Hundreds of Sparrows

It was the middle of crunch time on the last day of editing when the phone rang. By looking at the phone number, I knew it was the people from my next gig. The gig that I didn't want, but the gig that I needed. "I have to take this call" I told the room full of clients as I walked out of the room. I didn't look back to see if it was okay that nobody was sitting in the editor's chair.

"Hello?" "Hi, Lee? This is Lisa." I already knew it was Lisa before I answered the call. "Oh hi Lisa, how's it going?" "Good. So we were wondering if you could come by and meet the director today." I knew she wasn't going to understand, much less hire me, if I said no. The gig started tomorrow. So I said "Sure. Can we meet at 1:30?" Lisa said yes and I was soon back in the editor's chair in crunch time.

The lunch menu soon landed in front of me. CPK. I quickly flashed forward in my mind to how I'd manage to fit a trip through a drive-through on my way back from meeting Lisa and the director. "I think I'm gonna have to step out for lunch today" I told the client services gal. "Are you sure?" she said as she took the menu away. "Thanks" I said, as I imagined how hungry I'd be after not making it through the drive-through. It just didn't feel right to order lunch, when I'd be leaving during crunch time. The coffee's for closers only.

The alarm on my phone went off at 1:12 pm. Just enough time to blast out of the parking lot in Culver City and onto the 10 freeway Westbound toward Santa Monica. I figured that the freeway was the best option, even though getting to the freeway would be the hard part. Merging onto any freeway in Los Angeles is tough, but the on-ramp at Robertson has to be one of the worst. You must start from a dead stop at a light, going uphill, and in a race against the car next to you to get a full car length ahead before the two lanes turn into one 50 feet ahead.

Once you've passed that test, you get to face the full-on Road Warrior treatment as you merge onto the 10 freeway with cars going at least mach 5, trying to fit into the blur before your on-ramp lane becomes an off-ramp lane about a quarter mile away.

On this day, the cars in the rightmost lane were ambling along at around 40 mph, making it even more difficult to merge, but I managed to pull it off. In my rearview mirror I saw a clearing all the way to the leftmost lane. Not a single car in sight. I pulled the advanced driver maneuver of going straight to the fast lane (the left one, not to be confused with any lane in Los Angeles) and I was almost there when I heard somebody lay on their horn from behind me. I looked in my rearview and there was a silver station wagon rapidly slowing down, I suppose to avoid being slammed into by yours truly. Where the hell did that car come from?

I had no clue, but I put my hand up to flash the "Sorry, I'm a dumbass" sign anyway. I accelerated so's not to get rammed, or shot, but mainly to get to this meeting. The left lane was clear sailing as I passed over the 405. I needed to get off at the Centinela exit, so I had to move fast.

I again checked my rearview, did the head check, and I didn't see a single car around. Turned on the right blinker and pulled the advanced driver maneuver of going straight to the exit lane, and I was almost there when I heard somebody lay on their horn from behind me. I looked in my rearview and there was a silver audi sedan rapidly slowing down, I suppose to avoid being slammed into by yours truly. Where the hell did that car come from?

I had no clue, but again I put my hand up to flash the "Sorry, I'm a dumbass" sign anyway. I accelerated so's not to get rammed, or shot, but mainly to get to the meeting. As I approached the exit, I noticed the silver wagon I almost ran off the road back there. It was quickly approaching in my rearview. And it appeared that the wagon was doing whatever it could to get off at the same exit I was. Oh shit, I thought. I was going to die.

My hopes of making it through the light at the end of the off ramp were dashed. I slowed to a stop, and the silver wagon pulled up behind me. I kept my eye on the rearview mirror, to see if I needed to make a break for it if the driver should exit his car with pistol in hand. But to my surprise, all I saw was the driver fluffing his hair in his own rearview mirror. Disaster averted.

