next day I remembered that the previous owners of our house had some sort of animal trap they'd left in the crawlspace. Despite the fact that the raccoon I saw was probably too wide to fit in this thing, I brought the trap over to where I'd seen the raccoon the night before. In the refrigerator there was some old marinara meat sauce that probably was beyond a date fit for human consumption. I grabbed the tupperware of the meat sauce and put inside the trap for the critter.<br /><br />At around 1:10 am I was awoken in bed by the sound of a metal snap outside. I went back to sleep. About an hour later I was again awoken by a sound that I could only imagine as thin plastic tupperware being chewed into and broken. I put my pillow over my head and went back to sleep.<br /><br />The next morning I grabbed the carafe of coffee, poured a cup and went outside to see what was in the trap. To my surprise it wasn't the raccoon. I don't know how I expected it to fit. It was a possum. Nice enough kid. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYWxoE7m-3FDCe2it5cFuNUSGJA-eN2YLC50V2l-bmbaXSi4Do3Yl7Gx-48U24HX7IsmAalLAc7Z38bmOBiJL13kUHJ37uTkjlrI_dAgVLDDIcA7WY3R5gkWAMMISRX5znTegrg/s1600/possum1.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYWxoE7m-3FDCe2it5cFuNUSGJA-eN2YLC50V2l-bmbaXSi4Do3Yl7Gx-48U24HX7IsmAalLAc7Z38bmOBiJL13kUHJ37uTkjlrI_dAgVLDDIcA7WY3R5gkWAMMISRX5znTegrg/s400/possum1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618945232744530690" /></a><br /><br />It hardly moved at all when I came over for a look, and it just seemed tired in general. I wasn't quite sure what the next step was, so I searched out my retired neighbor Jim who has a koi pond and therefore a raccoon problem.<br /><br />Jim stands about 8 feet 11 inches and is never seen without a cigarette in hand. Jim leaned down and said "Won't take 'em" shaking his head slowly. "The city will only take a racoon, not a possum, and even then they'll charge ya for 'em. I have a guy takes 'em out to the Santa Monica mountains and sets 'em free for 75 bucks! Ya oughta let him loose." Jim took a drag on his cigarette and wandered back toward his house.<br /><br />I made it back over to the trap and slowly opened one end. In retrospect I have no clue why I didn't wear gloves or try to protect myself from razor sharp teeth biting my fingers off. But the possum seemed too tired to put up much of a show of any kind. "You're free to go" I told the possum. But he didn't move. He just kind of hung there, maybe waiting for me to move away from his cage before he made a getaway attempt.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6gkciT_zzaOBcRhIZXHl2wckJkT-O5QatnM-j1vzanCAFpT8_bdGOR5drp61t_f343r6RN1d-A4pIo-7KaemSmz-2QNiL4W5lahFNkOaqcO3hUeyY0TI3kK_8TtQDkwRCoUisw/s1600/possum2.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6gkciT_zzaOBcRhIZXHl2wckJkT-O5QatnM-j1vzanCAFpT8_bdGOR5drp61t_f343r6RN1d-A4pIo-7KaemSmz-2QNiL4W5lahFNkOaqcO3hUeyY0TI3kK_8TtQDkwRCoUisw/s400/possum2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618945241101580386" /></a><br /><br />So I left for a little while and came back and he was still there, now sleeping. "You can go whenever you want" I said. "You have your walking papers." But he seemed content to stay a little longer. I opened up the other end of the trap so he could exit on either side. Still no movement. "I'm gonna leave now" I told the possum. "I hope you're gone when I come back."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3KSiMKZTsZvqvQtjfZgc91SBahnwr_k-7pnXF0aqus43xBXRZQDTZh3IpRnptsteJ5xkgE1PmfzazB3TvLWX0cpf5-WBBsuGQr6BhoaDhuM0tjBXqtUjtevEX1gnDKplPn0rCKA/s1600/possum3.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3KSiMKZTsZvqvQtjfZgc91SBahnwr_k-7pnXF0aqus43xBXRZQDTZh3IpRnptsteJ5xkgE1PmfzazB3TvLWX0cpf5-WBBsuGQr6BhoaDhuM0tjBXqtUjtevEX1gnDKplPn0rCKA/s400/possum3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618945247473717394" /></a><br /><br />Hours later I went back to look, and he had finally gone. Perhaps he needed to rest up before heading back to his burrow or whatever. I told my next door neighbors about the trapped possum, and showed them the pictures. Both husband and wife looked and said "Eww". When I mentioned that I had to let him go because the city doesn't take possums, my neighbor Kevin asked where I let him go. "I just opened the trap and let him leave." I said. <br />"In the backyard?" Kevin asked.<br />"Yep."<br />"Ewww" Kevin replied "Couldn't you have taken him to some wilderness or something? I don't want him coming back here."<br /><br />Right. I set the trap out again that night hoping the possum would be dumb enough to go in again. Besides, he seemed to like it in there as long as there was food. But no luck. Fly on, possum. Fly on.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-45186019517334023772011-04-28T11:19:00.000-07:002011-04-28T11:21:59.607-07:00Word of MoufLily and I have a little deal going with one of our neighbors where we alternate babysitting each others kids so the other couple can go out and have some fun. Nice family. The mom is British, the dad is from Atlanta. And their three-year old boy Cy wisely decided at an early age that he'd be more popular with the ladies if he sported a British accent. <br /><br />Last weekend it was our turn to babysit, so we had Cy hang out at our house so he could play with our kids and get all tired and stuff and go to sleep early. But first we had to get past the dinner hurdle. Cy's parents had brought his meal over in some tupperware, therefore his dinner was ready first. He pulled up a chair at the kiddie table and started to eat like a champion. Our kids