Last Dance

12.3.2014

The robot wife and I were riding out the current storms by candlelight a few nights ago, dabbling with the Ouija™ board, (as we tend to do from time to time) when we received a very clear message from beyond... from the disco diva herself, Donna Summer.  I shit you not.

The planchette flew furiously across the letters and clearly let us know that it was again time for TNSC honorary founding member Mathias Genser's birthday!!  Mrs. Robot and I sat mesmerized as our arms were mysteriously pulled back and forth across the board as Donna reminisced about Mat's time in New York City in the heady 1970's during Disco era's rise (and subsequent fall.)  Mat saw, and apparently snorted, it all.  We couldn't believe what we were reading!!  But found photographic evidence to prove it!!  (click to enlarge)

Donna continued on and implored all TNSC members to come on out tonight and make sure Mat is fêted for who he is, and all that he's accomplished.  Especially escaping the disco era with his good reputation (and septum) clearly intact.

She also reminded me that is the last official TNSC meeting for 2014 due to by-laws regarding Thursday nights clearly colliding with holidays.  A draft through the window quickly extinguished the candle, and, just like that, our connection with her was gone.

So do what Donna would have wanted us to do.  Come on out and raise a birthday toast to Mathias!!

Tonight - The Orbit Room   (as all things revolve around Mat)

bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

East End Boys, West Bend Grrrrls. (REDUX)

12.2.2014

So, what ... are you going to move from place to place, city to city, state to state and haul around all them "fringe" appliances thinkin' YEH some day I am gonna make me some waffles on this waffle-iron my dear Auntie Myrtle gave me five Christmases ago and I used once? I AM going to get a bunch of carrots, celery, radishes, cilantro and what and use this JUICER I bought a fuckin' million years ago and used for a week? I, for one, am NOT going to move again and bring along them things if I don't be usin' them. So ... junk them? eBay? Craigslist? I got an idea! USE THEM! Justify their presence in yr home. Make it worth finding a box for them next time you call the moving co. to haul yr shit to yr new digs.

I was under the kitchen sink counting spiders the other day and spied my espresso machine. I thought, well shee-it. When's the last time I enjoyed a deluxe coffee at home? Took it out, cleaned it up, got some Peet's 'spresso and voila! RIGHT NOW I'm working on #3 homemade Americano. This weekend I'm gonna fire-up the Breadmaker. Last night I used the mixer and made some cookies. I challenge every one of you lovely List Members: Dust off that rarely-used appliance and use it. Fire me an email and lemme know what you cooked, juiced, fried, grilled, steamed or whatever. A prize will be awarded for the most esoteric submission. I alone will be the Judge. Bribes, as always, will be accepted.

Submit your cookery here.

Though I wouldn't suggest leaving one's house on a dark and stormy night such as this, if you are so inclined, come on out for a Dark & Stormy!!

Tonight - Lone Palm.  SF's coziest inclement weather bar.

Great turnout last week. If you missed it, you suck!

bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

Def Leppard (REDUX)

12.1.2014

(an oldie-but goodie TNSC venue announcement from this day, 14 years ago)

All things considered, I suppose I'm a bit of a kleptomaniac; I love fire. I was ... wait. Kleptomaniac? It's not kleptomaniac. Nymphomaniac. That's it. Nympho- ... what the hell is going here? It's not klepto, it's not nympho. It's ... dang it ... I can't think what ... whataminute! I got it! PYROMANIAC! P-Y-R-O-M-A-N-I-A-C. Right! I'm a bit of a PYRO-maniac because I love fire. I don't like setting things on fire, mind you, (except for a pyramid of Kingsford™ briquettes!) but I'm fascinated by the sight of "all things ablaze!" Alan was just staring out the window and I looked where he was looking. Some dude across the street had a torch and he was dicking around with roof tar. Spittin' fire, burnin' tar, outside, beautiful morning – what a life! I sure would like a job that had somethin' to do with fire other than corny names for special effects software from Canada. I would love it if we could have a fire in a 55 gallon oil barrel and have it out by the coffee machine. Think about it: Wake up, ride to work, get a coffee and stand around the flaming barrel jawing with coworkers. Sounds pretty sweet. The only thing better would be: Sleep in, stay home, drink a pot of coffee and do nothing until you're damn good and ready. And when you're damn good and ready, why not go here tonight:

Tonight - The Homestead

"Why there?" you may ask.  "It's not the last Thursday of the month!!" 

One - because the last Thursday of the last 2 months of 2014 are occupied by holidays.

Two - because the TNSC founding robot is in town and that's where he's called the meeting.  If any of you have never met him, come on out and do so in person.  If you have met him before, you know that you'll be there.



bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

You Jive Turkey!!

11.4.2014

In honor of all the football that has to be watched, and the multitude of the turkey that needs to be consumed, there will be no meeting for this Thursday evening.  See you all in December.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Cheese dick!

11.3.2014

It was the summer of 1990 that I became enamored of food trucks.  I was driving a forklift at a plastic laminate warehouse for a summer job my dad set me up with.  The fellas I worked with were salt-of-the-earth Chicago boys.  Beer guts, foul language, Bears T-shirts and moustaches.  I was the college boy with a summer job and this was these guys' careers.  I knew it and made sure they knew I respected them.  I knew they respected me when I shot down a huge moth with a pneumatic staple gun at 25 feet.

The food truck (they called it the Roach Coach or the Crud Truck - I called it the Twinkie Barge) came to the warehouse at 9:35 for lunch.  Our shift started at 4:45, so that was about right for lunch.  The food truck was typical of that era:  Hostess products, Cokes, shitty coffee, shitty premade coldcut and tuna sandys, chips, chips and chips. This one was the smaller type which was a pickup with a special camper-like deal with ice-filled panels that opened on both sides of the rig.  You know the kind.

I encountered a food truck the other day while at the garage getting my Jeep serviced.  This truck wasn't one with a cute name and a $14 eggroll.  It was the truck that filled the gap between the sandwichs and Twinkies on ice mentioned above and the "Me So Hungry" Asian food truck and the "Fist of Flour" pizza wagon and the no-nonsense "Philly Cheesesteak Truck."  This truck was the Mexican Food Truck.  They would certainly have the breakfast burrito I didn't know I needed.

They did!  It was in the very small "American Food" section.  I wondered why, for a second, and in hindsight, should have wondered longer.  I ordered the breakfast burrito and got it in a bag, "to go."  Ha.

When I got it home (I walked home from the garage - hey!  I ain't from LA!), I dug in.  Eggs, yep.  Beans, yum.  Onion, nice.  Meat ...   uh ... Meat ... what was that mystery meat?  I ate a little more until I found another chunk of meat.  It was about an inch long, curved and had a cut side and what looked like a skin of some kind--  Oh duh!  It's "hot dog."

Yes, it was an All American Breakfast Burrito with sliced hot dog.  Yum yum.  I mean Yuck yuck.  I like a good hot dog, but not with egg and bean in a burrito.  I chucked it and didn't feel at all bad about wasting money, because this was from a normal food truck.  It cost $3.50.

Tonight - Persian Aub Zam Zam


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Another DC Scandal

11.2.2014

The place I work is a bit of a throwback-kinda place.

For example, they pay overtime.  Yes, overtime.  Time-and-a-half.  We're working on a tight deadline and with the amount of work that needs to be done, everyone is "strongly encouraged" to put in as many hours as possible.  They even pay DOUBLE TIME, if yr unlucky enough to be stuck there that long.

They also have a kitchen full of snacks, a fridge full of beverages and they buy dinner every night (and not from the same place over and over.)

All of these examples set the stage for the "DC Scandal" that headlines this post.

All of the artists, tech people, production people and staffers are exhausted.  They've pulled so many hours they hardly know what day it is.  They're propped-up on chocolate-covered almonds, Fritos® and gallons of Diet Coke®.  They consume such mass quantities, they outpaced their weekly CostCo® delivery, and - you guessed it - ran out of Diet Coke®.

My workstation is in the nearly-vacant first floor work area (three or four dozen other people occupy the second floor work area).  I share downstairs with a 19-year-old chihuahua and his dad, a delightfully friendly and generous 62-year-old compositor.  Call him Jud.

Jud is so addicted to Diet Coke®, he has a USB-powered mini fridge on his desk that holds exactly one six-pack of Diet Coke®, and he drains it and refills it a couple times a day.

So when the Diet Coke® ran out, he ran out to the CostCo® (it's one short block away) and snagged a jumbo 32-can case and brought it back to our cavernous room.