I made my left turn and drove toward the meeting place. One last maneuver to make: A left turn on a blind corner that I knew well. It always pissed off the rest of the cars not making that left turn, especially ones behind the left turn car. I hoped for no oncoming traffic, but no dice. I waited, and I looked in my rearview once more. The silver wagon was gone. But the silver Audi sedan was fast approaching. Why the hell are these people following me? The Audi pulled around to my right, just inches from my car, honking the entire time. And the driver gave me the finger. I laughed. I love it when people flip me the bird.

Diary of a Madman

Lately the little energy vampires (namely the kids named Judah and Blaise) have been draining the life blood out of us. Drained to the point that the only thing we can muster the strength for is TV. It got so bad this past Sunday that I think I watched every single episode of Man vs. Food on the Travel Channel. Really the only serious show that Lily and I can agree to spend time on is Big Love. It's a guilty pleasure for sure. We spend more time deriding the characters than talking about how good a given episode was.

Our brand spankin new Verizon FiOS HD service allows us to watch plenty of recorded shows on the DVR. And because the little energy vampires hadn't even allowed us to watch much Big Love lately, the season started piling up on the DVR. Which is nice if you want to spend an evening plowing through a few episodes. Not so nice when you discover that you didn't read the DVR manual very well, or at all, and because of that, a few episodes had been deleted by Anthony Bourdain's show, which is on for almost the entire day every Monday. Goddamn chefs, stealing my DVR bandwidth.

At the exact moment Lily and I realized that we, rather I (being the techy, man-person in the house), didn't set it to "don't delete, like EVAR" when we set up the Big Love series recording, I knew that it would be possible to watch the show on demand on the on demand channel. But upon further review, HBO doesn't show its shows on demand in glorious High Definition. That would never do.

So I pulled out my trusty iPhone and its trusty TV widget thingy and found out exactly when HBO would be re-airing the HD versions of the episodes that Anthony Bourdain so ruthlessly erased from my DVR. I set them to record, and I knew that before long I'd be back on top of the techy, man-person pedestal, triumphantly wielding the remote control.

And indeed there I was about a week later, basking in the glow of my lovely HDTV and its DVR which displayed our re-recorded lost episodes of Big Love. And this time I went through one by one and hit the "don't delete, like EVAR" button. That is, until I got a little too comfortable with the wielding remote control power thing, and I accidentally hit "delete" on one of my newly re-recorded episodes.

So I pulled out my trusty iPhone and its trusty TV widget thingy and found out exactly when HBO would be re-airing the HD versions of the episodes, and it basically said "you fool." NEVAR.

One Thing Leads to Another

It had been dumping buckets of rain through the night, and now there was a river in the street in front of my house. Lily was taking Judah to a playdate with his two friends from school, Gus and Peter. A short while after she left, Lily called and told me the car died. Luckily she took my VW Golf instead of her VW Passat, because the Passat has the baby car seat in it while the Golf only has the kid seat. I quickly bundled up the little bundle of joy (that would be Blaise) and drove out into the rain.

The Golf was on the side of Manhattan Beach Blvd in Manhattan Beach. Lily waved at me as I drove by. I made a legal California U-turn and pulled up behind the Golf. Judah and Lily climbed into the Passat while I tried to see if the Golf would go. By my astonishment, the Golf started. I pushed down on the gas pedal and the car died. I turned the key and the car started again. This time I decided to just let the car move forward in idle mode, and off we went. At around 3 mph.

I turned the corner into some business park and looked for a place to park so that the AAA tow truck could get the car. Apparently the business park didn't want any random broken-down cars around, because not only were there NO PARKING signs everywhere, but a security cop lady drove up to me and said "You can't park around here." I told her that I understood that, but the car was about to die. She seemed resigned to the fact that the car would be towed soon enough anyway, so she drove off. About 10 seconds later the AAA guy showed up and checked out the car.