watched an episode of Backyardigans while their dinner was prepared by mom. Cy glanced over at the TV between bites. <br /><br />Cy is a big Lakers fan, so I asked him who his favorite player was. Thankfully he didn't say Kobe, but chose Shannon Brown instead. I asked him what he was eating, and he looked down and said "latkes and okra". <br /><br />"Is that your favorite vegetable? Okra?" I asked. Cy looked me dead in the eye, and replied in his little British accent "I don't feel like talking right now" and moved his gaze toward the TV. I probably would have told me to shut the hell up too, but it sounded so much more proper when he said it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-71190531588857846262011-04-07T15:31:00.000-07:002011-04-07T15:38:12.021-07:00Boys Don't CryAt the risk of having this space turn into a cemetery of inadvertent e-mails, here is another:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">On Apr 7, 2011, at 10:18 AM, susan wrote:<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Have to laugh at this. One of my claim reps and I were working late last nite and got to talking about our day. She had a really bad one and we got to talking about bible verses. Our favorites. <br /><br />Told her mine: I can do all things thru christ who strengthens me. <br />Then she said hers was: Jesus Wept. <br />She said if he can cry so can I. Just hit me funny.<br /><br />Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry®</span><br /><br /><br />Hilarious.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-82503131841841788662011-03-31T16:04:00.000-07:002011-03-31T16:21:33.283-07:00Hey LadiesRecently I received yet another inadvertent e-mail to my inbox. The subject line was "Girls Night Out". The thread is below:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">From: Debbie<br />Sent: Tue, March 29, 2011 12:02:17 PM<br />Subject: Girls Night Out</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Hey Girls....we should try to do another girls night out. Jane has a new idea or we could go back to Broken Spoke . What do you think? Thursday??? Deb<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">On Mar 29, 2011, at 12:43 PM, Arline wrote:</span><br /><br />I can’t go this Thursday, but I miss seeing everyone and want to get together later.<br /> <br />Arline<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">On Mar 29, 2011, at 12:49 PM, Lee Lee the Musical Bee wrote:</span><br /><br />I'd love to go to girls night out, but I'm not a girl and I'm not Linda.<br />Please to update your address book por favor. Thanks!<br /></span><br /><br /><br />And I thought that was the end of it. But it wasn't. The person who the mails were intended for then chimed in:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">On Mar 29, 2011, at 1:01 PM, Linda wrote:</span><br /><br />Shoot! I'll be out if town. Thanks for thinking if me. <br />Linda<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />On Mar 29, 2011, at 4:58 PM, Amalia wrote:</span><br /><br />Debbie,<br /> <br />So nice to hear from you. I would love to go, just let me know where.<br />Look forward to seeing you all.<br /> <br />Amalia</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Now fully aware that the ladies hadn't heard my request to take me off the thread, I tried a different angle:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">On Mar 29, 2011, at 5:06 PM, Lee Lee the Musical Bee wrote:</span><br /><br />Can we go here (*LLMB note: Hooters home page link) for Girls Night Out?<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">On Mar 29, 2011, at 5:47 PM, Linda wrote:</span><br /><br />Ha, ha! That's good.<br /><br />Girls. We need to remove that poor guy from this thread, ASAP. <br /><br />Although, he sounds like fun!</span><br /><br /><br />And they proceeded to take me off the list, but Linda was kind enough to let me know that the link didn't offend anyone:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">From: Linda<br />Sent: Tuesday, March 29, 2011 5:52 PM<br />To: Elizabeth; Laura, Katie<br />Subject: Fwd: Girls Night Out</span><br /><br /><br />Here it is. Click on the "click" below. Funny as Hell.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">From: Elizabeth<br />Date: March 29, 2011 5:55:29 PM<br />Subject: RE: Girls Night Out</span><br /><br />That is hilarious. This is the only thing I've laughed about today -- this guy is the shit. I am going to start copying him on my emails.<br /><br /></span><br />And there it is. My attempt at averting inadvertent e-mails is averted.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-42562163384345587562011-01-27T07:31:00.000-08:002011-01-27T07:31:00.447-08:00King of the BeachLily needed some time to work on her taxes, so I took the kids to the beach in beautiful Santa Monica, California. Got them all sunscreened up, grabbed the beach bag full of sand toys, and threw on my beach shoes - some ratty old Puma slip-ons that could pass for homeless person shoes but are perfect for the beach. Juggled the kiddies out the door and into the Passat and away we went.<br /><br />Funny thing about a two year old kid is that she's old enough to walk, and she's small enough to carry, but she's getting too heavy to carry. And the little girl was not about to walk the length of the beach to get to the water. So I gather her up in my left arm while carrying the beach bag of sand toys and our lunch in the other. Luckily the boy is old enough now to carry some of the gear.