We often had visitors down in our area.  Several times a day our producers, supervisors and production assistants came down for updates or reviews.  On one visit, our producer noticed the case of Diet Coke® and declared, "Holy shit!  Here it is!" and started piling-up an armful, ranting about "us" hoarding it down here while Jud politely said, "I bought that.  Help yourself."  Our producer was too excited to hear him right away and piled and raved about finding the trove.  Jud was insistent, though, and finally broke through.  "Oh jeez," the producer said, while un-piling the Diet Cokes®, "I'm sorry, I thought these were the studio's Diet Cokes®.  "Help yourself," said Jud.

This exact scenario repeated itself exactly one hour later, when our compositing supervisor came down.  "Here's all the Diet Coke®!!!" she exclaimed, while she, too, filled her arms.  I laughed as she went on and on about us being sneaky Diet Coke® hoarders and "we were freaking out upstairs," and the like.  Jud tried to convince her that he trekked to CostCo® for them and when he finally broke through - truly a minute or two later - she apologized and unpiled.  Jud told her to help herself.  I laughed.

So when the facilities manager came down, found the Diet Coke®, yelled at us while piling an armful only to have patient Jud quietly telling him that he crossed the street and bought the case, Diet Coke®-Gate was born.  The facilities guy finally came back to Earth and asked Jud where he got the case.  "Across the street at CostCo®," Jud said.  "Did you walk?"  "Yes," Jud said.  "Really?" asked the staffer.  "Really," said Jud.  "And you carried that back?"  Jud nodded.

"LA is stupid," I thought.


Tonight - Vesuvio Café - old-skool North Beach at it's finest.
Beat you there!!  (ugh)


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

1990's (REDUX)

11.1.2014

(a classic election-themed post from 7 years ago on this day)

I've mentioned the skin-crawling voice of the Principal of the school across the street coming across the PA and sending chills through my body in this forum once or twice before. I heard him again this morning. It's garbled, and what he's saying is almost indecipherable, but any person ever having gone to elementary school would identify it immediately. It's the voice of ruthless authority. It's the voice of endless, soulless admonishments. It's the cruel voice of punishment.
The brute began again on the PA this morning but cut it short - his was replaced with a different voice: A voice of enthusiasm, of hard work and confidence. I turned off the NPR morning show playing on the radio and listened. I caught just a little bit of, "my name is Taylor Brittany Hannah Ashley Alyssa Kayla Brianna Montgomery, and I'm running for Class Vice-President. My goals for the Spring Semester include insuring adequate supplies of chocolate pudding in the cafeteria, longer recesses, renovated tether-ball courts and more field-trips." I had heard enough! I know now who has my vote come Election Day!!

Tonight - House of Shields (by request)



bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

From Redondo to Calabassos

10.5.2014

Of the myriad things that bug the shit out of me are the fuckwits that park in the red zone in front of the grocery store entrance.  Some do it because they fill their water jugs at the machines just outside the doors.  Others drivers sit idle in their vehicles while their passenger goes in to get chips and Twinkies®.  I always curse them and hope that some day a cop will find them there and give them the fucking ticket they deserve.

That day seemed to arrive a few days back.  I wheeled my cart of booze and cigarettes out the front doors of the local Ralph's grocery to see the two fat, ugly idiots I had noticed earlier in the Hostess® section loading their junk food into a cherry-red, gleaming Jaguar F-Type convertible (top up, the pussies).  This beautiful car was parked in a blue-striped zone on the WRONG side of the cart-return on the end of the parking row.  Stenciled in the blue stripes was "NO PARKING."  These cunts made their own parking space.

As I emerged from the store to observe this, a motorcycle LAPD officer was wheeling up to the couple, who were still loading.  "Bingo!, I thought."  The cop was pointing to the stripes and looked peeved.  I loaded my stuff, peeking over the car tops to see the cop's lecture continuing.  He kept on while I finished loading and walked over to return my cart.  Then … he left.  God damn it.  The fuckers get away with it.

Then, I saw the Jag backing up down the row, followed by the cop.  The Jag-offs tried to exit the lot by going the wrong way down the parking lanes and the cop made them go back.  Jesus, I thought, these dicks are making up their own rules.  Then, as the cop passed me, I said just that. "Jesus, get a hot Jag and you get to do whatever you want," I said.  "Seems so," the cop said.  The asshole lady in the passenger seat must have heard me.  "Seriously?" she accused.  "Please proceed; I don't want to guess what you're going to do next," I said.

Then, she started cussing me out.  Pretty spectacularly, I might add.

"Now she's swearing at me," I told the cop.

"You have to pick your battles," he replied.

I laughed at that, but the joke was on me.  If this dick gets away with parking wherever he wants, there's nothing to dissuade him from doing it again and again.  Caught by a cop and he gets away with it.  Shit.

Tonight - 5th Thursday!!  The Homestead.

Ms. Heather Lake suggests a pre-TNSC Halloween warm-up at The Make-Out Room @ 7:30pm. 
Killer Queens (all girl Queen tribute band) and Malice Cooper (duh – Alice Cooper tribute band) are there for your entertainment.  $8 cover.

Special shout-out to TNSC NOLA, tonight!  SF represents!!


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

I WILL find you (REDUX)

10.4.2014

My son has several names.  We call him by his nickname and keep his real name for official things like airline flights and 529 plans and such.  His nickname has nicknames.  A whole list of them, actually.  I myownself have had nicknames bestowed upon me at almost every place I've ever worked.  I know people with three first names (Ken William Scott, for one), and personally think people with three first names have an edge on the rest of us.  I think a lot about names.

Since I pay attention to things like people's names I've noticed that what used to be rather rare - even in my lifetime - a woman hyphenating her maiden name and her married name (Hanna Jaffe-Walsh, for example) has become commonplace.  Practically every female NPR reporter has a hyphenated last name.  (Lourdes Garcia-Navarro, Barbara Bradley-Hagerty, Charlayne Hunter-Gault, Mary Louise-Kelly, Soraya Sarhaddi-Nelson, Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, Dina Temple-Raston and on and on and on.)  Fine with me.

What I'm not okay with is something that's becoming a trend:  Men hyphenating their last names.  I've only noticed professional athletes doing this, but what was one (a running back for some shit football team Benjarvus (wtf's w/ that name, btw) Green-Ellis), is now more and more, the latest a forward for some shitass fuckwad hockey team (Oliver Eckman-Larson).  Pick a name and go with it.  You can't have them all.

I've done a poll and I'm in the minority on calling this bullshit.  "They're honoring their mother and father."  Horse pucky.  "They had more than two parents."  Whatever.

If I'm behind the times and I'm just a grumpy old curmudge, fine.  But skip ahead some as this trend catches fire:  Oliver Eckman-Larson's kid marries Ofeibea Quist-Arcton's kid.  What you get is Mary Eckman-Larson-Quist-Arcton.  Mary marries Benjarvus Green-Ellis and Dina Temple-Raston's kid and ya get Phil Eckman-Larson-Quist-Arcton-Green-Ellis-Temple-Raston.

If that guy marries another jerk with eight last names, what are ya gonna have?  Do the math.

Let alone if he's a left-handed relief pitcher:  How are ya gonna fit all those names on the back of a Cubs jersey?

******************
Tonight the robot hands over the keys to the kingdom to longime TNSC list member Timothy Pries.  He's curating this evening's gathering and is taking us to one of the most legendary of the "new" ad agency bars.  By "new" we mean since the 80's.

So join us early (7pm) at Grumpy's.  Or join us late (10pm) at Comstock Saloon.
Or join us at both, if you dare.
******************

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Nothing to see here....

10.3.2014

Rant crapped out. Sorry. I would have repaired it, but I figured that greasing my robot gears was probably a better option.

Tonight - Il Pirata  (by request)

Good way to wait out the end of tonight's NLCS game.  Go Giants!

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

FIFA, part 4

10.2.2014

It's not much of a venue announcement, I know, but I just wanted to inform you all that a week has passed and I still haven't heard a peep from Lucky.


Until I do, I'll be biding my time at - Hi Dive.   (your waterfront watering hole)

How about them Giants?!?

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

FIFA, part 3

10.1.2014

To recap, some newbie Peet's® counterman mixed two roasts that should never have been mixed because he didn't know any better and I reported my misgivings to Peet's® headquarters and they responded.

