Stay Clean

The other day I was cleaning the kitchen, which is what I do every day after
dinner. I tie the apron, put the gloves on and get to work. Wash the
dishes then tackle the grime on the stove. Some nights I'm more meticulous than others, so I take the heating elements off and set them aside before getting into it. And some nights I really go to town and get out the "more-than-daily-cleaning" cleaning supplies for a thorough cleaning. You know, for the stuff that just doesn't come off easily. Monday night was one such night.

Scrubbing the stove can be both a therapeutic and an infuriating experience. Watching the grime come off revealing the beautifully unblemished surface underneath is the therapeutic part. Seeing the grime stick around after scrubbing so hard that little pieces of the sponge break off revealing muscle soreness in your triceps is the infuriating part. I was deep in the infuriating section when my mind started to wander. "That doesn't need to come off. It's fine." So I stopped and looked at the black mark on the stovetop, contemplating whether to go on or to throw in the towel - literally! Not really literally because I wasn't using a towel to scrub. It was a sponge, but to "throw in the sponge" isn't the saying, now is it.

I turned from the stove to put the sponge back in its place, then quickly turned back and scrubbed the hell out of the mark until it was gone. That's how it starts: A tiny seed of thought that says that dirt and grime are welcome in our homes. But no. We won't allow them to take root in our kitchens, on our stoves. We will win the battle. With all the fortitude and relentlessness as the dirt and grime, we will win.

Proteck ya neck

The finale of Project Runway season 3 was last night. I've been watching by osmosis of Lily's watching, but also because I've convinced myself (and others) that the editing is by far the best you'll see on any reality-based TV show. Well that and because Heidi Klum has managed to stay by far the most babe-a-licious of any supermodel in her peer group. By contrast, Tyra banks has managed to show that she's a super ugly hateful bitch on the inside.

Why the judges chose Jeffrey as the winner over Uli was pretty clear: Jeffrey's collection at Bryant Park was far more innovative than Uli's. But the judges should have taken one look at him and tossed him out based on the cardinal sin of fashion: When trying to downplay large physical attributes, you DON'T PUT HORIZONTAL FEATURES ON IT!!!



Jeffrey's neck is huge. So much so that you'd think he'd constantly be in a turtleneck to hide that monstrosity. Instead, he has a group of tattoos that amplify its width.



I thought for sure that as Uli and Jeffrey waited to the verdict, Heidi would say "Jeffrey, your designs were brilliant, but you've shown that you have no ideas on how to use fashion to hide your neck. Auf Wiedersehen."

Your kiss is on my list

According to Blogger, this is the 100th post of Lee Lee the Musical Bee. I have no idea whether it is indeed the 100th, because I'm too lazy to go and count the ones I've actually posted. Well, to commemorate and to tie in to the whole number thingy, I've decided to throw a top 10 list together. Yay! (It really makes no sense that 100 posts equals a top 10 list, but go with me on this.)

Everybody out there has an opinion about something and they just have to put a friggin' list together to show how opinionated they are. So here's my opinion and feel free to tell me I'm totally wrong. I've clicked the "allow LLMB readers to comment on this post" button.


Top 10 alt-rock/indie albums of the late 80's/early 90's:

10. Undertow - Tool
Prog rock with a pipsqueak scatological singer. I'm still miffed that I missed it when they played "Prison Sex" on the Lateralus tour.

9. Gish - Smashing Pumpkins
Back when Billy Corgan had hair. And wasn't such a whiner.

8. Rid of Me - PJ Harvey
Who knew that Steve Albini and PJ would make such beautiful music together?

7. Liar - The Jesus Lizard
Proof that the only ingredients you need for a great band are tight musicians and a lunatic frontman. And Steve Albini recording your album.

6. Frizzle Fry - Primus
Okay, maybe I'm the only one to ever put Primus on a top 10 list of anything more than bass playing lists, but you can't deny that "Too Many Puppies" takes control of your head and makes it bang.

5. Surfer Rosa - The Pixies
Duh. Like I was gonna leave this off the list.

4. Nothing's Shocking - Jane's Addiction
Classic. Go ahead, the coast is clear. It's ok to listen to it again.

3. Check Your Head - Beastie Boys
The Beastie Boys can play instruments?

2. Blood Sugar Sex Magik - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Flea can play bass without slapping it?

1. Nevermind - Nirvana
What? You were expecting Led Zeppelin 4?
Yes, Nevermind is great and it changed everything. Well, it actually made all the frat boys at UW start liking the music that I liked, so that kinda sucks really.


On that note, thanks for continuing to read Lee Lee the Musical Bee. Maybe 100 more posts, maybe 1 more.

Shameless self-promotion department:
If you don't have anything else going on already, my short film "Wakeup" will be playing at the Mill Valley Film Festival this Saturday at 6:30 pm. Be there or... well, go on doing whatever you were doing.