<br /><br />We lounged around a bit digging with the shovels and buckets. We played a little frisbee and threw the football around. We went down to the water and played the "run away from the water" game, and in doing so we managed to scoop up a live hermit crab. After all the excitement, we ate some lunch and by then it was almost nap time. Time to pack everything up and get back into the car.<br /><br />Nobody wants to wear shoes once their feet have been in the water. And that included all three of us. So I threw our shoes on top of the sand toys in the beach bag. As we plodded our way through the sand toward the car, a chicken wing bone flew threw the air and landed on the sand in front of us near a garbage barrel. I looked to my right and saw a sporty guy standing amongst his reclining friends, and he was holding a chicken wing. He said "I didn't do it". I said "Busted. You're holding a chicken wing." We kept on walking, and I heard him yell in our direction "I put it in the trash!" I turned and yelled "I'm not the beach police."<br /><br />After making it to the car in our allotted two hours parking I loaded the kids into their seats, and the gear into the trunk of the wagon. A car pulled up and waited for our spot. I dug through the bag and found only one of my shoes. I dug around some more. I looked in the front and rear seats. But I knew the shoe was on the beach. I yelled "I lost my shoe" to the lady waiting for our spot. She gave me a smile and moved on in her parking search. I sprinted back toward the beach.<br /><br />I scanned our path as I ran along the beach. I spotted the shoe up ahead in the middle of a group of guys throwing a football around. And one of the guys was the chicken wing guy. One of them overthrew the football, and as one went to get it, another picked up the shoe and threw it at somebody else. It landed on the ground. I probably wouldn't want to catch that shoe either. I yelled "That's my shoe!" The guy who threw it said "sorry dude" as I picked it up and ran back toward the car. I turned and yelled "But that was a solid throw." Better than the chicken wing throw for sure.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-66925874056088386862010-10-07T07:31:00.000-07:002010-10-07T07:31:00.739-07:00RepeaterTrader Joe's on a Monday morning. It's the best time to go. Nobody's there. Well, except for the staff and a few underemployed (a.k.a. freelance) folk like myself. Shelves are stocked, aisles are clear, it's time to get shoppin'!<br /><br />I'm perusing the peaches when a Trader Joe's employee guy in Hawaiian shirt greets me by cheerily asking "Is there anything I can help you find today?" I smile back and say "Nope, I'm all good."<br /><br />I make my way toward the bread past two moms with strollers speaking in French and I grab a loaf of white bread. As I pass the French moms, I grab some tortillas for my burgeoning quesadilla habit and I notice the jam. Which makes me remember that I don't need any jam. See I've got a subscription to this jam called <a href="http://innajam.com/"target="blank">INNA jam</a> that's super tasty and it keeps coming in the mail, which is a very good thing. But the boy Judah tends to eat it all up if I don't have any substitute jam for his PB&J sandwiches. And the foodie in me doesn't believe that a four year old has the taste buds to appreciate such a culinary treat.<br /><br />So I reached up and grabbed a jar of Trader Joe's raspberry jam - which is stacked on top of each other - in the process knocking about four other jars sideways and toppling off the shelf. I propped my burly-ass forearms sideways and prevented what could have been one of the biggest Monday morning Trader Joe's fruit jar disasters in the history of California. Maybe in the entire United States for that matter. The French moms gasped and stopped talking in French for a second, stopped talking altogether. Disaster averted, the TJ's employee who greeted me earlier came by and asked "Are you allright?" I replied with the calmness of Don Draper: "Nothing broken. It's my lucky day." To which the employee replied "Let's keep it that way". Which was said it in a friendly tone, not a snarky one as I've come to expect in my jaded little Los Angeles existence.<br /><br />Moving down the grocery list, I meandered toward the cereal section and picked up some maple & brown sugar oatmeal for Judah. The same employee walked up to me and asked "Is there anything I can help you find today?" I smiled back and said "Nope, I'm all good." I wasn't sure if he was messing with me or not, because he had a perfectly straight face on. But I couldn't see how he could possibly mistake one of the maybe five customers in the store he'd asked that question already. Especially one who almost sent the entire jam section tumbling to the floor.<br /><br />As I headed toward the meats, I could hear the employee in the next aisle asking the same question over and over. "Is there anything I can help you find today?" The voice came closer. I thought for sure he would pass me by this time. I mean, hell, I was wearing a somewhat distinctive hat and I was the jam disaster guy in his eyes. But here he came again, right up to me with a straight face asking "Is there anything I can help you find today?" I smiled back and said "Nope, I'm good."<br /><br />I figured I'd change my reply next time to see if that jolted him out of his little loop, but I think by entering the frozen section I finally made it out of his sector. Can't wait for next Monday morning.