The response from HQ said they'd reach out to the manager of that local shop and tell them my story.  Well they did, because the manager of that shop wrote to me:

• Hello,
  
  My name is Lucky; I am the Store Manager at Peets in Marina Del Rey.  I am emailing about your bean experience here last week.  Thank you for bringing this to my attention, I am currently speaking to staff about their execution in the bean area when handling customers.  Your bean purchase is important to me and ensuring that you receive the correct beans is even more important.  I would like to offer you your beans for this week on us; we would like to make it up to you.  Please feel free to come in at anytime to receive your correct bean order.  I appreciate your business and I hope you have a awesome work week.
  
  Thank you,
• Lucky

I wasn't out for free beans.  I just expected them to keep their staff better informed about their product than I was, and this guy wasn't, so I told them.  Here's what I said back:

Hello Lucky!  While it's very nice of you to offer a make-good sac of free beans, I wasn't after that and I'll gladly pay for my order.  If you were to do anything in return, I suggest you offer my order as a "Manager's Special."  I bet the public would go ape for "Peet's® Pyrenees Blend."  Why, I was talking coffee with some other parents at my son's school just the other day and said I mix Peet's® French and Italian roasts together and a school mom said, "So do I!!"  I asked her if she called it "Peet's® Pyrenees Blend," too, and she said she wasn't that smart.  I said, "It's not smart, it's geography!"  So what do you say?  Can you make a Manager's special and see if the public goes for it?
Thanks!! 

And while I thought we'd conclude this saga this week, ol' Lucky must still be milling it over, cuz she ain't wrote me back yet.

Watch this space for the conclusion ... whenever that is.


Tonight - Zeitgeist!


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

FIFA1, part 2

9.4.2014

Continuing from last week's Venue Announcement, I wrote this to Peet's® Customer Service:

• Last week I visited my local Peet's in Marina Del Rey, CA to pick up my usual order of 1 lb. of French and 1 lb. of Italian Roasts -both whole bean- mixed together. I call this the Peet's Pyrenees Blend. It's delish. However, the store was out of French Roast. I said, "okay, I'll take the pound of Italian. Do you have whole bean Costa Rica?" The counterman said, "bagged in front." I snagged one bag and handed it to him to ring up along with the italian. Just then, my six-year-old tugged on my arm asking for an Odwalla Mango Tango. That distracted me for a moment and when I looked up, your counterman had dumped the Costa Rica atop the Italian. I said, "did you just mix the Costa Rica with the Italian?" He said yes. I wasn't happy, as these roasts are very different. He should have known that. If he did, he might have asked if I wanted these two mixed and I would have said, NO! I'm not the kind of person to refuse to pay for the weird mix, which I've dubbed "Peet's FIFA1," as the only connection I can find for Costa Rica and Italy is soccer. I've gotten through one pound of FIFA1 and it's not great. I wish your counterman had the proper training or interest in coffee to question what he thought I asked for. Most of your employees are enthusiastic about coffee and I've spent time chatting with many of them. I had never seen the guy who made FIFA1 before, and my guess is he is a new hire and doesn't know his product. That's all. Peace out. -jhj 

I got this back:

• Hi Josh,
  
  Thank you for contacting us. Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience here, I’m so sorry for the unintentional ‘mix-up’ that occurred at our Marina del Rey store. We expect our employees to provide great service at all times, and from what you’ve described it sounds like we fell short. I’ve forwarded your comments to the store’s management team so this can used as a training opportunity for the staff. You can also expect to be contacted in the next 2-3 business days by someone from store, as I’m sure they’d like to reach out and invite you back. We appreciate you bringing to this our attention, and thank you for your time and your business.
  
  Please let me know if I can be of further assistance and I’d be happy to help.
  
  Kind regards,
  
  Andrew
  PEET’S COFFEE & TEA
  Berkeley, CA

OOOh ... Real customer service!  And not a 'bot!  And not outsourced!

Next week we wrap the riveting saga of FIFA1, or "Nothing Happens To Me Anymore."


Tonight - Homestead.


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

FIFA1, part 1

9.3.2014

Every 14 to 21 days, or so, I venture over to Peet's@ Coffee and Tea and get me two pounds of whole bean coffee and sometimes some tea.  Rarely tea, but always coffee.

Over the course of many years of trying their single-origin roasts and blends, I've come up with my own blend and get it most of the time.  It's a pound each of their Italian roast and French roast coffee.  I have them mix the beans and I call the mix the Peet's® Pyrenees Blend.  It's delish.

So I go to re-bean just the other day and place my order:  A pound of French, a pound of Italian, mix 'em up and bag them.  I bring my own bags.

"We're out of French," a counterman I didn't recognize said.  (I go there a lot.  I get to know the employees' faces.)

"Dang," I said.  "Well, Plan B, then.  Do you have Costa Rica?"  I could get a pound of it and enjoy the single-origin beans and get my Pyrenees Blend the next time.

"No Costa Rica either," he said.

"We do have Costa Rica," someone emerging from the back of the store said.  I recognized her.  "It's bagged in the front, there," she pointed.

I went and looked.  Sure enough.  "I'll take this and the Italian, please," I said, handing over the Costa Rica.

Just then, Ez grabbed my arm and said, "Can I have a Mango Tango, please?  Can I have a Mango Tango?  Can I?  Can I?"

"Cut it out, Ez," I said, "Yes, but be quiet a sec."

Ez distracted me just long enough for the new Peet's® guy to dump the Costa Rica out on the already weighed Italian roast.

"Um, did you just start to mix the Costa Rica and the Italian??"  I said.

"Yes."

"That is NOT what I wanted.  And it sounds awful," I said.

But I'm not that kinda guy.  The fuck-you-I'm-not-gonna-buy-that guy.  I shrugged and paid up, hoping for the best.

The next morning I ground up and brewed a pot of FIFA1.  Linkey Loo Robot and I came up with the name, referencing about the only connection between Italy and Costa Rica:  Soccer.

The resulting cup of coffee was not great.

Next week, FIFA1, part 2:  What I'm doing about it.


Tonight - Gino & Carlo.

Kickin' it old-school, in a North Beach divey kinda way.


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

The Fez is Red

9.2.2014

The imps in the schoolyard prior to morning lineup are usually having their last spaz-attacks just before the bell buzzes (it's electronic, hence "buzzes" and not "rings.")  There are a couple of them that can be counted on to be totally out of control, bouncing off other kids, slapping, kicking or yelling at things real and imagined.  I've suggested that Ez observe from a distance and get a visual example of how NOT to behave.

It's interesting to see the shit they bring to the free-for-all, too.  Like one who must have seen some Sumo wrestling matches over the weekend, because he spun his backpack around and wore it on the front, then proceeded to body-blow any- and everyone he could catch.  Or sneak up on.

"Don't do that shit, Ez," I said.

"Don't worry, dad, that kid's a spaz," Ez replied.

Another kid came running into the yard, screaming, "Indiana JONES!!" and making bullwhip-like motions with his arm.  This kid being a first grader, I wondered whether his parents screened "Raiders" for him.  Oh you know, impaled-people, poisoned monkeys, Nazis, machine-gunned Nazis, airplane propeller-diced Nazis, melting Nazis.  You know ... that "Raiders."  I figured that there was a chance he saw it all, but more likely something dumb like "The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles" or a comic book or his dad's pantomiming Indy or something.  However he got the Indy bullwhip, he whipped everyone he could catch.  Or sneak up on.

I asked Ez about it later.  "Did his dad let him watch the movie?"

"Yeah, the one where Indiana Jones' dad gave him the hat and bullwhip," Ez said.

"Which one is that," I asked.

"I don't know."

"That didn't happen in "Raiders of the Lost Ark," I said, "which is an awesome movie and we'll watch it together when you're 12 or something."

"Okay, dad," Ez said.

Tonight - Jay n' Bee Club
Come for the booze, stay for the pizza.

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Ducks

9.1.2014

Not working from home for most of the summer and actually getting out into the world, I'm stunned at just how oblivious people "out there" are to what is going on around them.  I'm referring to, naturally, drivers.

I lost count of people on their phones when I tried to count them, and I tried to count them every day.  They're talking on them (most while holding the phone up to their ear like they were on the kitchen phone (in the old days when there were phones in kitchen)),  flipping through something (Facebook, iTunes, text scroll, whatever) or pecking out something (you know).

Also in total oblivion are countless others that just. aren't. there.  Sure they're in the driver's seat, sure their hands are on the wheel, foot on the gas, but they're not aware of the traffic around them, the color of the light, the stripe of the lane or the motherfuckin' PEOPLE in the crosswalk.  This last one really irks me because I have to cross a street in a crosswalk every day.