Stardog Champion

What the hell happened to rockstars? It used to be some elevated unachievable status by us mortals. Rockstars were people who did the unthinkable by regular worker bee standards: Partying all night. Overdosing on drugs. Engaging in wild crazy threesomes with no protection whatsoever.

Nowadays everybody and their mother is a rockstar: Partying all night. Overdosing on drugs. Engaging in wild crazy threesomes with no protection whatsoever. Except there’s one very significant piece of the puzzle missing: the ROCK.

Sorry, but you need to rock to be a rockstar. You can snort all the lines of blow off a strippers ass you want, but if you play soft music you’re not a rockstar. Rockstars smash guitars. They don’t smash keyboards. They bang their heads or at least nod them on stage in a heroin induced motion. They utter vulgarities at the crowd and sometimes spit on the crowd. Rockstars don’t care.

I found an article that called Ann Coulter the "rock star of the annual Conservative Political Action Conference". Now if that's not a contradiction then.... Coulter might be the most blindly ignorant tool for conservative men who don't really give a shit about women's rights, but rock she doesn't. I'll believe she's a rockstar when she's overdosing on partying all night in a wild crazy threesome with no protection whatsoever. With a smashed guitar in her hand.

Very superstitious

We're superstitious. Maybe not VERY superstitious, but still. We knock on wood or touch wood after talking about something bad happening. Or something good happening too. Lily made me a bracelet with wood beads, which she reaches over and taps from time to time for no apparent reason. Now if I forget to wear my bracelet I get the feeling that I'm gonna die that day. Great. Thanks for the cool wood bracelet, Lily.

Our last apartment was #7. Good number. Lucky number 7. Now we live in apartment #4, and we don't feel very good about that. Number 4 means "death" in some eastern languages. That's why there was never a D4 tape machine. Went from D1 to D2 to D3 to D5. No D4. No Sony exec is gonna make the tape machine of death.

The Seahawks are 6 & 2 since Judah was born. They're 3 & 0 this season. Which happens to correspond to Judah wearing his Seahawks onesie on game day (and Seahawks bib when he's eating). Undefeated this season thanks to Judah, not counting preseason. Unfortunately, now that I've mentioned it, they'll probably lose. Damn superstition.

I might like you better if we slept together

Well it's the end of the line for my career as a freelance editor. No, I'm not changing careers. I've taken a staff gig! (This is not news to at least 7 of the 10 people who read this blog. Sorry.) No more invoicing or going to the post office to send my reel. No more 1st and 2nd holds and releases and bookings. No more "challenging". Not directly for me anyway.

In the past 6 years I've learned a thing or two about how to manage a freelance life. Guidelines, not tricks of the trade:

- Never take a hold without getting something in writing. E-mails are your best friend here. My favorite way to get it in writing was always "Can you send me an e-mail with the dates? I don't have my calendar in front of me."

- Not that I ever did this, but a fellow freelancer told me: Never give somebody the first hold. You always have a first hold on your calendar - your own free time. The people calling get a 2nd hold until you decide what you want to do. You're a freelancer after all. Free as a bird. Sometimes that bird is a dirty pigeon eating scraps out of a garbage can, but you're free to do what you want until somebody decides to hire your sorry ass.

- NEVER NEVER NEVER EVER take a gig from a startup without getting some money before you start. I got burned. You will too. If they're serious, they'll give you some money to get going. If not, let the next chump get burned. Unless you like working for free. Which leads me to...

- Everybody has a great film that will definitely get bought and of course a killer distribution deal, and they have no money but they need some of your time to make it happen. Read the script. If you like it, then by all means work on it! Unless you're a kid out of school and need some work for your reel, you might be wasting your time. But if you're building relationships, that's different and you should work with them because you wanna work with them.

- I didn't have the balls to do it, but you're free to ask what the budget is for the position they're calling you for. People always ask what your rate is, and then they freak when you tell them what you want to get paid. Why not cut to the chase and find out how much money they have to offer and then you can decide to take the gig or not?

- Make friends with people in your field. I got so many random recommendations from people I worked with for short periods of time. And don't buy into the competition bullshit. Editors recommended me for edit gigs more often than anybody else in the field.

- Don't freak out over time between gigs. Something will come up and you'll find yourself missing all that free time you wish you'd done something with.

- And lastly, never say never.

It's your business so do what you want with it. If you wanna build a steady stream of clientele, then treat it that way. If you wanna work as little as possible, then go ahead and do that. But don't ever think that somebody will always hire you, because there's plenty of kids coming out of school every year to fill your shoes who are faster and more hungry.
Oh yeah, and don't listen to anybody who gives you advice through a blog. Doy. Like I needed to tell you that.