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-56607765071902374782010-09-16T07:31:00.000-07:002010-09-16T07:31:00.298-07:00Piece of MindFor our recent vacation to New York, we had planned a visit to Mystic, CT. And because everyone from the East coast is always raving about how you can take a train here or there, take a train down to Philly, to DC, up to Boston, I looked into the cost of taking Amtrak. Soon thereafter I found myself reserving a rental car online. The price for the train was going to be a wash, but when it came down to the nitty-gritty of schlepping luggage and two kids and a stroller, we opted for the car.<br /><br />I shopped around for the best rental price, and Hertz was it. Plus it was the closest walking distance to where we were staying in Park Slope in Brooklyn. So I hoofed it over there, and it was a fairly no-nonsense experience. Those New Yorkers know how to take care of business. The guy was talking so fast that he talked me into buying the infamous "Loss Damage Waiver" (aka LDW) which I NEVER opt in on.<br /><br />If you're unfamiliar with renting cars from the major players, the LDW is basically coverage so that if anything happens to the vehicle - car stolen, wrecked, whatever - you don't worry about it. Your insurance doesn't even come into play. The Hertz man said (in New Yorker accent) "It's an extra 9 bucks a day, so it's like uh... 36 bucks for the rental. You want it?" Hmm. 36 bucks so I don't have to worry about anything that happens to this car and I don't have to deal with my insurance company? Done. Bye bye 36 bucks.<br /><br />And soon I was driving out of their garage with a brand new Chevy HHR (or whatever it's called) which looks like a PT Cruiser but less flashy. 19 miles on the odometer. New car smell. All I cared about was getting the hell out of the city before traffic started piling up on the Friday before Labor Day weekend.<br /><br />After pulling into a miracle of a parking spot right next to our friend's brownstone, I loaded up the car with luggage and family and away we went. A few hours later we were well on our way and driving directly into the remnants of Hurricane Earl, which had morphed into some nasty rain that made it difficult to see 50 feet ahead even with the wipers on full blast. Glad I bought that LDW.<br /><br />The rain didn't last long, and we were able to enjoy plenty of sun and warm weather in Mystic. We even drove the HHR onto the ferry from Bridgeport to Port Jefferson in Long Island to see a friend from my high school days. And when that leg of the journey was done, yet another miracle of a parking spot appeared right next to our friend's brownstone, and I unloaded up the car with luggage and family and left it for the night.<br /><br />Street cleaning was scheduled for the next morning, so I had to get the HHR on the road earlier than my rental return time. Lily was meeting a friend for breakfast, so she took Blaise with her and I took Judah with me to return the car. We were making great time, but as we were literally driving the last block to the Hertz rental location, traffic stopped. Gridlock like none I've seen even in Los Angeles. Nothing was moving. People were laying on their horns. Lights changed from green to red to green and back again. And we didn't move an inch.<br /><br />I watched the minutes tick by, and I wondered if I was going to miss my return time. I couldn't really put the car in park and walk up to the place. And I sure as hell wasn't going to try my luck by driving around from the opposite direction. But if I was late on the return would they charge for an extra day on the car? And then I remembered the LDW. I already paid the 36 bucks, so why should I pay for another day of rental? I briefly considered parking the car nearby and telling Hertz it was stolen. I'd be in their office pointing at the LDW on my paperwork and walking out of there backwards saying "LDW, yo. Nahmean?"<br /><br />Then traffic started moving again. And I discovered what the cause of the gridlock was: All the weekenders returning their Labor Day rental rides back to the motherland: The very same Hertz location I was trying to return the HHR to. The car in front of me was stopped in the driveway behind the last car that could fit into their crammed garage. A Hertz employee rushed out to greet me and told me to parallel park my car in front of the driveway. "You're the last car we're accepting right now" he said as he helped guide me into the spot.<br /><br />I went in and finished up my paperwork and got the hell out of there. Cars lined up down the street. As I left, a renter was asking a Hertz employee "Where should I park the car?" and the Hertz employee replied "We're not accepting any cars right now". The renter shook his head then said "What exactly does that mean?" his voice turning to anger toward the end of his sentence. I wasn't about to stick around to find how that one turned out. It was hot. And humid. And I needed an iced coffee. I lifted Judah onto my shoulders and away we went.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-42220092529082814452010-08-26T07:31:00.000-07:002010-08-26T07:31:00.925-07:00Parental Discretion Iz Advised<span style="font-family:arial;">"What the fuck." Can't say that anymore. Not in front of the kids. I find myself saying "What the fffff" a lot these days. Catching my indiscretion before it has a chance to be completely enunciated. Or "That's bullshhhhhh" which enables me to express myself a little more but doesn't open the door to hearing a two year old repeat the word "bullshit" over and over.<br /><br />I often wonder what other parents do to combat the uttering of swear words. But what I'm finding is that they don't try at all. Like recently we were at a brunch spot in Hollywood. Quiet little rustic joint tucked away off the busy streets. And like most parents, we arrived earlier than the sleepy hipster crowd because the kids rarely let us sleep in past 8 am on weekends.