The crosswalk is the one between my home and Ez's school.  The street it crosses is a quiet residential street that isn't anything like a quiet residential street.  The LA fuckwits have found a way to avoid the menacing, unpredictable parking lots that are the main arteries through the city simply by either clogging the small streets, or racing down them as if they were bigger boulevards.  The crosswalk I need to use gets both kinds of drivers.  Some close up every last inch between their car and the car in front of it.  No way will anyone merge in front of me!  I ain't letting anyone turn!  Others hit the fuckin' gas and narrowly miss clipping that car coming out of the neighborhood.  Doin' 40 down the road doesn't leave one much reaction time, let alone time for pedestrians in crosswalks get safely across.  I get one of each, usually every day.  I fuckin' hate it when the driver who doesn't yield gives you an "oops, sorry" -look, but even more irksome is the zombie that doesn't even notice the signs, blinkers, stripes or people waiting to cross.  These bastards are the worst.

So today, just this morning, Ez and I dodged the car standing on the stripes of the crosswalk while stuck in standing traffic on the way to school.  On the way home, my side was clear, but someone was gunning down the road on the other side.  I stepped off, fully anticipating getting a chance to yell, "FUCKWIT!!" at them when the dude braked.  Hard.  He totally didn't want to, but I sorta forced the issue.  It's an idiotic thing to do, but I get a small kick out of it.  Making people do shit they don't wanna do is fun!

Tonight - House of Shields  (the venerable Majesty of New Montgomery)

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Rufous (REDUX)

8.4.2014

Guess what this is:

Yard boss 1
Concrete "fuck you."
Shop guy
White rocks
Yard boss 2
Prius 1 (no stickers)
Concrete goat
Yellow house
5TTN666
Danger 1
TWICE 1
Prius 2 (stickers)
Danger 2
Target below!
Bobcat warning!
Thomeless camp
Gate check

It's a list of shit I see every day on my ride to work!
I make lists of everything! I've got OCD! yay!

Tonight - Homestead.
(Annual celebratio  of Burning Man liberating our city!!!)


bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

Zoo Croo

8.3.2014

I got an alarm clock, but I don't need one, because I've been waking up early for six years now, and I'm so used to it, I wake up early automatically.  Yes, I'm pointing the finger at the wee Robot.

It's not as big a deal as one might think.  If I was asked 15 years ago, I'd have thought that waking up before an alarm clock set for three minutes to seven even goes off was a terrible thing indeed.  In reality, it's okay.

Even though I don't need the thing, I have it set.  It's not set so much to ensure I wake up and get going, it's set to go off and annoy me.  It accomplishes this by being set to KXLU, the radio station of the Loyola U down here in LA.  And if you're guessing that this means they got "college music" playing on their "college radio station," you are correct, ma'am or sir.

I don't know why, but damn-near every college radio station I've ever gotten a signal from has had the MOST annoying programming I've ever heard.  And I enjoy a very wide range of music.  I like well-produced, pro stuff and DIY junk.  I like major-label stuff and indie stuff.  I like regular. I like weird!  But I find the shit that WNUR, KALX and KXLU play really fucking annoying.  Most of the songs have never been played anywhere but in the bedroom where they were recorded and never will be played again.  And the jocks act all cool because they're on the cutting edge.  It's funny that the gag continues year after year.

Tonight, by request:  The Residence (cash only)


bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

Save Water, Drink Wine

8.2.2014

Have ya heard about the terrible drought we're having here in Cali?  Have you felt it?  Can you see it?  If you're anywhere in the whole state with the exception of at the bottom of Lake Tahoe (like some mob snitches certainly are), you answer yes to all of the above questions.  It sucks.

It sucks so bad that people are starting to firebomb neighbors that water their lawns and keep'm lush.  People are poisoning the decorative fountains in their parks so the koi die and the city shuts'm down.  People aren't going to the Dodgers games anymore because of their green outfield.  Oh wait, they're aren't going unless the Dodgers are giving away bobbleheads or backpacks or switchblades or something.

Water waste is a big fucking problem.  I shake my own head in disgust when I see it.  ... with ONE exception:

There's a back alley-like access to the place I work.  It's really a series of interconnected parking lots that go from the street a half-mile away to my office and beyond.  It's cool but for the alley-like, car park-like behavior of the mopes parking there who, not being on a street, figure there aren't any rules and drive worse than they do on, um, streets with rules.

My exception to viewing all water waste with disgust is a puddle in this back alley.  It's full every night.  It's runoff from a fucked-up sprinkler system and it's just deep enough to make a beautiful, gigantic, flower-like splash when I hit it with one of the front wheels of my Jeep.  The water sprays up and out and drenches me so much I have to run the wipers.  I get a perverse joy out of this dumb thing and can't wait to someday bring Ez along with me.

As long as it's wasted water, I may as well enjoy it, right?

Tonight - Clooney's  venerable Missio  dive, for sure.

Trivia:  Though it's open 6am - 2am, 7 days a week, this is the first visit for the TNSC.

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

As Fine as 14 Year-Old Scotch

8.1.2014

[this is a doozie from this date, 14 years ago. Damn that robot could throw down a Venue Announcement back in the day]:


Try this on, okay?


Did you ever climb a tree only to find yourself unable to get down? I had a cat that we took camping and that little sucker climbed way up some ponderosa pine. Not a whole lot of horizontal limbs on this tree. Cricket could only go up. Couldn't turn around too easily. She just kinda hung there and squawked. I felt for her. I've been in situations where the way out wasn't too clear. Trees and other things. If you would like to talk to folks that get stuck up trees, the support group's meeting coincides with this week's TNSC meeting. Here:


Bender's Bar & Grill


You don't want to miss this. The keynote speaker has been stuck up in many a tree. New additions to the list: Brian and Kristin. Some folks call Kristin by her real name, Allison. Also new is a nice fella named Rob Williams. Returning to the list is our friend Colleen (She has a great story about the DMV and a lot of alcohol. Ask her to tell you.) Michael Weiss returns too. No one was purged from the list this week. Thanks to pinch hitter Mossy for last week's riveting TNSC announcement. Several of you wrote in to complain that I didn't give Rosey any guff a couple weeks back. Rosey hisownself noticed and mentioned it the next day. He also noticed that he got skipped on the ritual Friday morning slider run. I guess I'm responsible for Rosey's breakfast sandwich intake now, in addition to making sure his route to the TNSC meeting is mapped out. I wonder if he needs me to pay his rent next month for him or make some car repairs for him or shop for his mom's B-Day present or find a recipe for empanadas for him or pick out a Christmas tree for him or clean his carpets?

TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Bishop wants a strawberry picking contest. Okay then.

TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: The discovery of cesium. Mark Tellegen, in a dual role, will play both Robert Wilhelm Bunsen and the young Prussian physicist Gustav Kirchhoff, the discoverers of cesium. Heather Morra will play their spectroscope. Jeremy Johnson will play Bunsen's modifications to University of Heidelburg technician Peter Desaga's burner (Bunsen receives unfair credit for the invention of the classic piece of laboratory equipment, for he merely modified (and improved upon) an existing design). Spark Sorensen takes on the role of the burner itself. Kristin Nielson will play cesium's atomic number, 55. Amy Shuba will portray Desaga, who, in a little known bit of history, was so enraged with the license Bunsen took with his burner design, plotted with some of Heidelburg's most infamous and thoroughly discredited scientists and researchers in the biggest smear campaign against Bunsen that venerable institution, the U of Heidelburg, ever saw. (There were several smear campaigns. Desaga's was the biggest.)

TONIGHT'S SINGLED OUT LIST MEMBER: Todd Lindo is singled out tonight. People have been wondering where he's been.

Team Bjeldanes results from 23 July: Us - 28. Them - 9. We kinda ruled that one. They kinda cried about it. Three and oh. Team Bjeldanes results from 30 July: Us - 9. Them - 8. Got some lucky calls. Tough D in the last inning. Four and oh going into the bye week.

The Water-Pik has been repaired. It was under warranty so the repairs didn't cost anything. The sign-up sheet will be distributed first thing. Get there early for a good number.

Do yerself a favor and come to the meeting tonight.

bye-ee

whrr ... clik!

The Heart of Screenland

7.5.2014

I'm about a month in to my new job and it includes a four mile commute with a couple turns in it to beautiful Culver City, CA.  The job's going okay and the commute is no biggy, but just as it's a strange feeling going back to full-time work after three years, it's a strange feeling hopping in the car and trekking a few blocks twice a day.