The New Style

We recently went to a restaurant called Meditrina Cafe, and their menu had "Famous Hamburgers" on it. This place isn't famous for anything, certainly not a burger. After eating there (and having a salad) I don't think they'll be famous for anything but being the fastest place to close its doors on Abbot-Kinney.

Every stooge on the planet has a "famous" hamburger. Especially in Los Angeles. It's the official food of Angelinos. You can't throw a rock around here without hitting a burger joint. (I just threw a rock and hit a Hummer, but a dude was eating a burger in it, so that sorta counts.)
So where do all these places get the cred to call their burgers "famous"?

If your burger is famous, wouldn't there be a line out the door? Pink's Hot Dogs is the only famous hot dog I know of and there's one hell of a line there at all hours of the day and night. That probably qualifies as famous. Because only a famous hot dog would make you stand in a line like that for a hot dog.

Tommy's Burgers are supposed to be famous, but has anybody heard of them outside SoCal? Maybe they're famous for having chili on them, but it's not like the burger is that good. Probably the best tasting, least cowschwitz-y burger in San Francisco is at the Metro Caffe on Fillmore and Haight. But they don't call their burgers famous. I guess "Famous" doesn't necessarily mean good. But nobody wants to eat a Notorious Burger.

White Castle is mentioned in a Beastie Boys song, as is Fatburger . That probably qualifies as being famous, but neither of them use that word in their slogans.

In-n-Out Burger is probably the most famous burger of all, but they don't call their burgers famous either. I knew a vegetarian who was broken of her vegetarianism by In-n-Out Burger. That's worthy of fame.

Every time I drive by a sign that says "Famous Hamburgers" I think to myself "I gotta stop in one of these days to give it a try". Like I'm the decider of whether a burger is deserving of the word Famous or not. Now I'm wondering: Why the fuck would you need a sign to advertise your burger if your burger was famous? IT'S FAMOUS!!! IT DOESN'T NEED ADVERTISING.

Like a Prayer

Lord,

Thank you for the wonderful day.
Please bless all the nice people you've put into my life to help me along the way.

Please make that horrible parking ticket lady get nightmares every night of somebody going road rage on her until she decides to start a new career.

Please give Stephanie and AJ at the Apple Store on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica the worst customer service imaginable from their cell phone companies. And any other terrible customer service that you can think of so they might reconsider the meaning of customer service. And please give Nick at Apple Phone Support a personality so he might stop responding with no human emotion whatsoever. Bless John at Apple Phone Support though.

Please make every idiotic Harley and crotch-rocket rider who unnecessarily revs their engine go deaf so they might not hear that bus that hits them and doesn't necessarily kill them, but prevents them from riding motorcycles and revving engines anymore.

Please let every person who drives while talking on their phone realize the error of their ways and stop doing that shit.

Bless Lily and Judah and our families and friends. And make sure Judah stays a good person.

And please let the Seahawks win the superbowl this year.

Amen. G'night.

Smoke Two Joints

My family and I (that sounds like an odd way to say "Lily, Judah, and me") were strolling down the Venice boardwalk the other day and we stopped to get some fries. Not the regular stick-fries. Not those wedge fries. But fries that were discs, like the potatoes were sliced then fried. Damn good.

While we were waiting in line for the fries, the drone of a man speaking loudly boomed behind us.
"Smoke marijuana. It will bring you health and vitaility."
The man's cadence was like a preacher's. Preachin' to the choir out on Venice beach apparently. Between every verse, the man played a few notes on a cheap plastic flute.
"Smoke marijuana. Through bong, pipe or blunt."
A few more flute notes.
"I know I'm not the only chronic smoker out here..."
He stood on a green milk crate while addressing the passers by. None of them seemed to pay attention, but some guys in line next to me were riveted by what the preacher said. As if they'd never heard of this magical marijuana before. The milk crate preacher continued:
"Before I smoked marijuana, I was sick. Now I smoke marijuana daily and I feel better than I have in my entire life."
A few more flute notes.

My fries finally arrived in the pick-up window, and I doused a little corner of the plate with ketchup.
"Smoke marijuana."
I wondered what this guy was hoping to gain by wasting his breath preaching instead of taking major bong loads. Shut up and smoke marijuana, dude!

Can you hear me now? Good.

Hopefully this is the final installment of "LA move bitch-fest 2006". I thought I'd share with you the love that I've received from just about every service vendor in Los Angeles since I've arrived here. If it weren't for the LADWP (utilities), the City of Angles would be 0-fer my move. So hopefully (please hopefully) I won't be writing any more rants about this fucked up situation.

Verizon phone service working when we get here? Nope. Check.
Time Warner Cable working when the technician hooks it up? Nope. Check.
Verizon DSL working when they say it will? Nope. Check.