<br /><br />We ask for a table at the far end of the restaurant, next to another family, maybe to help keep the kid noise contained to one side of their establishment. The family next to us has three kids ranging in age from around 4 to 9 years old. Their table is more lively than ours for that very reason. Our kids looked like silent little angels in comparison.<br /><br />Lily and I were perusing the menu trying to figure out what Judah and Blaise would eat, when one of the younger kids at the table next to us fell over in her chair and started wailing. I quickly turned to see if the kid was pinned under the chair or something (she wasn't), and her mom snapped out of her very animated conversation, and after what seemed like slow-motion eternity, she turned toward the kid and shouted "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!!!" Yeah. Yelled that before making any semblance of a move to pick up the child.<br /><br />Eventually she did lift her child from the floor and give her a big hug, scolding the girl for playing around in the chair, but in a soft tone without any phrases like "Honey, why the fuck did you do that shit?" And later the mom apologized to Lily for swearing in front of the kids. Only to open up the four-letter vocabulary once again in her animated conversation with her adult friend.<br /><br />Luckily I haven't heard Blase or Judah repeat the F-word since that day. But I have to wonder why I bother trying to clean up my language if the rest of the world isn't doing the same. What the fuck.<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-1502901977201076692010-07-29T07:31:00.000-07:002010-07-29T07:31:00.717-07:00Losing My ReligionSur La Table was calling my name. Not to buy new kitchen gear, but because Lily had taken possession of a mandoline purchased a year ago as a birthday present for a friend of mine. Last year I gave the mandoline to this friend (who shall remain unnamed), but in the drunken stupor that ensued that night, I wound up with the unwrapped mandoline at my house for the next 12 months. And Lily, seeing that the mandoline wasn't moving from its hiding place in the closet, decided to put it to good use, slicing all sorts of vegetables perfectly.<br /><br />I wasn't about to call her out on it, especially with a mouth full of perfectly sliced vegetables. But I knew the mandoline had to be replaced and given to its rightful owner. Which is where the trip to Sur La Table comes in.<br /><br />I walked into the store carrying the same shopping bag which held the same shredded birthday wrapping paper and a few spices we gave last year. I quickly found the mandoline section, and the identical make and model. I walked over to the cash register, where I was next in line. I waited. <br /><br />As is the case with most every Sur La Table, the registers sit in an island in the middle of the store. On the other side of the island from where I was standing, I noticed a white woman wearing a white turban following her toddler around the island, probably to keep the child from breaking everything in sight.<br /><br />Something metal fell and made a crashing sound. But it wasn't the child who caused the crash, it was a man who I assumed was her husband: A white male wearing a white turban. He sported a huge red beard that would put the ZZ Top guitarists to shame. And the guy was NFL lineman size, as in freakishly humongous.<br /><br />The man slowly made his way around the island clumsily knocking things over. A can of spatulas here, a wooden bowl there. As he made his way toward me, he reached for a green plastic cutting board and knocked that to the floor. Seeing's how I'm closer to the ground than he was, I decided to pick it up for him. He said "thanks" and proceeded to stand in line as impossibly close to me without knocking me over.<br /><br />As he turned and joked about something to his lady friend, I felt myself leaning away from him at what felt like a 45 degree angle. I thought "Why the hell am I leaning over like this" so I straightened myself up, holding my ground and waiting to be smacked in the head with the next thing he knocked over.<br /><br />Finally it was my turn at the register, so I stepped up and handed over the mandoline and my credit card. "I don't need a bag" I told the cashier, hoping to get out of there possibly three seconds sooner. As I was being rung up, NFL lineman guy asked if he could put his stuff on the counter, and I said yes. He put a tiny cutting board and a whisk on the counter in front of me. I couldn't help but wonder why such a large person would need to set a couple tiny things down. Too heavy for him?<br /><br />The cashier handed over the new mandoline and the receipt. As I walked out of the store, I heard the crash of yet another kitchen item being knocked over. Clumsy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-71762736037458036892010-07-15T07:31:00.000-07:002010-07-15T07:31:00.271-07:00TimeRunning mundane errands like going into the bank makes me feel all old-timey and stuff. No direct or ATM deposits for this guy. Just walking up to the teller, handing over a check and getting a robotic human response and a receipt. That way I can rest assured my money isn't getting lost in some electronic garbage can.<br /><br />But Chase Bank (my new bank that bought Washington Mutual which took over from Great Western which was the bank I went to when I closed my Washington Mutual account after I left the state of Washington) wanted to take this human interaction one step further.