6.5.2016
Often random, unsolicited emails arrive in the robot's inbox. Often they're personal pictures of people and their friends from around the world. Sometimes they're text-based. Like this one:
Driving has always been a passion of mine. My favorite ride at Disneyland had always been Autopia. Bumper cars at carnivals were my go-to ride, and I loved going boating with my uncle just for the possibility of getting the chance to steer the wheel. Anytime I was able to take control of a wheel, I was happy. Being able to drive a car means freedom. Freedom to go where you want to go whenever you want to go. I could not wait for freedom. When I turned fifteen and a half, I was able to take the test to get my driver’s permit. I had studied the entire week before the test and wasn’t surprised when I passed. I just wanted to start driving (legally). That weekend, I was signed up to start driving school.
Bright and early on a Saturday morning in December, I had my first driving lesson. I waited outside of my house for the driving instructor to pick me up. At 7:04 (four minutes late), he arrived, driving a Mini Cooper with red, white, and blue American flags covering every surface. He introduced himself as Mike , and I got in the driver’s seat. Despite the setback of the utterly patriotic exterior of the car that made me feel somewhat humiliated to be driving in, I was excited and nervous for my first lesson. Mike was an interesting person. Being a driving instructor seemed like a second career for him. Mike smelled like he had just ate a tuna sandwich and had smoked a bunch of cigars. The first hour felt pretty good. My left hand turns were impeccable, changing lanes was a breeze, and, although they were jerky in the beginning, my stops were the perfect distance from the white line. I felt like I could do anything. “How about we start driving on the freeway?”
Except for that.
The freeway was something that had completely slipped my mind. I was perfectly content driving in the school parking lot of Westchester High for the rest of my life. The fear of missing an exit and being stuck on the freeway forever, like some sort of Twilight Zone episode, started to build up in my mind. After a few minutes of back and forth with my instructor, I reluctantly agreed, and we made our way to the 405.
We were on the freeway for about ten minutes and everything seemed to be going fine. The increase of speed from 25 to 65 miles per hour felt like nothing, and I was proud of myself for doing something I wasn’t too excited to do in the first place. I was actually starting to enjoy the speed and the challenge of navigating my way around Los Angeles. Mike seemed to be enjoying the rest of his lunch while I was going 65 miles and hour on a very busy freeway that goes by just a number. My hands were starting to hurt from holding on so tightly to the steering wheel. But, I was maintaining my composure and doing ok. An instant later, all of that changed. Suddenly, the car started to shake and was sliding towards the edge of the freeway.
As all of this was happening, I looked to my left and saw the culprit. A woman who looked to be about 90 years old was calmly pushing me off the road. She was wearing a black leather jacket, probably because she was in a motorcycle gang and decided that today she wanted to drive without any prior car-driving experience. I was terrified.
My instructor was calm, too. Was I the only person who was concerned about the crash? When we pulled over, Mike and the elderly Motorcycle Gang Lady argued for twenty minutes about insurance and not calling the police, as I waited in the car, shaken and a little concerned for the lack of concern. The elderly lady was using up my two hour driving lesson negotiating with Mike not to call police because she didn't want to loose her license. She spent a lot of time saying that the major body damage could be fixed without too much expense and she was willing to pay for it all.
Mike, still cool as a cucumber, got back into the car, and asked me if I wanted to go to a lighthouse. Was this the standard protocol for car accidents? I said okay, and I had to drive us all the way to the Point Fermin Lighthouse in Palos Verdes. I was very shaken up and had to hold it together for the rest of the day.
I empathized with the lady that hit us; she was really shaken up and very upset, too. It was clear to me that being able to drive a car meant freedom to her, too. In that first driving lesson I learned that my freedom is dependent on the freedom of others. What I wanted to earn so badly at 15 years old is what the elderly women was holding in to at age 90, the freedom, independence, excitement and thrill of driving a car in Los Angeles.
Tonight - The Homestead
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Pinholes Through Cardboard
6.4.2016
We were leaving the bar one Thursday night some years ago. We were Lee Lee the Musical Bee, Linkey-Loo Robot and me. Linkey was driving a Chrysler 300 (his choice of rentals) and we encountered highway construction - or rather highway access (ramp) road work and we had to find a different way to get on the 110 freeway.
We found the ramp and trucked to the 110 / I-10 West exchange. Linkey nearly missed the turn, as his circuits were scrambled by the previously encountered road work, but he used his one-and-only radical lane change and we were on our way west.
We stayed on the "Santa Monica Freeway" until the I-10 / 405 South split. Linkey expertly white-knuckled the Chrysler 300 onto the southbound ramp and we were heading directly to LLMB's home. We passed the exit we needed. No prob! We can take the next one and turn around. We passed that one too. Then we missed the next one, the one after that ... LAX airport passed away on our right ... and in desperation mode - desperate to get the fuck off the 405 South - we merged onto the 105 East. East to Norwalk!