Well, the latest on the move from hell is that Verizon DSL promised I'd be up and running on August 17th, a speedy 7 days after I ordered. They ship you your DSL modem via UPS, so Brown can do something for you. Well the Verizon phone rep forgot to put my apartment number down, so Brown just turned around and took my modem back down to lovely Gardena california. A little hop, skip and jump down the 405 on a Friday. Yippee. At least the supervisor on the phone was nice enough to give me a month free DSL for my trouble.

I go pick up the modem from UPS, come home and open the box like a 5-year-old on Xmas morning. Since there are no paper instructions and only an installation CD, I pop the CD in. I'm being talked to like a 5-year-old by the voices on the CD about how to install a splitter into my phone jack, then the CD doesn't allow me to progress to the next item: How to install DSL filters. Nice. I know how to do this. I know I can. I've worked with technical stuff once or twice before. Piece of cake.

The phone splitter goes into the outlet. The DSL filter goes on one side, the other side gets plugged into the DSL modem. The ethernet cable gets plugged from the modem into the compter and VOILA! Nada. Well not exactly. There was a flashing light next to the part that said DSL. Probably not a good sign.

Onto call #2 with Verizon DSL, and the tech support guy starts talking to me like a 5-year-old. I cut to the chase and tell him I installed the wiring like I did on my last DSL modem, but the DSL light is flashing and my web browser is telling me I'm not connected to the internet. Long story even longer, I finally get to talk to the supervisor and he tells me that my DSL isn't hooked up yet. Brilliant. Now how the hell did he figure that out? Oh yeah, I called and told him that. Thank god for stellar customer service.

When we finally get our DSL working 3 days later, it seems slow. So slow that I decide to run CNET's speed test on it. Not the 3 MB / sec I ordered, not even 1.5 MB they offer: A snail-like 613 K at best. I should have known better than to order Verizon DSL after LLMB reader #2 told me he tried 'em and got slow speed DSL too. I'd try to get cable internet, but ah shit... I won't go back there again.

Now I'm switching to Earthlink. FUCK VERIZON. Can you hear me now? Good.

Rage Against the Machine

Update on the cable situation from last week:

The supervisor comes out on Friday and looks at the box outside and tells me we CAN get cable, but it's a weak signal so we can't get cable internet. I say I don't want cable internet now anyway. He says somebody will come out Saturday to install.

On Saturday two guys come in and plug the set-top boxes in and it sorta works, but channel 2 (CBS) doesn't work. The guy then tells me it's not working and they're gonna have to drill a hole through the wall in Judah's room and run a line of cable throughout the inside of the apartment (real pretty) so we can get a strong signal. I tell him we don't need channel 2 and we'll think about having the pretty inside wiring done later. He leaves, Lily and I are checking out the channels, and then he calls back about 10 minutes later saying he's gotta come back and take the box because his supervisor said he couldn't leave a cable box unless it's fully functioning. I tell him no and that I'm calling his supervisor. The supervisor tells me a bunch of crap about how it's a routing thing and they can't leave an install like that. I tell him we won't make a complaint and I ask him to let us keep it. Lily gets on the phone and sweet talks him into letting us have the cable as-is, and now we get channel 2 and everything works fine with the same wiring we had in the first place. Fucking A.

Okay, enough with the bitching about the cable, phone and internet companies. At least until next week anyway.

Shortly after we moved in, our apartment manager informed us that there's no recycling for the building. So we set out to get some recycling for the building. We called the number on the side of the neighbors' recycling bins. The people on the phone told us they were gonna find out how much it costs and call us back. We still haven't received a call.

After having unpacked about 2/3 of our boxes, we found ourselves swimming in a sea of crumpled newspaper (for the dishes), scraps of cardboard (from the flimsy boxes we used for clothing), and broken down boxes. This pile of paper products was taking over our apartment and wasn't allowing us any room to unpack more.

So we called the number on the side of our garbage dumpster, and they said it would cost 30 bucks a month to get recycling. Until we get on the phone and ask our landlord to foot the bill to save a tree or three, we decided to throw our mountain of paper into our neighbors recycling bins. The apartment manager assured us that the neighbors like that sort of thing, because it's good to see people recycling. Yeah. Our neighbors across the street have a house that belongs in Architectural Digest. I'm sure they want random people throwing their crap/recycling into their bins.

After missing last Tuesday morning's recycling collection, I informed Lily that this Monday night was the night for stealth guerilla recycling mode. I grabbed 6 paper grocery bags filled with crumpled SF Weeklies and Guardians (for the dishes) and headed down the steps onto Grand Boulevard. Luckily at that time of night, there isn't much traffic so I had no problem walking across the street and finding some space to cram the bags in.

I came back home to get another load of bags. Then another load of cardboard. I put our stuff in about 8 different bins that all had just enough space to include our recycling. I couldn't help but feel like I was doing something wrong by using the neighbors recycling bins, but Lily convinced me that we're trying to do the right thing. That kept me going for the last big haul: A clear plastic bag about the size of Santa's Xmas gift bag, but full of crumpled newspaper instead of toys. Ho ho ho.