I know that a four mile commute is virtually NO commute in this city and damn-near all other cities in the USA and I crack myself up complaining about it.  Like, "Goddamn ... the residential streets on my commute were crawling this morning!  It took FIFTEEN minutes to get here!!"  Or, "Shit, I missed the last half of the NPR story because I got to work so fast."

Even though it's a short ride, I encounter a lot of fucking idiot drivers, as you might expect.  Some are speeding, others are going too slow, most are texting and NONE of them use their turn signals.  I endured the hundredth fuckwit turning without signalling the other day and had a great idea.  If you read that cool cyberpunk novel "Snowcrash," you might remember that there was a messenger that instead of riding a bike, he used a skate board  and harpooned cars with a magnet and cable and hitched rides on passing cars.  If the driver drove like a jerk, he'd sling-shot himself alongside the car and slap a sticker on it that said something snarky, like "Smooth Move, ExLax" or something.  This spawned my idea: Make up stickers or better yet, cards to stick in people's windows kinda like those detailing outfits that do such things.  The cards would say, "Since you're not using them, want to sell your turn signals?  Audi turn signal assemblies fetch great prices on eBay." Swap Audi for BMW, Jetta or whatever.  Maybe put a "call this number" on the card and have the phone number linked to a recorded message like "where'd you learn to NOT signal your turns, asshole?"

I have a lot of fun thinking about it.

I'm doin' the Monkey Boy.

Tonight - The Homestead.
(old traditions with good friends)


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Zoom.Zip.Redux.

7.4.2014

There's stealin' at work, then there's stealin'.

One of my team came to me and said someone snagged the iPod he left at his desk overnight. "What's more," he said, "it was hidden behind some books on the shelf, INSIDE a small box with some shit on top of it." He then added, "whoever snagged it had to look for it." My first thought was, "that fucker. I hate thieves." Second was, "you dumbass. Don't bring anything to work you'd be painfully and unwillingly parted from."

A day later I got some email that said "someone stole my PSP ... watch out!" It went on to explain that it happened in the time between when he went home the previous night and when he got to work in the am. The wee electronic device was secreted away at their workspace and the thief clearly had to search for it. As that had just happened to one of my guys, I thought about it for a second. The perpetrator had ACCESS and TIME. Access to be in the "secure" place he was in and to look as though he belonged there; and time to look around. The only people that had access and time at that time of night and early morning, sadly, are the custodial crew and the security guards. I didn't really care for this conclusion, because people in those roles are often hard, honest workers without a lot of options ... underdogs. Being a Chicago Cubs fan, I'm a natural supporter of underdogs.

The company's administrators sacked the custodial crew and the security guards. Then replaced them.

Then, as I said before, there's stealin'.

I worked at a joint in Chicago where we did a gawdawful lot of McDonald's commercials. Mostly effects-heavy "Ronald" spots and such. We had a ton of clients up in one of our sound suites supervising the audio mix for Happy Meal spots and they had brought along several full-color, full-sized prototypes of the new Happy Meal boxes. This "comp packaging," as it's called, is one-of-a-kind, unique, professionally constructed and therefore very, very expensive. Trouble is, it looks like a goddamned Happy Meal box. So, naturally when the asshole clients fucked off for the night, and left behind their comp packaging, the cleaning crew did their jobs and chucked out the empty Happy Meal boxes. The clients returned in the am. Heads rolled in the pm. Sad.

So there's stealin' at work, and then there's stealin'. Result's the same.

Tonight - Smokestack (@ Magnolia Brewery)
Special request by birthday-boy Jay Herda.

bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

Them Badlands and Miss Monroe

7.3.2014

Who wears it better?

Tonight - Hemlock  (love that place)


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Trickey Dickey Screwdriver

7.2.2014

I trust you've heard of Madame Tussauds.  It's a wax museum in London that has a bunch of outposts or whatever all over the world.  My robot family and I had a recent trip to the Capitol of our country and there's a Madame Tussauds there.  I only know that because our somewhat-corny bus trips about the city (we got a 48 hour pass) not only passed the joint, but had a bonus ticket for admittance to it attached to the two-day bus fare.  We went to it.

Young Ez robot didn't take long to warm up to what he thought were fellow automatons, but once he discovered they were only wax dummies, he went along with the gag.  Here he is with one of our Founding Fathers, John Adams:

 

Notice the garb of the different eras are almost the same!

Moments later, he helped the Gallant South surrender to the uncouth candle-like Northern Aggressors.  Ez noted how stoic R.E. Lee was in his moment of capitulation and asked aloud what USG's poison was.  "Booze," croaked Grant, and puked molten wax into the hearth.

Soon thereafter, we happened upon another interactive display, and a waxy J. Edgar Hoover grilled the wee robot relentlessly, but to no avail, as the wee robot couldn't be cracked!

 

We exited the museum a bit later, but the feeling stayed with me.  All around me were people standing still and admiring this Memorial or that Monument, this Gemini capsule or that Cold War Titan II missile.  I dare say it took me the rest of the day to shake those wax dummies.

Seriously, the fuckers were everywhere.

Tonight - Doc's Clock

Come pass the time with your pals.


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Hans to toss the wadder.

7.1.2014

aka (10 years gone)

What would be more awesome than winnin' the frikkin' lotto?
Is it possible to cook w/ an electric stove?
How many times should I turn this screw?
Why didn't I feel anything?
Will that cat ever shut up?
Doesn't it look nice in Chicago today?
Do I really need that thing?
Where do I buy me some ribs?
Can I get a ride to the bar?
Why did I ever smoke these lousy ciggys?
Is it three o'clock yet?



Tonight - The Homestead (yes... again... )
 
(What does it mean?  I don't know.  But have a great 4th nonetheless)

Cereal Murder

6.4.2014

Tonight - The Homestead  (same as it ever was)

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Dash Fest

6.3.2014


Ez recently concluded the 2014 Culver Marina Little League season, in which he became a rather good hitter and almost caught a pop-up on the fly.  He's quite good for a 5 year old, and while he's younger than some, he's a bit older than most and because he's "into it," he's quite a bit better than all of them.

I was an assistant coach and helped at practice, warm-up and backed-up the opponent's catcher for our coach-pitcher.  On defense, I got a group of kids and a part of the field, such as the 1-4 hitters on the line-up and the left side of the infield.  The main coach, a really nice guy named Phil, had a kid named Davis.  Davis was a good hitter and usually hit second.  Our lead-off man was a wee-little guy named Spencer.  He tried really hard and usually got hits. 

When he deployed the defense, Coach Phil called out, "the Ez-Jonsey group ... go with Coach Josh," or "the Spencer-Davis group ... go with Coach Other-Josh."  The first time this happened, I snickered.
Then it kept happening.

Around mid-season, I said, "Hey Coach Phil, are you a big Steve Winwood fan?"

He said, "Who?"

"Steve Winwood.  Singer in the Spencer-Davis Group."

"What?" said Coach Phil.  I dropped it.

But as it kept happening, I started to ask the other coaches.  None ... NONE knew what I was talking about.  No one had heard of the Spencer Davis Group.

At the end-of-season coaches'-night-out, I asked them all again, collectively.  Still no.  I pulled up, "I'm a Man" - arguably the SDG's biggest hit - on my phone via YouTube.  Coach Other-Josh said, "oh yeah, I've heard that."  None of the others had any recollection whatsoever.

I guess they're all Brittany Spears fans.

Tonight - The Armory Club.


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Goodbye to You

5.1.2014


Happy Last Day of School, yo!  That's right, LAUSD's FRANZ SCHUBERT ELEMENTARY is concluding its class schedules today, "graduating" its 5th graders to oblivion, moving all the grades up one, flipping off the lights and locking up the doors for the summer.  Our 50 lb. robot goes from K to 1.  The year absolutely blew by.

So what do you do when you conclude a grade, project or season?  Have a party, that's what.  Our ever-helpful room mother made a big 'ol sign-up sheet for things for parents to bring.  She filled it out with the usual kid-friendly items: Pretzels, cupcakes, pizza (small slices), Golfish® crackers, juice boxes, cookies, water, napkins, paper plates and so on.  We've done several of these potluck parties for tots before and have a plan:  Sign up for a single, simple item and then check the chart just before the party to see if there are no takers for napkins or something, then get that last item.  When we checked, the whole list was filled out, so we were just going to bring our already-purchased big goddamn container of Goldfish® crackers.