In my novice mechanic mind, I had pegged the thing as a blown spark plug, a distributor problem. The AAA guy asked "Did you drive the car through a puddle?" I told him that I wasn't the one driving the car when it died. He told me there was a good reputable mechanic in the area that he'd take the car to. But I wanted to try this little Swiss repair shop that was walking distance from my house, so asked him to tow it there instead. He hooked up the towing contraption and off we went.

As I drove the Passat following the tow truck and the Golf, I asked Lily "Soooo... did you happen to drive the car through any big puddles?" She said "Well, I did drive through this big one to make Judah laugh." Case solved. Judah really enjoyed watching daddy's car getting towed. We soon arrived at the Swiss repair shop, and they told me they'd call me when they had a diagnosis.

Late that afternoon I called the Swiss repair shop because it seemed too close to closing time for comfort. I figured they didn't get my number correctly. The mechanic told me they were still trying to sort it out, and they'd call me. About an hour later they called me and told me "I don't know what to tell you sir, but there's nothing wrong with the car. It runs fine." Wahoo! I walked over, picked up the car, and drove it home without repairing anything. Somebody up there must like me.

Bless You Boys

Last Saturday I went to two kids birthday parties. One in the late morning, one in the afternoon. I didn't really intend on going to the first one, but Judah saw the bouncer in the kid's front yard, and we couldn't resist. As soon as Judah and I arrived at the bouncer, the boy who lives in the house - Brian - hurried out to start the energy explosion inside the huge bouncing castle. Every poor soul who dared venture into the bouncer was met with grabbing, punching, and general pummeling at the hands of Judah and Brian. Boys will be boys.

After Judah grew tired of the kicking ass routine, we went to the backyard for some refreshment. Pizza, fried chicken and Capri Sun was the menu of the day. The boy had two slices of cheese pizza, I ate a slice of veggie and some fried chicken to make up for the veggie. We returned to the front yard for more bouncing, and because the ass-kicking contingent of Brian and Judah had gone out back, the bouncing castle was full of new kids. There was a kid of about 5 years inside wearing Detroit Tigers baseball gear. Navy blue Detroit Tigers baseball hat, navy blue Detroit Tigers t-shirt. No sooner did I notice him than I saw a toddler toddle out from behind the view of the bouncer wearing a navy blue Detroit Tigers t-shirt. No hat, just a bald toddler head. And right behind the bald toddler was who I assumed to be his dad, wearing, you guessed it... a navy blue Detroit Tigers t-shirt and a navy blue Detroit Tigers hat.

I made the huge assumption that this man must be the father of the kid inside the bouncer who was wearing the Detroit Tigers gear. Possibly? The dad and the toddler walked up to the man in charge of the party and started talking about what I can only imagine was Detroit Tigers related when up comes a woman in a navy blue Detroit Tigers t-shirt. I put two and two together and... I have no idea where I'm going with this. Just an odd observation, I suppose.

Ring My Bell

We're hyper-aware of how much noise we make in our house. Mainly because to be unaware would mean waking baby Blaise, and thus, certain death of free time. So we try to keep the volume down to a minimum when Blaise is sleeping. Unfortunately the outside world isn't as concerned about noise or about waking babies. And because our house gets an inordinate amount of unannounced visitors, the doorbell rings an inordinate amount, which will almost certainly wake the baby. So Lily created a good old-fashioned warning sign (out of a blue post-it) to all who may think about ringing the doorbell: PLEASE DO NOT RING BELL, PLEASE KNOCK. BABY SLEEPING. Fair warning for those who might otherwise receive our wrath along with screaming baby wrath.

And the other day, I was on the verge of getting Blaise to sleep in my arms. Rocking her gently while doing the bounce, catching up on the latest in the Manny Ramirez saga (Should he take the $25 million? Should he wait for a better offer? If only I had those $25 million problems), when the doorbell rang. Blaise woke up and started crying. I had a sensation not unlike what The Incredible Hulk probably feels just before he turns green and explodes from whatever he's wearing into a pair of ripped blue jeans.