FUCK NORWALK!!!
Tonight - Specs' 12 Adler Museum Cafe
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
We were leaving the bar one Thursday night some years ago. We were Lee Lee the Musical Bee, Linkey-Loo Robot and me. Linkey was driving a Chrysler 300 (his choice of rentals) and we encountered highway construction - or rather highway access (ramp) road work and we had to find a different way to get on the 110 freeway.
We found the ramp and trucked to the 110 / I-10 West exchange. Linkey nearly missed the turn, as his circuits were scrambled by the previously encountered road work, but he used his one-and-only radical lane change and we were on our way west.
We stayed on the "Santa Monica Freeway" until the I-10 / 405 South split. Linkey expertly white-knuckled the Chrysler 300 onto the southbound ramp and we were heading directly to LLMB's home. We passed the exit we needed. No prob! We can take the next one and turn around. We passed that one too. Then we missed the next one, the one after that ... LAX airport passed away on our right ... and in desperation mode - desperate to get the fuck off the 405 South - we merged onto the 105 East. East to Norwalk!
FUCK NORWALK!!!
Tonight - Specs' 12 Adler Museum Cafe
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 16, 2016
The Midas Touch
6.3.2016
I took the Jeep over to the rip-off artist ... er ... the garage for an oil change and regular maintenance and ended up leaving it overnight, because they were busy ripping off other customers and I wasn't in a big hurry to get my not-leaking power steering hose swapped out.
So when I went back to pay and pick up my Jeep I noticed another customer also waiting. He was hovering over his piece-of-shit van while a mechanic was tearing something out of it. He had dirty blond, shoulder-length hair tied in a ponytail, a stained T shirt, gym shoes and tube socks and most notably, sky blue terrycloth shorts. He was jabbering away on his cell, presumably with someone who knew about his van's problems and was collaborating on the teardown/repair. He was not quiet.
I stepped into the office, paid for my unnecessary parts and labor and the attendant went to retrieve my keys. I overheard the guy on his phone screaming into it: "The serial number is WHERE? Did you say on the hose? We didn't remove the hose!! What? I should be able to see it? Okay! Hang on!"
The attendant handed me my keys and I left the office. I glanced over to the guy on the phone and he was in a very awkward pose: His knees were bent and he was squatting not unlike a quarterback under center. His right elbow was jutting out as he held his phone tightly to his head. With his left hand he held a flashlight as he peered into the engine compartment.
He said, "Three-five-zero-A as in ... apple! One-seven-J as in ... " a second or two went by before he came up with, "Jerk!"
350A17J as in "jerk." I laughed.
Tonight - Iron & Gold
(Go Dubs!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I took the Jeep over to the rip-off artist ... er ... the garage for an oil change and regular maintenance and ended up leaving it overnight, because they were busy ripping off other customers and I wasn't in a big hurry to get my not-leaking power steering hose swapped out.
So when I went back to pay and pick up my Jeep I noticed another customer also waiting. He was hovering over his piece-of-shit van while a mechanic was tearing something out of it. He had dirty blond, shoulder-length hair tied in a ponytail, a stained T shirt, gym shoes and tube socks and most notably, sky blue terrycloth shorts. He was jabbering away on his cell, presumably with someone who knew about his van's problems and was collaborating on the teardown/repair. He was not quiet.
I stepped into the office, paid for my unnecessary parts and labor and the attendant went to retrieve my keys. I overheard the guy on his phone screaming into it: "The serial number is WHERE? Did you say on the hose? We didn't remove the hose!! What? I should be able to see it? Okay! Hang on!"
The attendant handed me my keys and I left the office. I glanced over to the guy on the phone and he was in a very awkward pose: His knees were bent and he was squatting not unlike a quarterback under center. His right elbow was jutting out as he held his phone tightly to his head. With his left hand he held a flashlight as he peered into the engine compartment.
He said, "Three-five-zero-A as in ... apple! One-seven-J as in ... " a second or two went by before he came up with, "Jerk!"
350A17J as in "jerk." I laughed.
Tonight - Iron & Gold
(Go Dubs!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 09, 2016
Bad Brains (REDUX)
6.2.2016 (first posted this week 2009)
I was recently commissioned to make a list of things I hate. That got me thinking about hate, because my first thought was, "easy! I hate a ton of things!!" Green Bay Packers. Hate them!! ... or ... do I? I hate losing to them, I hate when they succeed in my division (NFC North), but do I hate them? I strongly dislike them, but I don't think I hate them. I'll never, EVER root for them, but I don't think I hate them. If other things that "I fuckin' HATE" also ended up instead as "strong dislikes," this gig would be harder than I thought.
Then? A Cubs bullpen meltdown. Hate that. THEN! Chipper Jones game-winning RBI! Aaugh! Hate that!
I started to roll with it. I hate traffic. I hate warm beer. I hate Republicans. I hate thieves. I really hate liars! Yes ... the Packers might be spared of my hateful wrath, but there's a lot to hate.