On the day of the party, Ez proudly hauled the big goddamn container of Goldfish® crackers in to school.  When we arrived at the Kindergarten, uh, garten, another little kid - Gideon or something -
was toting the same big goddamn container of Goldfish® crackers Ez had.  I said, "That's what we packed for Ez's lunch too!" to him and he said, "it's not lunch, it's for the party."  Some folks don't know a good one when he hears one.

Anyway, I thought it curious that there were two big goddamn containers of Goldfish® crackers brought to the party, but figured it was listed twice or the cupcakes didn't turn out or something.  I was wrong.

My Little Wife walked toward me with a blank look.  She had just checked the sign-up sheet and told me what she found.

"Oh my god.  Our names were ERASED from the sheet and Gideon and his mom's names were it their place," she said.  "They erased our fucking names and signed-up for what we were bringing."

I immediately cracked up laughing.  "You've got to be fucking kidding," I said, knowing she wasn't.  She could barely speak.

"What the fuck is up with that," she managed.  "Didn't they think we'd NOTICE?"

"Holy shit.  How stupid," I said.

Now there's a fair chance that Ez will be in the same class as Gideon next year and perhaps until they "graduate" from 5th grade, since the school is so small.  That makes it even more curious:  Do they think we won't forever remember this petty subterfuge?  Ez and Gideon weren't best friends or anything, but they were school pals and we were friendly with his and all the other kindergartener's parents.  Change comin' to that!

I told a few people the story already.  Two of them had the exact same initial reaction:

"Oh, COME ON!"

That's the perfect reaction to such a weird event.

Tonight - Orbit Room.


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Tall, Small

5.4.2014


I held on to a Starbucks® Coffee gift certificate for 10 years or so.  Notice I said, "gift certificate," and not "gift card."  That should tell you that it was some time ago indeed that I got the gift certificate.  I put the date of reception at 1995 or so.  I got it from my producer for pulling an entire week of triple-shifts (it sucked!).  My producer was very cool, so while the triple was no fun, it wasn't that big of a deal and her $10 coffee gift was appreciated.  Even though it was Starbucks® - ha.

If ya did the math, you probably put my redemption of the gift certificate at around 2005 or so.  The gal at the register had to check with her manager in the back who looked the artifact over and said, OK.

I'm rehashing this riveting story here to set up a story of another relic that I dug up but was not successful at redeeming:  An AT&T "phone card."  I had a ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR AT&T "PHONE CARD."

I found it a while back while purging one of the various archives I have laying about the place.  It was nestled up against my Chicago Public Library library card, several business cards and my Blockbuster™video card.  I chucked all of them but the phone card.  I wondered how much money was left on it and, Hell, if it still worked.

I called the customer service number on the back of the card and got an error message.  No such number.  I said, the Hell with it and followed the numbered instructions:  First call the service.  That failed too.  There was no such service.  I called AT&T and the goon who answered did not even know what I was talking about.  I figured as much - AT&T has merged, changed and overhauled itself so many times that today's AT&T isn't the same company as AT&T five years ago, let alone 20 years ago.

So I pitched the card into the recycle bin, chalking up $100 in long distance calls to a couple ounces of plastic.

Say ... are long distance calls called "long distance calls" anymore? 

Tonight - The Homestead (naturally...)


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

She goes to Fino's

5.3.2014

I went with a couple pals to an LA Kings-friendly bar last night to watch the Blackhawks basically quit playing 38 minutes into the hour-long game and ultimately get their asses handed to them and lose 6-2 to the Kings.  Most people left the bar happy.  I did not.

But that's not what this post is about; this post is about FREEDOM!  Check it:

As the bar patrons assembled and began talking and drinking and such, a pal I was meeting arrived.  We began to gab and catch up.  More people piled in.  My pal said, "Hey, that's the wife of a former, beloved, Hockey Hall of Fame Kings player."  The wife looked like a Pro athlete's wife:  Blonde, skinny, well-dressed, blingy, etc.

Several people were fawning over her and, Hell, she seemed nice enough.  After a while, she visited my friend and introduced me.  She said, "ugh, a Blackhawks fan.  Oh well," and I said, "there's no accounting for taste, is there?"  Whatever.  I'm not into celebrities and I don't think she counts as one, so, whatever.

Later in the game, before it went sideways for the Blackhawks, I visited the table of some pals.  One non-pal sitting among them - an older guy who looked like the former president of Western Images (but not as tall) - was present when the player's wife talked to me.  He said, "You should feel honored."

"Excuse me"  I said.

"Kitty let you stay," he said.

"Ex-cuse me"  I said.

"You should feel honored,  Kitty said you could stay and watch the game.  She didn't kick you out."

"Kitty?  Is that the player's wife's name?"

"Yes," he said.

"Does she own the bar?"  I said.

"No."

"Are we in Russia?  Are we in China?"

"What?" he said.

"Are we free?  Is this America?  Are we free to go to a fucking Kings bar and watch a hockey game if we want to without fearing some ex-player's wife with no authority could kick us out of an establishment she doesn't own?  Or are we in China, where she probably could?"  I said.

"What?" he said.

"I don't feel honored, dude.  This place is a dump."  I said.



Tonight - Sea Star Club  (by request - and newly re-opened)

Heads-up:  No Giants game tonight, but 280 South is closed at King, 6th and Mariposa Streets starting at 9pm.  There may be some lingering traffic in the area, so avoid those main arteries if you can.


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

European Composers for $100, Alex.

5.3.2014

For this year's annual Cactus League Spring Training trip, I had to get Ez out of school a total of three days:  Thursday, Friday and Monday.  This is quite a bit of time to be out of school, but since it's Kindergarten, I figured he wouldn't miss too much, and he's a darn-good reader, writer and arithmetic-er already, so no biggy.  I checked in with the office, asked for and filled out the excused absence form, submitted it and began to assemble my road-trip arsenal of snacks (see a previous post for details.)

The trip was a blast, as usual.  However, a strange thing happened while on the road to PHX:  Ez's school district, the LAUSD, robo-called my phone.  I ignored this one as I've learned to ignore them all.  It called again several hours later.  Then Friday morning and afternoon, guess what?  Robo-calls from the LAUSD.  I ignored these too, but glancing at my email, I had a message from the LAUSD from each of the last two days.  The messages said, "you have a son or daughter at FRANZ SCHUBERT ELEMENTARY who was not present for roll call on BLA BLA BLA DAY, etc., etc."  This prompted me to listen to the voicemail from the robot.  It too ratted out Ez for not being in class.  So much for the excused absence form, eh?

Monday was no different:  Two robo-calls and an email.  LAUS-suck.

After dropping off Ez in class Tuesday, I went to the office and asked, "excuse me, what the fuck?"  They said, "oh, no, you're all good.  That's just the District."
"Doesn't my excused absence form get submitted up to the district level?"
"Yes," the office stooge said, "It does, but the system still does its robo-calling and emailing."
"You've got to be kidding.  No one can fix that?"  I said.
"It seems not.  I'm sorry I didn't give you a heads-up."
"No prob." I said.

I told this story the other day at my "new job" and co-workers much younger than me said the schools they were in had various forms of electronic roll-call when they were in school.  Not me, I said, we had paper.  And we could hack the system.  I told of one kid in my Bio II class.  He waited until our doddering, old teacher turned his back on him and he darted out the always-open front door of the classroom.  Everyone but the teacher knew he was going to do it and we barely contained ourselves as his backpack shoulder strap got closer and closer to his shoulder as he readied his flight.  I crack up now just thinking about it.

oh ... I just remembered that the kid mentioned above got FUCKING EXPELLED two days before graduation ... for excessive unexcused absences.

Tonight - Mr. Bing's. 

A North Beach / Chinatown favorite!


I'm doin' the Monkey Boy.

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

The Little Sneak! (REDUX - aka in the days before Dyson™)

5.2.2014

If it were not for the deluxe lady I got my life would be sadly devoid of thrills these days, and I know it. I can easily imagine my day-in, day-out if she weren't around to yell at me and it would be MONOTONY: Get up, go to work, come home, water lawn, have drinks, go to bed. Repeat M-F, throw in a few Cubs losses and that's it. yep!

I have discovered a small, almost insignificant treat that kinda rules, and I'm gonna have to remember it next time she's outta town.

A couple weeks back I told ya a couple stories about the Electric-aire restroom hand dryers. The stories aside, I got a love-hate relationship with them when I'm forced to use one. I hate that they take so goddamn long to dry one's hands, but I love the magic moment when the warm air so perfectly dries the last, minute amounts of water and leaves truly dry hands - not towelled, not 'moist' - dry. That's the only benefit of the hour it takes to use one them things.