I decided to not answer the door in hopes that the violator of the doorbell rule would just go away. But nope, more doorbell ringing. Blaise and I went to the back part of the house - away from the incessant doorbell pressing - and let Lily get the door. It turned out to be her mom. She was bringing over some food for us. I couldn't be that mad about that, and Blaise went right back to sleep anyway. I put the baby down in her bed, and quietly left the room. I went back to the living room, and Lily's mom had already left. I told Lily that I was finished with the doorbell note experiment, and I was determined to disconnect the damn thing. Lily tried to stop me, but there was no stopping me at that point.

I grabbed a screwdriver and went at the doorbell button. I pulled it out of its housing to see if there was an easy way to disconnect and reconnect it, but it was just a mess of tangled wire. But in my rampage to get the doorbell disconnected, I accidentally rang the doorbell. And when I tried to put it all back, I rang the doorbell again. I went inside and Lily said "Blaise is crying". Great. If only I'd read the damn post-it.

You Look Marvelous

One of the parents at Judah's preschool likes to greet me in a very strange way. She says "You look tiiiired". I always find it kind of strange when people say that to someone who isn't really a close friend. If a close friend told me that, I'd probably say "Yeah, no shit Sherlock, I've got an infant at home and a preschooler who wakes up crying at 2am every night." But because this is someone I barely know, I have to be civilized and show some restraint by saying something far less biting. Something like "oh well, ya know, the baby" and shrug it off. But yeah, I don't like the idea of looking like a worn-out shell of my former, more vibrant and energetic self.

The more I think about it, the more I can't really understand why someone would even venture to say "you look tired". It's akin to saying "you're looking old these days", or maybe "you're really looking like you're getting out of shape." Years ago, a co-worker once told me "You look tired", when it wasn't the day after one of my partying binges or a night after frolicking in my bachelorhood, so I thought I should be looking fairly bright-eyed. I took offense to the remark, so I said "thanks!" The co-worker was caught of guard and said "oh sorry, I didn't mean it like that." Which brings me back to the point. Why would anyone, unless you're good friends, make a remark that you look tired?

Lily told me that this parent at the preschool told her she looked tired too, and it started to become clear: That's this parent's way of connecting, of making conversation. Well the next morning, I ran into her and she said "you look tiiiired", and I did the same old "well... ho hum" routine. And she actually came back and told me that her daughter had been waking up in the middle of the night crying every night. And she said "See? I have the bags under my eyes now." I wasn't gonna say anything about the bags, but next time I see her I'll have to say "You look tiiiired" and see what she does. I'll probably get slapped.

I Fought the Law

I'm convinced that living in a car town like Los Angeles, two things will happen to you eventually: 1. You'll be involved in a wreck. 2. You'll get a traffic ticket. During my first year here, I was able to get both of those eventualities out of the way. I neglected to consider the possibility of multiples of either. And now I've had the pleasure of getting more than one ticket.

You may or may not know this, depending on how well you paid attention to the written material for obtaining a driver's license, but those little double yellow lines on the road? Don't cross 'em. There are a few circumstances where you may cross them, but it's usually a good idea not to. Because you might pull the crossing of the double yellow line maneuver, and subsequently have officer friendly pull up next to you and tell you that he's pulling you over. Which is what happened to me back in December.

There are several websites out there that will help you fight all sorts of traffic tickets. Do not use this one. I did, and I paid my $25 donation so that I could receive "personal attention" to my case. All I got was repeated e-mailings from said website reminding me to pay my donation, or that my deadline was fast approaching, or e-mails that I sent to his address bouncing back to me. The deadline has passed and I'm still getting e-mails reminding me to pay. Sheesh.