<br /><br />I walked into a Santa Monica branch which is usually busy but was currently a ghost town. As in five tellers standing behind bulletproof glass with zero customers. I shoulda used my stopwatch to see how quickly I'd get out of there, because it might have broken a world record.<br /><br />As I stood at the little island with the deposit slips, filling out a deposit slip, a man in a suit adorned with a piece of flair that read "Chase Bank" came up to me, said hello and asked if I was making a deposit. I looked up from my deposit slip and was about to say "uh, duh..." but instead told him that yeah I was about to make a deposit with these checks right here next to my deposit slip. Or something like that. He said "I'd be happy to help you with that, please come with me."<br /><br />I have no recollection of why I didn't just say "No thanks" and walk up to the bulletproof glass and the tellers with nothing to do. Something about his spaced out gaze and his metered uneasy delivery was overriding my usually uncooperative nature.<br /><br />This trip to his desk obviously wasn't going to put me in the Guinness Book of Fastest Checking Deposit World Records, but I went anyway. I sat down and handed him my deposit slip, check, and ID. Of course he didn't have any cash at his desk, so he had to have another employee fetch some. In the meantime, he asked me what I did for a living, which conveniently led us into a discussion of why I needed a business checking account.<br /><br />Employee #2 came back and said "Here's your cash, sir" and set an envelope down on the desk. I continued telling employee #1 about why I didn't want or need a business checking account, but he interrupted me and asked "Aren't you going to count it? You should count it." His insistence made me nervous that there would be zero cash in there, so I opened it, and yes there was indeed the correct amount of money inside. But in 50s, not 20s like they do at the teller window. I knew it was a bad idea not to go to the teller. I told him "I really have to be getting back to work, so if you have any literature...."<br /><br />A few more questions along the lines of "How much do you spend on groceries per month, how much on gas, how much on dining out, etc" and I knew the only way out was to politely leave. I told the employee "I have a meeting I have to get to, so if you have some literature, that would be great." He replied, "We can just do the application right now". He obviously had lost his mind somewhere, so I stood up from my seat and said "I really do have to get going now."<br /><br />He pulled out a business checking pamphlet and his business card, which left a trail of white powder on his desk as he slid them across. We said our niceties, and as I left the bank, I deposited the pamphlet and his business card in the recycling bin. I saw a hand sanitizer dispenser and slathered some on. I pushed my way through the exit, leaving the tellers standing behind bulletproof glass still waiting for a customer. Perhaps I should reconsider depositing at the ATM.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-57677692610382560262010-07-01T07:31:00.000-07:002010-07-01T07:31:00.170-07:00Extra WidthThe day had arrived. The day that would be mixed with unbelievable giddiness and unfathomable oldness. The giddiness was heading out to Palm Springs for my birthday. The oldness would be traveling there driving a minivan. When you get old, you drive a minivan. Fortunately it was only a rental.<br /><br /> My oldest friend in the world (not old meaning age, but old meaning how long we've known each other - since we were 10), Rob, had arrived from New York a few days earlier. Now it was time to pick up a car that could fit the two kids, Lily, Rob, myself, plus the luggage. That's where the minivan comes in.<br /><br /> We had decided just the night before to rent a minivan. Lily wanted to skip the added expense of a rental car, but all of us couldn't fit in our Passat wagon with the child safety seats. So we made a plan to drive both the Passat and my Golf to the desert. It sounded like it could work. But there was also the possibility that one or both cars could break down in the desert, in weather forecast to be above 100 degrees. So I made a car rental reservation online, and we were all set.<br /><br /> At around 10 am, Rob, Judah and I drove the Golf to the car rental site to pick up our minivan. We didn't see any minivans in the lot. Only a few cargo vans. We went inside and I started the rental process with Brandé, handing over my driver's license and credit card. I started having visions of jumping into the swimming pool in Palm Springs. Brandé told me they didn't have any minivans.<br /><br /> This is the part of the story where, if I were Bruce Banner I'd be turning into The Hulk and smashing the crap out of the car rental place. Instead, I opted for questioning why they didn't call me, why they couldn't find a minivan by late morning, etc. Brandé asked if I could wait a few hours until they found one, and I told her to cancel the reservation.<br /><br /> She handed me back my cards, and then asked if I wanted the Escalade instead. Rob and I turned to look out the window and saw a huge black Cadillac Escalade being washed in the carport. "It's being washed now, but it'll be ready in a few minutes" Brandé told us. Rob and I chuckled. "Big Pimpin" said Rob. "It's the perfect birthday mobile, so what the hell, we'll take it" I said to Brandé.