I think it boils down to: I hate things that suck.
Tonight - The Wooden Nickel (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I was recently commissioned to make a list of things I hate. That got me thinking about hate, because my first thought was, "easy! I hate a ton of things!!" Green Bay Packers. Hate them!! ... or ... do I? I hate losing to them, I hate when they succeed in my division (NFC North), but do I hate them? I strongly dislike them, but I don't think I hate them. I'll never, EVER root for them, but I don't think I hate them. If other things that "I fuckin' HATE" also ended up instead as "strong dislikes," this gig would be harder than I thought.
Then? A Cubs bullpen meltdown. Hate that. THEN! Chipper Jones game-winning RBI! Aaugh! Hate that!
I started to roll with it. I hate traffic. I hate warm beer. I hate Republicans. I hate thieves. I really hate liars! Yes ... the Packers might be spared of my hateful wrath, but there's a lot to hate.
I think it boils down to: I hate things that suck.
Tonight - The Wooden Nickel (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 02, 2016
Live Deliciously
6.1.2016
I sure do love scary movies, and I saw a good one a few weeks back. "The VVitch" is a movie about a - wait for it - family in the times of the Puritans in 17th century New England that leave their plantation, move to the country and one way or another encounter - wait for it - a witch.
The movie is good and spooky but doesn't have any bumps or gotchas that are the trademark of other scary movies. I highly recommend it.
Despite my love of scary movies, horror novels and comics and the like, I don't believe in monsters, ghosts, demons or creatures from black lagoons. If I did, though, I would have been spooked the other day. I was alone in a big wooden building.
In its past life, people built boats in this building. It's got an open interior with a 30' ceiling not unlike an airplane hanger, but with vertical beams, joists and an interior framework. It's all made of wood but retrofitted with steel supports for this area's notorious seismic activity.
Anyway, if you've ever walked across a wood floor, some of the slats creak and squeak when you step on them. When a wood building goes from the coolness of the night into the warm, sunlit hours of the morning, the roof planks creak, squeak and make loud pops and cracks as they heat. And since this is a rather large building, the cracks and pops come from all over the place. If one was trepidacious of the origin of such noise while alone in a big building, the shift would have been unnerving.
But it wasn't! I love the sounds the building makes. Sometimes there are cracks so loud the resemble gunshots. The roofs pops and snaps and eventually settles down. In the early afternoon of my solo shift, I heard a clunk. Then a bunch of beeping and a squealing of some electronic doodad. Along with the clunk, my computer and its monitors died. Power failure.
Power failures are surprisingly not uncommon in beautiful, sunny Southern California, if not hard to explain sometimes. Bad weather usually brings power failures. Hot days often tax the grid to the point of failure. This hit has caused by neither. But as I resolved to wait it out because I was suddenly gripped with primal fear: Since power was out, so was the CoffeeBot! I'd have to wait for the power to come back without any coffee!!
Tonight - Thieves Tavern (cash only)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I sure do love scary movies, and I saw a good one a few weeks back. "The VVitch" is a movie about a - wait for it - family in the times of the Puritans in 17th century New England that leave their plantation, move to the country and one way or another encounter - wait for it - a witch.
The movie is good and spooky but doesn't have any bumps or gotchas that are the trademark of other scary movies. I highly recommend it.
Despite my love of scary movies, horror novels and comics and the like, I don't believe in monsters, ghosts, demons or creatures from black lagoons. If I did, though, I would have been spooked the other day. I was alone in a big wooden building.
In its past life, people built boats in this building. It's got an open interior with a 30' ceiling not unlike an airplane hanger, but with vertical beams, joists and an interior framework. It's all made of wood but retrofitted with steel supports for this area's notorious seismic activity.
Anyway, if you've ever walked across a wood floor, some of the slats creak and squeak when you step on them. When a wood building goes from the coolness of the night into the warm, sunlit hours of the morning, the roof planks creak, squeak and make loud pops and cracks as they heat. And since this is a rather large building, the cracks and pops come from all over the place. If one was trepidacious of the origin of such noise while alone in a big building, the shift would have been unnerving.
But it wasn't! I love the sounds the building makes. Sometimes there are cracks so loud the resemble gunshots. The roofs pops and snaps and eventually settles down. In the early afternoon of my solo shift, I heard a clunk. Then a bunch of beeping and a squealing of some electronic doodad. Along with the clunk, my computer and its monitors died. Power failure.
Power failures are surprisingly not uncommon in beautiful, sunny Southern California, if not hard to explain sometimes. Bad weather usually brings power failures. Hot days often tax the grid to the point of failure. This hit has caused by neither. But as I resolved to wait it out because I was suddenly gripped with primal fear: Since power was out, so was the CoffeeBot! I'd have to wait for the power to come back without any coffee!!
Tonight - Thieves Tavern (cash only)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
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