So ... the thing that I've discovered that kinda rules is this: Lately, after washing my hands in the restroom at work, I paper towel-off the water, chuck the soggy nap into the trash - AND FINISH WITH THE ELECTRIC-AIRE. It's like cutting to the front of the beer line. It's like getting something for nothing. It's like having yr cake and eating it too.



Tonight - Latin American Club
Come celebrate Ocho de Mayo!  New TNSC traditio ! (until next year)


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Idiots!

5.1.2014

I quit smoking on this day in 2005.  KRAZY!

That reminded me of the time in high school when my pals Phil, Phil and I were bored and decided to go swimming at the local resort pool.  It was late at night and in those days, resort security wasn't what it is today, so it was easy to walk in and hop in one of several pools - as long as you looked like you belonged there.  That night we took that "looking/acting like we belonged there" to a new level.

Quickly tiring with the pool, we started walking around the resort grounds, and soon found an arcade!  It had several games, all kinda old, but Hell, it had full-sized video games.  We did have a couple bucks among us but we discovered the machines all ran on tokens.  Shit!  Wait, let's go to the front desk and ask for tokens!

A sleepy-looking clerk said, "okay," and went in the back to look for some.  That's when Phil reached over the counter and snagged a key from a row of keys.  (Yes, this was long ago when hotels and resorts used keys.)  We got the tokens and went back to the arcade and used them all.

"Anything left?" Phil asked.

"Just the key," Phil said, so we checked it out.  It had a room number printed on it.  (Yes, this was long ago when hotels and resorts used keys and printed room numbers on them.)  So we did the smart thing and went in search of the room.

Not finding the room, we were about to give up when a gardener in a golf cart pulled up.  We asked him where our room was and he obliged by giving us a ride there.  It was a villa.  A two-story, three bedroom townhouse out in the "villa" section of the resort.  Holy crap.

We knocked on the door and waited.  Nothing.  We found a house phone and called.  No answer.  We repeated this process until we decided it was empty, then we used the key.  It worked.  The place was empty.  Clean, big and empty.  Nothing in it but a fully-stocked liquor cabinet.  Could this get any better?  Yes, because the room key opened the liquor cabinet.  Using all the pillow cases in the place, we liberated every bottle in it.  It was like Christmas.

It was a lot like Christmas because three dipshits with Santa bags full of clanky bottles started trudging home.  Jesus.  It took a block or two to figure out that we'd never make it, so we stashed our Santa sacks in a dirt lot next to a model home and "camouflaged" them with tumbleweeds and stuff, intending on returning the next day with a car to pick them up.

The next day, we cut our friend Phil in (he got 1/4 of the haul) because he had wheels.  We all drove over and were pulling up when we saw the realtor of the model home setting up for the day.  We watched as one of her flags blew away from her.  We watched as the wind carried the flag into the field as she followed it.  We saw the wind carry the flag right to our stash.  We watched as she came to our stash.  We heard her say, "Oh my."

We drove away.



Tonight - Il Pirata
If were not in the bar area, be sure to check the back patio.  We'll be partying with the raccoons. 


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Your choice, please.

4.4.2014

 Last week was Ez's week-long Spring Break from school.  This school has so many days off, Spring Break is a bit of a joke, as it's only two days longer than a handful of three-day weeks, No School Mondays and two-for-one Holiday Days scattered throughout the school year.  I often think of Russel from the Fat Albert show and how he derides his jerk-ass brother with the insult, "No Class."  His best was, "like school on a Saturday ... no class."  I've modified this to:  "Like school at LAUSD ... No Class."

Anyway, I nearly got lynched by a bunch of park moms on Ez's and my only sojourn to a local favorite park.  The entire West Side of LA was on spring break, so the park was overrun with screaming kids. Sure enough, half of Ez's class and the striker, a winger and the defense from his soccer team were there too.  I knew the kids and have chatted with the moms and dads before.

Ez and I brought with us a wiffle bat and wiffle ball, a kids' croquet set and a dozen donuts.  It was this last item that got the tall folks angry with ol' TNSC Robot.  They brought granola, string cheese, mandarin oranges, bananas, seaweed, nuts and shit that doesn't do what donuts do to kids.  They brought "healthy snacks."  I brought jet fuel.  WOOO!


Tonight - The Homestead   Wheeeeeee!! Bring your pals!


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Mystery, Inc.

4.3.2014

What are those sticks that people eat?

What?

What are those sticks that people eat?

Slim Jims®?

No.

Pockey®?

No.

They're yellow.  They're yellow-orange.

Carrots?

No.  They're yellow-orange sticks that ...

People eat?

Yeah.  Yellow-orange sticks that ...  FRIES!

Ha ha!  Sticks!

Tonight - Lone Palm.


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

E A G A D

4.2.2014

I've been on a modified refuse-to-booze program lately.  I don't buy beer for the house, so when there's no beer, I don't drink it.  Right.

I've made up for one aspect of boozing, though and ya don't need a bunch of beer to get it:  Dizzyness!  I've achieved an almost steady state of dizzyness and its cousin - blurred vision - by donning my new prescription eye glasses ... with progressive lenses!  Yes, these suckers have two different modes.  One for close up reading, and another for, uh, closer-up reading.

My eyesight, while overall exiting through the gift shop, is still damn good for far-away seeing.  Up close, though, I'm fokked.  These new lenses have a gradient from one close-up to another closer-up, and in between, there's significant distortion.  And therein lies the dizzying factor.  It's taking some getting used to.

But, as I said, it's not without its merit.  Dizzy is fun.


Tonight - Club Deluxe

Little Minsky's Burlesque and Variety Show. 
$5 at the door.  Show starts at 10pm.
Come out and support your local arts. 

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Psych!

4.1.2014

On our annual trip to Cactus League Spring Training, I brought one HELL of a snack pack.  I blogged wrote about it last week, and the two people out there that read this might remember that.

I left out that while I fully intended to have de-lux snax along the way to PHX, I also fully intended to have de-lux snax in our hotel, complete with ice cold Miller™Lites® (I brought the Coleman®, remember?), I brought the French Press coffee maker and a pound of Peet's® French Roast (ground for a French Press).  We were to have coffee better than the hotel could muster and of it, as much as we wanted.

Um ...

I did not bring the electric water kettle and because Phoenix is not in Europe, there was no electric water kettle in the hotel room.  Shit!  Hotel coffee.

This meant standing in line at the in-hotel Starbucks with a bunch of jerks in LA Angels red, SD Padres orange and blue, White Sox black, Oakland As green and a bunch of sunburnt Wisconsinites, Ohioans, Nebraskans and Indianans in flip-flops.

So upon return to LA, I got to hang up the coffee grinder for 10 days and chuck the ground French Roast into the Technivorm.

It was good.  All is well.

Tonight - Iron & Gold


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Resume

3.4.2013

I hotrodded it across the desert last week to meet a bunch of pals, including Linkey Loo Robot and his lovely wife, at our annual Cactus League Spring Training trip.  My co-pilot was a late scratch, so with one passenger, I drove solo.  I did not pack snacks for solo trekking.

I packed crackers and spray cheese.  I packed sliced salami for the cheese-sprayed crackers, if one wanted such a deluxe treat.  But since I had no co-pilot, none of it was deployed.

I packed potato chips and french onion dip (I had an in-cabin cooler, natch), but having two hands and all three eyes on the road, there weren't no dippin'.

I brought cookie dough and spoons.  Didn't deploy them.

I build-your-own bruschetta.  It would have worked with a team.  Solo, no go.

I brought the fixin's for banana splits.  I had to concentrate on driving, not splitting bananas.

I brought the ingredients for seven-layer Mexi dip to assemble somewhere near Blythe.  Everyone knows freshly assembled seven-layer is superior, but since I was occupied, it wasn't assembled, freshly or otherwise.

I brought a kit for making Chicago-style hot dogs, complete with dogs, bun, tomato slices, yellow mustard, diced onion, neon-green relish, sport peppers and celery salt, but my duty was to my passenger and road safety.

Lastly, I brought my espresso machine, complete with whole milk in a mini pitcher, because I thought a fresh cappuccino would hit the spot around Goodyear, but since I was driving, I the only frothing I did was at the mouth out of fury for the other jerks driving around.

So ... we stopped at McDonalds.  Thirty minutes after eating that Mc-whatever, I felt like puking.

Tonight - The Homestead.

We made it through another month.