The single most important bit of information that I was able to glean from the website (or any of the websites that I found on the subject) was that you should never ever just pay the fine. In California there's this little process called "Trial by Declaration" whereby you say you want such a trial, you submit a couple forms with maps if you choose, and you never have to step into a courtroom. You should always contest the ticket, even if it's something as simple as writing "NOT GUILTY" on a sheet of paper. By going down the Trial by Declaration path, you are forcing the officer who gave the ticket to write up their own recount of the events leading to the ticket. If they don't file a report, you win. Plain and simple. If they do file and you lose, you can always go to a regular trial. Or you can pay the fine and get a point on your driving record and pay higher car insurance bills, etc. But who wants to do that?

So I did the Trial by Declaration thing. I included a bunch of maps from different angles showing what went down. Still, I wasn't very optimistic that I'd win. A few weeks passed, and I was getting the feeling that my car insurance bill was about to get a lot more painful. I received a letter in the mail from the Los Angeles County Clerk, i.e. The Law, and I knew this was it. I tore open the letter while chanting "please be good news please be good news please be good news..." and I scanned the letter for the words. NOT GUILTY with a check box next to it. Yes! I jumped up and down with the letter in my hand chanting "NOT GUILTY! NOT GUILTY! NOT GUILTY!" Judah got up from eating lunch and pointed and laughed. Lily didn't know what to make of it. At the time you're reading this, I'm still jumping around in the entry way of my house chanting "NOT GUILTY! NOT GUILTY! NOT GUILTY!"

Blue Jean

Recently I've noticed something going on with several pairs of my pants: The right leg knee area is getting worn much faster than the left. Lily pointed it out on my favorite pair of black pants. The area has a worn gray circle right below where my knee is. No such gray circle on the left. And then I noticed the same thing on a pair of what I like to call "leisure pants" that I wear around the house. Call them sweats if you want, but they're more styley than that. Anyway, the leisure pants have a hole in the right knee area where the black "non-leisure" pants are gray.

I finally figured out what was causing the extra wear: Every time I bend down to the boy's level to do whatever - help brush his teeth, put on his sunscreen, etc - I'm kneeling on that right knee. Now I'm trying my best to kneel on the left, but old habits die hard, so I figured it's time to buy a new pair of pants.

Lately I've been into buying proper trousers rather than going with jeans all the time. I especially like the "old man" style that's become more readily available through skater-wear shops like Volcom. The "old man" thing helps because I'm fitting that description more and more these days, plus when I get really old it won't look like I made some major wardrobe switch. But seeing's how my one and only pair of jeans sports a threadbare look in the ass section (not that the ladies probably mind that too much), I thought I'd try to replenish the jean supply. That supply being one pair.

So off to H&M I went and by the luck of the gods I was able to find a nice pair that looks sorta modern and actually fits. And when I arrived home, I found a box delivered on my doorstep with to: my name and from: the name of my best friend from high school. I opened the box and there was a card that said "Here are the new jeans I told you about at the reunion. Hope they fit!" I don't remember having any such conversation, but I also drank a reunion's worth of beers there, so there ya go. Lily demanded I try them on immediately, and they fit perfectly! Two pairs of jeans in one day. My right knee will never be the same again.

Blind

I pride myself on being prepared. Prepared for the weather, prepared for when the baby's diaper blows out the side. Prepared for any foreseeable event when I travel. I have lists on the computer that remind me what to bring to be prepared, and I have post-it notes on the nightstand to remind me of things that didn't make it to the computer. When I travel I have almost no need for a flashlight, but I'll be damned if I'm leaving it at home. But in the event that I do leave it at home, that will be the one time the rental car breaks down in the dark in some sketchy area.

And because I pride myself on being prepared, you can imagine my surprise when I reached into my bag after making it through airport security at LAX, and I didn't have my glasses. Not sunglasses, not something I could just pick up at the grocery store, but my eyeglasses. It's not like I'm Mr. Magoo or anything, but no eyeglasses equals headaches, so it's more than a minor annoyance. I briefly considered having them shipped up to me, but then I briefly considered how smashed they'd be when they arrived.