<br /><br /> Moments later we were standing around the Escalade going over every inch of the monstrosity looking for scratches and dings. Brandé changed from facilitator to hardened businesswoman in an instant. We knew that she wasn't going to let any scratches through when we got back, so we had to find as many as we could. If there were a magnifying glass there to scan the car, we'd use it. The scratches we did find turned out to be just smudges that would wipe off easily. And soon I was signing the papers to be responsible for the Escalade and driving off the lot.<br /><br /> As I turned onto my street, I noticed stares from the neighbors and got a few jabs about the ridiculous factor. We loaded up the rig and got onto the freeway. It was fun figuring out all the bells and whistles: the navigation system, the USB hookup for music, and the seats with air conditioning inside. It was a comfy ride, albeit a tad unwieldy. <br /><br /> When we arrived at the Viceroy Hotel in Palm Springs, handing keys over to a valet seemed a lot more dicey than usual. The act made me regret not paying for the loss/damage protection at the rental place. But each time we needed the car, the Escalade came back unblemished. I made sure to tip the valet well.<br /><br /> And after the birthday shenanigans were over and we arrived home safely from Palm Springs, we drove the Escalade and the Golf back to the car rental place. As I attempted to make the corner to enter the lot, another renter was driving out. The driver saw me and my huge car and drove very slowly and very closely to make it around the Escalade. "This is where the car gets dinged, right outside the rental joint" I thought. But the other car made it around. I carefully steered around the other cars and found a clearing for the behemoth. I put it in park and breathed a sigh of relief.<br /><br /> Brandé helped us again, and she thoroughly scanned the car for any new damage, but there was none. She asked if the trip was fun. She handed over the completed rental agreement and told me "Happy Birthday".Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-68696778560930197182010-06-17T07:31:00.000-07:002010-06-17T07:31:00.579-07:00HurtI remember my days as a lad, when I was young enough to act like a kid, yet big enough to inflict some real pain on my dad. Nothing too major, just jumping down onto him from the top of the sofa while he watched M.A.S.H. or some similar TV show. Paybacks are a bitch.<br /><br /> I should have seen it coming when my sister had her son Josh. When he was about 4 years old, we were sitting in a hammock and my nephew just wound up and clocked me right in the jaw. For no apparent reason. <br /><br /> And then when he was 7, he had one of those yo-yo type toys that isn't really a yo-yo, but it's more like elastic plastic in a string with a squishy thing on the end that looks like a mace. We were playing tug of war with the thing and I was holding the squishy mace end. Josh let go of the other end, the smaller end that goes around your finger, and it snapped back from at least 8 feet across the room directly into my eyeball. Ouch. I had to go to an opthamologist to make sure the blurryness would go away at some point.<br /><br /> And now that my own son is big enough to bring the pain, I'm getting doses of it all the time. He's been into doing some variant of the pro wrestler body slam, and he's into tackling me as soon as I walk in the door from work. <br /><br /> But usually the damage involves some type of swordplay. I bought him a toy lightsaber a while back. One that has sections that expand into full lightsaber glory, and then retracts for ease of using the force by some other means. I got clipped on more than one occasion as he flicked it forward to expand it. Needless to say, the lightsaber has spent many days on the shelf where the boy is unable to reach.<br /><br /> Judah got creative and found a cardboard tube from the middle of a gift wrap roll to use as a sword. I didn't see any harm in that, and getting hit by some cardboard was no big deal. He modified the ends of the cardboard sword with some medium-sized Legos, so it would have a flashy factor to it. I grabbed the lightsaber down from the shelf and we got into our stances, ready to duel. With one good clash of the swords, the Legos flew off the end of his sword, smacking me directly on the lips. Drew blood and everything. I'll never learn.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-7653985534669142772010-06-03T07:31:00.000-07:002010-06-03T07:31:00.492-07:00Paper CutsMy inner Martha Stewart got a chance to come out and play the other week when I attempted to build a satellite dish out of paper. The impetus for the arts and crafts session was to remedy my home wireless reception. Which was turning out to be not much reception at all.<br /><br />Upon finding out that I'd somehow landed a project to be edited at home, I cleared out the storage room behind our garage to use as my studio. Bought shelves for the boxes that would need to move elsewhere. Bought some decent speakers, a desk and a chair. And because the garage isn't connected to the house, but is not too far away, I assumed that the wireless signal would have no problem reaching me back there. Wrong.<br /><br />I spent a few days with erratic wifi signal before I started looking online for a solution. I didn't want to spend the money on a wifi booster, but even more I didn't want to deal with Best Buy or wait for a shipment, so I searched the internet until I found a homemade solution: A satellite dish made out of paper.