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

ED-Gar! BASE-Ball! (REDUX)

3.3.2013

Solo Baseball Story #1

The year is 1979. The Capital Electric Bears is having baseball practice and a young TNSC Robot is called upon to play the catcher position. TNSC Robot at any age wasn't into playing catcher and on that hot, dusty day in '79 tried to impart that fact onto his coach but his coach wasn't hearing any of it. So I threw on the mask, grabbed the mitt and squatted. Coach, sporting his brand-new CASIO digital watch (which he demoed the alarm AND the stopwatch modes to the team only moments earlier) took the umpire's position behind me.

The first batter, our best player, hit every pitch he got. Which was good for me, as I shut my eyes tight every time he swung the bat. The second batter ended my stint at playing catcher, but not they way you might think. He fouled the first pitch off. It went straight back and, not closing my eyes this first time, stuck out a hand to catch it. It went over my outstretched mitt and whizzed straight at my unprotected coaches face! Defensively, he raised up his hands and, you guessed it, deflected the foul with his brand-new CASIO digital watch. It died, but it died messy. It's CASIO-tones went haywire, emitting a constant bee-dee-dee-deedlee zap zap garble garble beep deep beep zzzap ... my god it was funny. It's LCD was shattered and bled black gunk all over. Coach took what must have been an immediate $300 or $400 loss (it was 1979, mind you) in stride. He removed the watch, placed it on home plate, took the bat out of the batter's hands and smashed the CASIO into oblivion.

I played the outfield after that.




Then I drew green mustaches and beards on everyone.

Tonight - by special request:  Smuggler's Cove
Drink like a pirate!


bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

Porky and the Vacuum

3.2.2013


There's some bad shit happening down in, uh, some town called "Downey."  Seems someone's battery recycling plant has been poisoning the nearby environment with all sorts of nasty elements, chemicals and compounds.  There are neighborhoods, schools, day care centers, shopping malls, gardens, parks and all sortsa things people sit on, stand on, sleep on, eat, breathe and other things that involve everyday life that are covered with shit that give ya cancer.  Like I said, it's nasty.

Thing is, why is this happening?  Why are people there?  Where they there first?  Why is the factory there?  Was it there first?  I haven't looked up what group was there first, but why bother?  Either one shoulda avoided the other in the first place.  I just do not get things like this.  I can simplify what I'd do in such a situation with an analogous example:

Let's say I board a city bus.  It's something I did a bit in SF, never in LA, but thousands of times in Chicago.  I board a bus and surveying the coach for a seat I spy a stinky bum.  A really filthy, rag-wearing malodorous bus urchin.  I, me, what I do is  ... not sit by the scuzz.  I sit far away from him.  I hold my breath walking past him.  That's what I do.

Alternately, say that I'm already ON the bus when some 7 foot tall, tatter-wrapped, foul-mouthed, foul-smelling beastie boards the bus.  I, me, what I do is ... move.  I move far away from him.  I hold my breath while I move.  That's what I do.
 



Tonight - Elixir     A tonic for what "ales" you! (ugh)

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Are we there yet?

3.1.2014

I'm sure that many of you play or have played "observation games" or "road trip games."  There's the license plate game, where you try to spot a tag of each of the 50 states; there's "slug-a-bug" where you slug yr opponent when you spy a Volkswagen Beetle (we called it "Beeper" and didn't hit anyone when my brother, sister and I played it as kids); there's "I Spy" and lots of others.

I've even developed a few:

Nice Dualie!  - Be the first to see a dualie pickup and declare aloud, "Nice Dualie!" and score.  There are different point values for different dualies and negative points for saying "Nice Dualie!" when it's just a pickup truck.  (Let me know if you want the rule sheet.)

Bobcat Alert!  - Just say "Bobcat Alert!" when you see a Bobcat digging vehicle to warn others that one is near.  They move quickly and erratically and are a menace.  Mini-Caterpilars, Ryobis and other miniature dozers, diggers and such all count.  This game is not really a game.  It's more of a public service.

Prius Attack! and its variant Prius Attaxi! - This one, like "Bobcat Alert!" is a public service:  Those goddamn Priuses hardly make a sound when they're moving and can sneak up on you.  In addition, the people who drive them are smug assholes.  They will run you over with a sense of entitlement, but they're low emissions, by god.  For both Prius Attack! and Prius Attaxi!, simply declare "Prius Attack!" when you see a Prius moving in any direction and "Prius Attack, Not Attacking!" for a parked or stopped Prius.  (Same for Prius Attaxi!)

I retired the game "Rape Van" in development when the focus group found it to be in poor taste.  I still call them out, though.

This recap of the games in play today sets the stage for the roll out of a whole new game:

TEXT NECK!

You've seen it:  The telltale bent neck indicating someone is looking down at a handheld device.  Examples are EVERYWHERE!  In the car, in the cafe, on the sidewalk, in the crosswalk.  By men, by women, by children walking dogs, jogging, pushing strollers ... the list goes on and on!

Play is simple!  See a text neck, yell, "Text Neck!"
Scoring is simple!  Remember what the text necker was doing and submit the observation to the brand-new Facebook group called "Text Neck."  A three-judge panel will score your submission.
Have fun and happy hunting!


Tonight -  Sutter Station Tavern   - Cash Only
(I've got a thing for Russian Barmaids with dishwashing gloves)

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

I'm also a client

2.4.2013

I vaguely remember the gasoline crisis of the late 1970s.  I do remember the threat of bad people siphoning gas from people's tanks.
"What in Hell is siphoning?" I remember asking my mother.  She told me that a bunch of assholes around town would unscrew a gas cap, stick a rubber tube down into the tank, suck on the tube until gas came out.  She said it was actually a rather neat way of getting gravity to act as a pump for you, but in this case it was stealing.  Some fuckers were stealing gasoline.

So I have a postage stamp-sized back yard.  And a while back, when I refused to waste water on it - we're in a rather nasty drought here in LA - the bermuda grass all but died.  But it went away in patches.  Dead and dying grass - dirt - dead grass - dirt.  It was a mess.

So when it became so bad that it was almost all dead and dirt, I took a page outta the 1970s and got me a siphon tube.  Here's why:  I figured that, drought or no drought, Ez had to bathe.  He got dirty and stinky every day and we had to get him clean.  His preferred method, like many a wee robot, was in the bathtub.  I had a tub of water left over after his bath and since his soap/shampoo was super SUPER fucking mild, I decided to get a second use out of the bath water.  I started siphoning it out and draining it into the back yard.

After a while, the god damned yard came back to life.  "No duh," said my little wife.  "If you water grass it grows."  Point.  I started feeling pretty good about it but noticed that, as it went away in patches, it came back in patches.  I had to do something.

And I did.  I invented "The Hair Club for Lawns."  Since this is creeping bermuda grass it doesn't come from seeds.  I couldn't seed the yard and expect results.  I could only resod or ... PLUG.  I had plenty of good creeps that I could dig up and relocate to bald spots.  After a while they took hold and plugged the holes.  The Hair Club for Lawns gave results!

There's a rain storm expected tonight.  It won't end the drought, but it will help.  And as Ez himself noted, "This rain is great for the Hair Club for Lawns."

Tonight - The Homestead.
 
"A neighborhood bar with paintings of breasts on the walls.”
Um... it's a whole lot more than that, pal.

bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

"Roto"

2.3.2014

That's short for "rotoscope"

 

That's what I'm doing (actually it's more "paint & roto," and that's why I can't take the time to post an actual thought-out venue announcement.


Tonight - Bloodhound (by request)


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!

Olympic Dreams

2.2.2014

People my age don't usually have Olympic Dreams.  Maybe there's a ancient curler or an aged bobsledder or some old coot or another that dreams of glory.  Maybe some codger dreaming of carrying the torch for a stretch counts but maybe not.

I have Olympic Dreams.

I dream of an Olympics that isn't ruined by the network airing it.  I dream of an Olympics that isn't ruined by the mind-numbingly stupid television commercials that carve up event coverage like I carve up a Frito Pie.  I dream of robust online Olympic coverage that doesn't FORCE one to sit and watch the same mind-numbing TV spots.  I dream of Olympic coverage that isn't hour after hour of fluff piece.

I just want to watch sliders and skaters and skiers and hockey games.  I don't give a shit what Shaun White has to say.  I want to see him fly like a tomato.  I don't care where Julia Mancuso's weight room is (it's on a beach), I wanna see her fly down a mountain.

A man's gotta have a dream.

Tonight - Doc's Clock.

Doc's Clock invites you to "get drunk earlier."  Take them up on that offer.


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!