The conclusion was to call my eye doctor's office, have them fax the prescription to me, then go down to the nearest LensCrafters and get the cheapest pair of glasses I could find. I called LensCrafters to make sure they'd be open after work, and I hopped on the bus down to the mall. I looked on the little mall map for LensCrafters and it said it was on level "M". Mezzanine, right. I go up to the Mezzanine level and there's no LensCrafters. I not-so-quickly discover that it's not the Mezzanine level, but the "Metro" level, which they mean as the basement level. Right.

Upon entering LensCrafters, I immediately head for the cheapo glasses. And the cheapo eyeglasses consisted of mainly Bill Lumbergh style glasses. I tried them on and almost laughed myself out of the store, but I opted for some Sarah Palin type glasses. I handed the glasses and my prescription to the nearest LensCrafters employee and we started filling out paperwork and taking eye and face readings for these cheapo glasses.

The employee takes my paperwork and goes to the room where they hammer out the prescription lenses, and comes back 30 seconds later. "The machine is broken. Would you like to come back tomorrow?" I'm about ready to start a riot and start clearing the walls of all the pretty little designer frames, but I tell him "Nah, I'll just go without. Thanks." I figured by the time I came back after work, I'm already halfway through my travels, so why bother paying for some lame frames? And now I've convinced myself of the bright side: At least I wouldn't be losing my glasses on this little trip.

The Mob Rules

Being the good consumers that we are, Lily and I finally made a date with destiny and purchased a Costco membership. Really the reason we were there to buy in bulk was the party we were hosting at our house for Judah's birthday. The big 0-3! And 62 people had RSVP'd yes to our Evite, so we knew it was gonna be a rager.

So off to Costo were we to buy party platters, pastries, and paper towels. Among other things. And if you've never walked into a Costco, add it to your list of things to witness in life. It's insane. Huge numbers of people ambling around a huge warehouse with huge shopping carts, big enough for two kids to sit side-by-side in the kid seating part. It was only Thursday and it was so packed that it was hard to imagine what it would be like to go on a weekend when the regular folks aren't working. The place was so buzzing that there was barely enough room to maneuver the cart around without getting into a 20-cart pileup.

The packed atmosphere began to drive us mad after about 10 minutes. It seemed that no matter which way you turned your monstrous cart, there'd be somebody either barreling down the lane, or a cart in the middle of the aisle to go look at 1000 count bottles of Advil. I just wanted to pull over to get out from behind the "wheel", so to speak, and there's someone either staring at the warehouse ceiling standing in the place I want to pull into, or pushing their cart at a snail's pace while gabbing on the cell phone.

And then there's the samples. Costco likes to set up stations throughout the warehouse to cook up some vittles for the hungry shoppers to try out. Experienced Costco shoppers seem to know the drill and about how long things take to cook there, because it seemed that as soon as a dish popped onto a plate, five ravenous shoppers descended on the spot to gobble it up. I tried multiple times to get to the tamales, but I wasn't fast enough. Gotta go back more I guess. Or climb over people's carts like everyone else does.

As we meandered through picking up items for the party, it began to dawn on me how Costco really gets you. It's that EVERYTHING is there. You may go there to buy bulk food, but along the way you see a TV you like and think "yeah, I need one of those too", and you walk by a cross-training/treadmill-type machine and think "I'll pick that one up next time I'm here". You're at Costco, where everything is a little bit cheaper, so how could you go wrong?

We finally managed to get everything we needed for the party, and headed to the checkouts. The good thing is that Costco checkers are way more helpful than the ones at Trader Joe's. Don't get me started again. Costco likes to put your stuff in boxes instead of bags. I guess that's somehow better, but now we've got this influx of cardboard to deal with. The bulk goodies would hardly fit in the back of the wagon. As we left the equally insane parking lot, I couldn't help but wonder "is this the beginning of the end?" It might be, but I'm looking forward to that next grocery run so I can get the treadmill.