On the way back from my fourth trip, I found a large blue bin that was nearly empty. I slung the huge plastic bag full of crumpled newspaper over my shoulder and headed for the empty bin. I walked down the sidewalk feeling pretty good about being done with this stealth guerilla recycling mission until I saw a Volvo station wagon heading down the street pull a u-turn and come back toward me. The criminal feeling came back and I propped the bag against a nearby bush. I walked away from it and stood on the curb, tapping my foot like I was waiting for somebody.

A woman got out of the car with her dog. They were right across the street from the empty bin. I acted like I knew nothing about the bag and waited. The dog sniffed around the sidewalk and grass, then peed. I was ready to bust them if the dog pooped. But they jogged across the street and out of sight into the darkness. I quickly made my way to the blue bin and crammed the papers in. Man, if it's gonna take that kind of covert action every week to recycle, I'm gonna pay the 30 bucks myself.

The Power of You

Well it's day 10 of no internet or cable TV in my new SoCal home. I can just hear it now: "Cry me a fuckin river, Lee" or "Holy shit! How have you survived, Lee?" Let me tell you, if it weren't for Project Runway (Lily) and SportsCenter (me), I think we could do without the TV part for a while longer. But when football season starts, I'm gonna be climbing on the roof installing a satellite dish.

In our last apartment, I plugged the cable into the TV and it worked. Free cable for four years. In fact, the cable worked just by plugging it in (for a short while anyway) in 3 out of the last 5 places I lived. I highly recommend trying it out before calling your local cable company, so's to avoid any experiences like the one had by yours truly.

The Time Warner cable guy came over on Tuesday, arriving an astonishing 1 hour into the 1/2 day window they gave me over the phone. I pointed him at the outlet nearest to the TV and started him moving forward on getting the hell out of my apartment. After about 15 minutes, he asked for another outlet, and being that there are 4 outlets in my little living room, I pointed him at the next one. He drilled and poked and prodded, went outside and did something at the box outside, came back in and poked and prodded at the outlet some more.

He came back in and asked for another outlet. I asked "What seems to be the problem?" The cable guy said "I'm not getting enough signal. There's nothing strong enough to give you both cable and internet, so I'm looking for the main outlet." I showed him the outlet in our room. He drilled and poked and prodded some more. It was at this point that I began to wonder if he knew what the hell he was doing.

10 minutes later he asked if there was an outlet in Judah's room. Judah was taking a much needed nap in there. I reluctantly said yes and we went in. In accordance with Murphy's Law, the outlet was behind a dresser. We move the dresser and Judah wakes up and starts crying. The cable guy drills and pokes and prods at the outlet. Nothing but a "weak signal".

He asked me if there was a splitter box or a panel inside the apartment. "Like this one?" I ask as I point to the electric switchbox. He told me yeah but not really. Judah was still crying and I was really getting tired of his making me do more work than he was doing, so I said I don't know where the box was, nor did we have any more outlets for him to play around with. I stood there like a dipshit and he soon realized he had to do more than just stick a cable into an outlet and check for a signal. He went outside to call his supervisor, and I could hear every word of his ineptitude.

A few more minutes later he comes into my living room with his gear slung over his shoulder and he tells me I have to get the cable company to come back another time. Right. I tell him he needs to hook up my cable and not just give me an hour of his time and then bail. That seemed to get his attention because his line of bullshit turned to the questioning line of bullshit: "What you want me to do?" "You think I'm not doing my job?" "How am I supposed to hook your cable up if I can't find a strong signal?" Um, I've slung a few cables in my day and I think it's pretty basic: If you can't find the signal - you trace the goddman line back to its source. He told me that was impossible and left.

I called his supervisor and basically got the same line of bullshit. I'll spare you the details.
Now I'm in the market for a satellite dish. If you can't beat 'em, ...go climb on the roof.

Break on through (to the other side)

I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. Well, yes I know what the hell I was thinking: Get out of your comfort zone. Try something new. Something different. Well I went and did it, and well... it's different. Like heaven and hell are different. Like Felix and Oscar are different. Like the Giants and the Dodgers are different. Okay, the Giants and Dodgers aren't really that different (they're paid baseball players in different uniforms), but it leads me to the differences between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Naw, fuck that. This has nothing to do with either city. I just wanna bitch about the process of moving.

Why the fuck is it that the new phone company can't just turn your phone on without a hitch? Why the fuck is it that they guarantee that the repair man will come between the hours of 8 am and 7 pm. I'd love to have those kinds of starting times for work. "Hey Lee, we've got clients in tomorrow morning to start the edit." "Oh cool, I'm looking forward to it. Tell them I'll be there no later than 7 pm." Only the telephone company can get away with that shit. And so can the cable company. And the internet company. I need to get into that line of work instead of taking a week to watch and pick good takes of Coca-cola pouring into a glass. Which by the way has increased my intake of said cola about 100 fold. Damn subliminal advertising.