<br /><br />The website contained detailed instructions for printing the satellite pieces from your home printer, cutting on the lines and folding specific areas together, pasting some aluminum foil on the back, and dropping it onto the antenna of the router. Simple. <br /><br />Except I neglected to read the part about printing it on card stock. So I thought of the next best thing and attempted to paste the pieces onto card stock. Nevermind the fact that I could have just printed it over again onto some card stock, my inertia was rolling too fast to do the sensible thing.<br /><br />I got out the x-acto knife and cutting board and started cutting the cardstock along the lines of the paper. So far so good. Slice along this line, slice along that. Along one of the longer lines, the slicing was going pretty fast, and the knife ran off the cutting board, off the table, and into my leg. Stabbed me right in the upper thigh.<br /><br />Because the kiddies and the wife were already asleep, I had to keep the pain noises to a minimum. And because of the ridiculousness of the situation - me sitting in the kitchen bleeding while executing an arts and crafts wifi satellite - I had to keep the laughing to a muffled chuckle. I found a bandage, and soon I found the wifi reception bars in my studio at full strength. Success.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-26739382765472882952010-05-27T07:31:00.000-07:002010-05-27T07:31:00.435-07:00Caught, Can We Get A Witness?Shabu-shabu night was finally here. Double date with a couple who were parents of a girl at Judah's preschool. We had plotted it out for over a month. After the trip to Mexico, after their trip to Virginia. After the Dino Fair. Then it would be our time to swish.<br /><br />The new babysitter from down the block showed up early. The couple and their daughter showed up early. We practically raced each other driving to the Shabu Shabu place. And when we arrived, I realized that I had lost the race, but was pleasantly surprised to find that they had seated us at a quiet, private table. Perfect.<br /><br />We enjoyed an actual real live adult conversation, without the interruptions of children crying, tantruming, etc. And of course with any good Japanese restaurant experience, we had our share of sake, and a couple large bottles of Sapporo. It kind of reminded us of life before parenthood. Except we had to get back to the sitter, because with three kids on her hands, I could only imagine the mess that might be waiting for us.<br /><br />On our drive back we pulled up to a stoplight where probably six cars waited. One of those cars was black and white and had a strip of lights on the top. The police car was waiting in the left turn lane. We were situated in the middle lane. I glanced over to my right and noticed a woman in a sedan typing like mad on her Blackberry propped against the steering wheel. I wondered if it was an offense to be texting while stopped at a light. That couldn't really be considered texting while driving if the car isn't moving. Or could it?<br /><br />I looked over to my left and saw that the officer in the passenger seat of the police car had noticed the texting action too. He rolled down his window and shined his flashlight past my car and into the woman's window. No response. The flickering light didn't divert her attention from the phone one bit. I looked back over to the officer. He tried more intently to get her attention, waving the flashlight back and forth. Nothing.<br /><br />The light turned green. I began to pull forward, but the officer held his hand out to stop us from going. The police car rerouted into our lane, allowed the woman to go ahead of him, and they turned on the colored lights and pulled her over. I guess that answered my question about texting at a stoplight.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11861500.post-68947900787374790242010-05-20T07:31:00.000-07:002010-05-20T07:31:00.511-07:00The MessageRecently I went back to the old stomping grounds, my last place of full-time employment, to bid adieu to yet another former co-worker. I figured that because I didn't want to leave Lily with both kids while I drank beer and ate bbq, I'd take the boy with me. I picked him up from school and we drove to the office. First time back to the old workplace since getting handed my walking papers back in '08. I hardly know anyone there anymore.<br /><br />My parking karma was functioning and I found a spot right across the street. But Judah wasn't ready to exit the car until "Bulls on Parade" was finished on the stereo. While we sat in the car, I noticed a former co-worker walking up the sidewalk. I rolled down the window and shouted "Linda!" She looked around and spotted us. She was headed to Ralphs to pick up some grub for the bbq, so I offered her a ride so she wouldn't have to carry all the bags back. She hopped in, and we drove around the corner to the market.<br /><br />Once inside, Judah went nuts grabbing every goodie in sight and saying "I want this candy bar", "I want some ice cream", "I want this can of beans!" I told him we were getting hot dogs and burgers and that was it.<br /><br />We searched high and low for the dogs, but none could be found. You'd think they'd be next to the burgers, but no dice. Finally we found them next to the over the counter drugs. Good place for them. A woman in a sun hat, not much older than 30 walked right up to us and said "Jesus is coming back! And we're making a video."<br /><br />Linda, Judah and I turned back to decide what kinds of hot dogs to buy, and the woman kept on ranting. "He's coming for people like you. You'll see. We're making a video for people like you to see." We grabbed a pack of regular dogs and as we walked away, I turned to the Jesus lady and said "and I hope I get to edit the video!"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1