Why the fuck is it that there isn't a refrigerator included with my new apartment? Why the fuck does that seem like standard operating bullshit in this town? Like you look forever on Westside Rentals for an apartment, and "refrigerator" is an option. Like "parking" is an option. Cept when you don't get an included parking spot, you find one on the street. When you don't get an included refrigerator, you don't just go to Best Buy and drop it in your shopping basket and put it in your trunk and carry it up the stairs and into your apartment and plug it in. You deal with delivery schedules and prices of places you don't want to deal with and wait while the food in your cooler rots in the heat, and you wonder why in the hell somebody would want to carry around a fridge when they move from apartment to apartment.

Why the fuck is it that when the moving company says they'll be there between Tuesday and Thursday, they get there on Thursday? Why the fuck can't they just say "Your shit will be there on Thursday Mr. Musical Bee." Don't make me put everything else on hold for three days so you can call me and tell me my shit's gonna be there on the last day that you promised me it could be there. Then definitely don't bitch to me about the amount of boxes you have to carry up a flight of stairs because you were paid to do so.

Don't get me wrong. I'm loving being in weather where I can throw on shorts and a t-shirt and not worry about it. It's the difficulty of transporting your life that I don't understand. Why the fuck is that?

Movin' out

Due to the massive amount of packing happening this week, time has slipped away and there will be not much to read (other than this) on LLMB this week. Tune in next week for another exciting episode. Thanks for reading!

867-5309

Because of our impending move to the Southern part of California, we were forced to get a new phone number. Not that our current phone number is so great. But you always want a memorable phone number. Maybe one that spells something. My phone number two apartments ago was okay. It spelled VAN-VISA. You don't get a lot of choices for numbers when you get new phone service, and VAN-VISA was the best they offered.

Apparently VAN-VISA wasn't that memorable because some of my friends would tell me "Oh dude, I was gonna call you last night because we were at the most awesome party ever! But I thought your number spelled VIS-VISA or something. I couldn't remember what the first part was." Yeah, VAN and VISA don't really connect in the mind too well.

Having a phone number that has a 1 or a 0 in it kind of hinders spelling anything good because there aren't any letters associated with those numbers. Unless you put the 1 or 0 at the end, like if I had a number that spelled LEE-BEE1 or LEE-BEE0. That would be somewhat memorable.

Mr. Steve Magg told me he worked with a guy whose number spelled the most awesome thing ever: CASHBAG. Nobody forgets when your number spells CASHBAG. My new phone number only contains the word SUCK. Great. Go to phonespell.org to find out if your number SUCKs too.

I Can't Drive 55

We've been living out of our car lately. On top of driving up to Washington and down to Los Angeles, we attended a wedding in Kirkwood (South Lake Tahoe) last weekend. To get to Kirkwood, you drive 80 to 580 to 205 to I5 to 4 to 99 to 88. The bulk of the driving is on 88, where you get to tailgate campers, tour buses, or folks who are generally scared shitless of driving on mountain roads and who are going to go under the speed limit and drive using the "Fuck You" driving rules.

The "Fuck You" driving rules are as follows:

1. Assume a "Fuck You" attitude
2. Drive at or under the speed limit
3. Stay in the passing lane (aka the fast lane) if there is one available
4. If you drive a camper or tour bus, do not use the Turnout lanes to let faster traffic pass
5. Do not under any circumstances change lanes
6. Most importantly, if any vehicle attempts to pass on the right, speed up and do not allow it

Now the "Fuck You" driving rules aren't just for mountain roads. They can be applied on any highway where there are two or more lanes, thus creating an opportunity for the left most lane (in the US anyway) to be used as a passing lane. The most frequent uses of the "Fuck You" driving rules can be found on any stretch of I5 in the state of California.

Sometimes a "Fuck You" driver isn't necessarily attempting to be a "Fuck You" driver. This "Fuck You" driver is usually on their cell phone, chatting away and not paying attention to the other drivers on the road. These drivers assume that staying in the left/passing lane is the safest place for them, as it requires no lane changes and forces the other drivers to pass on the right, enabling them to efficiently use their driving time for talk time as well. But make no mistake, the phone driver is a "Fuck You" driver to the core.

"Fuck You" drivers can also be found on any freeway in Southern California. This type of driver can sometimes be found carrying a gun, so any glancing at a car or its occupants whilst passing on the right is unadvisable.

I'm going to be driving between San Francisco and Los Angeles so much in the next few weeks that it's gonna seem like my goddamn commute. Good thing we're moving to a place where you don't have to use your car very often. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Fuck.

Car trouble, oh yeah

We have 2 cars. One is a newer Passat Wagon. For the kid, ya know. We also have the car that Lily had before we met: a 1990 Honda Civic hatchback. We call it 'Lil Brown. It's worth about 500 bucks, but that wasn't enough money for us to use it as a trade-in for the new car. Much better to have a spare car lying around if you need it. And if you have a bunch of spare cash for repairs lying around that you don't need either.

'Lil Brown has become nothing more than a parking space taker in our neighborhood and a weekly taker of my time when I have to move it for street cleaning every Thursday morning. I have fun making it into a game where I try to park in the same spot in front of our house so we don't have huge trucks and SUVs in that spot preventing the cars speeding down Sanchez Street from seeing us backing out of our driveway.

When we went to the Northwest the other week, I parked 'Lil Brown in the garage, since we drove the Passat up. Upon returning, I saw a spot for 'Lil Brown on the street and put the Passat back in the garage. The next Thursday when I got in to drive 'Lil Brown back in the spot in front of the house after street cleaning, I put the key in the ignition, turned it and CLICK. Click. Turn, click. Oy.

Dead battery. I immediately looked at the headlight switch. On. I wondered if one of the homeless people who regularly breaks into 'Lil Brown turned the switch to spite me. Or if it was one of the neighbors who's tired of me parking in the same spot in front of my house all the time. Lily thinks it was me who left the lights on when I backed out of the garage and forgot the lights were on because it was broad daylight outside. I think it was Gremlins.

So I grab the Passat, and jump start 'Lil Brown and drive her into the regular spot in front of our house. I have a week to get a new battery, but do I? Hell no. I decide that next time I'm gonna push start 'Lil Brown to move it.

I once had 'Lil Brown down in Los Angeles at my old roommate Luke's place in Hollywood and when I was heading out for home the battery was dead. Luckily he lives on a hill, so I just coasted into a pop start and drove until I almost ran out of gas somewhere in the middle of nowhere on I5. I had just enough gas to drive to a station and fuel up, then I push started 'Lil Brown out of there, called LLMB reader #5 and he was gracious enough to drive to meet me at my mechanic's garage near Potrero Hill and pick me up.

Back to present day battery dead story: I'm trying to rock 'Lil Brown out of the little pothole she's in, and I look down the street to see that the garbage collection is happening on the other end of the block. Perfect, I have just enough time to get 'er going and move. I finally get enough momentum to get 'Lil Brown out of the pothole and turn the wheel so we're heading away from the garbage truck. I hop in and shut the door and attempt the pop start. Nuthin. I get out and push again and hop in again and try the pop start again. Nuthin. At this point I'm at the stop sign on 14th & Sanchez.

I look up and notice a black and white police SUV pull up at the intersection on my right. He stares me down as he drives by. Thanks for the help. I look in my rearview and see a green Subaru wagon behind me, so I motion for him to go around. The driver pokes his head out the window and yells "want a push?" I nod yes and reach for the passenger door and unlock it, thinking he's gonna hand push it with me. Then I notice in the rearview that his car is pulling up so close to 'Lil Brown that I realize he's gonna push it with his car. I close my door and we go left through the intersection and he gives me enough momentum that I coast into the right lane and I give him the thumbs up as he passes me on the left. This time I wait long enough to get serious speed going before I try to do the pop start. Nuthin. I try again. Nuthin. I look ahead and realize I'm about to coast into the very busy intersection of 14th, Church and Market.

Then the clouds open and a ray of light shines on an open parking spot to my right. I coast right into it. Whew. I get out of 'Lil Brown and look for the street cleaning sign. Tuesday. And Tuesday was the 4th of July, so NO STREET CLEANING!!! I am so golden. So I have two weeks to get a new battery, but will I? Hell no.

Hollywood freaks on the Hollywood scene

Last weekend was my 2nd annual birthday/bachelor party trip. For those of you who haven't heard me mention this annual spectacle before, it's basically a bachelor party which happens to coincide with my birthday. In 2005 it was Las Vegas. This year: Los Angeles. And by Los Angeles, I mean Hollywood. What a bunch of freaks.

We started by driving down I-5 at the convenient hour of 6:30 pm because the bachelor, Cory, had a tough time getting off work in time to start drinking in the car. We picked him up from the Fruitvale BART station where we had a half-rack of Heineken mini-kegs waiting. I felt like a commando in the passenger seat handing out cans like I was loading ammunition into imaginary machine guns (our non-toned bellies, really); handing a fresh silver mini-keg to the back seat when they would hand me an empty shell.

It's never a good idea to drink in the car on a road trip unless you don't mind stopping every few yards to piss. Especially with 3 guys whose bladders aren't in sync. LLMB Reader #6 was driving, not drinking, so he didn't have the bladder issues the rest of us were having. But he was kind enough to oblige us our piss stops. That is until we reached Los Angeles. His patience having worn thin, he started pushing the bathroom stops to the exit AFTER we'd said we gotta go NOW.

Okay, enough with the pissing stories. For the actual bachelor party, we stayed at The Standard in West Hollywood. Hipster central. When we pulled up to valet park the car, the guy who took the keys looked like straight out of the Sabotage (Beastie Boys) video, complete with 70's moustache, shaggy hair and cop sunglasses. I thought it was a costume, but I soon realized I'm not hip enough to understand the fashion in Hollywood.

We went out for sushi at Miyagi's which included several sake bombs, more sake and more beer. Then more beer and beer. Our local Hollywood tourguide Luke met up with us and took us to Cahuenga, where we bludgeoned Cory with shots of Tequila, Jack Daniels ,and Jaegermeister (pause to vomit here). He ended up having to leave our second bar and wound up puking in the cab while his 22-year old brother tried to cover up the puking sounds with chit-chat about where to go for fun in LA.

LLMB Reader #9 and I got into a fight using the rubberbands that two hired hotties were handing out to promote some new phone service. I earned a pretty intense laceration on my upper arm that made me look like an S&M aficionado, while he managed a series of welts up and down his arm that he's probably having a fun time explaining to the clients he's in town to see this week.

After tucking the bachelor in his bed of pillows next to the toilet, the rest of us went to the lounge in The Standard. It was like a visit to India in there. I inadvertently told some women that it was my birthday and we got into the "how old are you/how old do you think I am" game. I wound up telling one of them I thought she was 34. She was 30. Ouch. I suck at that game.

We spent most of the next day hanging out by the pool. The real freaks started filing in at around 2 pm. A couple of guys looked like they were trying to sport Beck's hairstyle. One guy was bold enough to have a look that reminded you of Michael Jackson. Lots of kids drinking champagne. The buffed look is definitely out. You absolutely must look like a rockstar, moviestar, pornstar, or a hollywood player to hang by the pool at The Standard. If you look like you're gonna swim in the pool, you're invisible.

I won't get into the details of the rest of that evening, but I'll leave it to your imagination as to what goes on at a bachelor party.

To top off the weekend, at Sunday breakfast I had my most hugest star sighting ever: Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake snuggling over toast and eggs. How cool is that? I guess the Justin part isn't so cool. I should have shown him the moves I learned a while back from his boy band's music video while working as assistant editor with LLMB Reader #1. Well hopefully next year I won't see anybody from a boy band anywhere near my birthday. That is, if I'm lucky enough to have another friend get married next year. If you know anybody who intends on having their bachelor party the fourth weekend of June 2007, send 'em my way. Third time's the charm.

Shinin' Star

We road tripped up to The Great Northwest last week. It was all fine and dandy until my first caffeine-deprived headache of the journey. I never thought I'd say this, but: Thank God for Starbucks Coffee.

Normally I try to keep my distance from Starbucks. Not that the coffee isn't good, it's because they're a little like Wal-Mart in their blanketing the block mentality. But the problem with being nowhere near a major city is that the coffee is almost guaranteed to taste like swill. You can tell it's swill when you're:

a. In a hotel and the coffee carafe displays the sign "coffee".
b. Standing there with a styrofoam cup in your hand and considering using the non-dairy creamer packets in front of you.

So Starbucks is the old standby. You're assured of at least the same non-swill because it's a chain. But as I found in Roseburg, Oregon, even Starbucks can be bad. How? I have no friggin' idea. But they can do that at Safeway in Roseburg.

I guess I haven't spent enough time working on my specialty coffee lingo, since I always order a house drip coffee. Because when I went into the Starbucks near my sister's house in Kent, Washington, I had a brain-cramp trying to figure out what those folks were ordering.

Kent, Washington is a little like... well it's not a little like anything. In fact, there isn't anything there but strip malls and houses. And trees. As we were driving into town, we saw a Kent City Center exit sign from the freeway. Lily and I looked at each other in amazement that we'd never checked it out before, so we looked from the freeway for the downtown. We saw a huge pile of dirt. We kept scanning. Nope, just a huge pile of dirt. There's Kent, Washington for ya.

Anyway, back to the Starbucks near my sister's. As I stood in line, I overheard a man ask for a vanilla double latte, sugar free with an extra shot of decaf. Even the cashier was confused. He said it again, like he says it every day in rote memorization. I stepped up to the counter and ordered my tall drip. The barista handed the man his drink and said "I didn't really know what to call it, but I guess you do." He giggled and said "The extra shot of decaf puts some of the flavor back in." I grabbed my coffee and headed toward the sugar station, and I overheard another man tell the cashier "vanilla double latte, sugar free with an extra shot of decaf." Lily assured me it must have been some frat prank. Yeah, a fraternity of 47 year old men. Thank God for Starbucks Coffee.

Gone fishin'