Thunderstruck

Actual conversation with somebody at a party recently:

Dude: How you liking SoCal?

Lee: I like it. I didn't think it would get as chilly as it is, but it's that time of year. Who knew it wouldn't be warm and sunny here all the time?

Dude: Yeah! People say there aren't any seasons here, but there are slight variations in the weather. You know what place doesn't have seasons? San Francisco. It's always gray and cold there no matter what time of year it is.

Lee: Well, it does tend to dump buckets of rain there in the fall and winter more often than other times of the year.

Dude: Nah. It's the same all the time there. There's more variation in the weather here. It's subtle, but it's definitely cold in the winter and hot in the summer.

Lee: Yeah.

Dude: It's kind of like AC/DC. You listen to AC/DC?

Lee: A little bit. I don't know too much of their stuff after Back in Black.

Dude: Well, the weather in SoCal is just like AC/DC: People say their stuff all sounds the same, and it sorta does, but if you KNOW AC/DC, you know that The Razors Edge sounds a hell of a lot different than Back in Black.

Lee: Wow. I had no idea.

Who knew the weather in SoCal is like AC/DC? I sure do now.

Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)

What the hell are you looking here for? You should be looking for the gravy to slather all over your plate of turkey & mashed potatoes.

Thanks for reading! See you next week.

I want to ride my bicycle

I have the luxury of being able to ride my bike to work. It's 3.5 miles each way, and mostly flat with subtle inclines and declines. And luckily for me, there's a bike lane most of the way. And being that I live in lovely Southern California, where the weather is gorgeous most of the time, I don't have to worry about the elements too much. It's been fun to ride past all the people sitting in their cars in my traffic-free lane meant just for me. That is, until recently.

You'd think with the mornings getting a tad more chilly here, there'd be fewer cyclists on the road. But in fact, the opposite is true. My once-clear bike lane has become congested with other riders. Riders who like to go different speeds than I do. Riders on beach cruisers who aren't attempting to get to work in a timely manner. Riders decked out in racing gear who aren't attempting to race.



And the worst of all: riders who pass me.

The last few weeks I've finally been able to arrange my morning so that I leave my house and get on the road at the same time. Can you believe that? I can't. Anyway, 8:30 it is. Apparently it's the same time this other guy leaves his house every morning too. And he passes me every day. I thought I was fast (certain writers on this website have referred to me as "super-sonic bee" before), but apparently I've slowed in my old age. And the thing that kills me most about this guy is that he looks like Napoleon Dynamite. Huge blonde hair under his helmet, lanky, on a road bike with a huge frame, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. I can almost hear "Tina! Come get some ham!" as he rides away. The worst part about getting passed by the biking Napoleon Dynamite is that it looks so effortless as he goes by. La la la, just in probably the highest gear possible, slowly cranking, but making huge strides forward. La la la. I hate him.

But worse than that, there was a guy who even inspired a bit of road rage recently. I'm just past the first 1/5 of my ride, stopped at a light, and this joker with no helmet meanders past me and runs the red. Fine. If he wants to get run over, fine. So when the light turns green, I start pedaling and eventually catch up to him. I figure he's not going too too slow, so I coast behind for a bit, knowing that I'm gonna zip by him when we reach the next stop light. But after a couple blocks of green lights, another guy blows past both of us. I decide I've had enough, so I pass the red-light-running-guy. A couple lights later, there's a red. I stop and wait, and then I feel something bump against my back tire. I turn around and it's red-light-running-guy. I stare at him for a second, then turn around.

It's at that point, I decide to mess with this guy a little, so I ride the next leg of the trip more slowly than usual. Eventually he passes me, and at the next stop light, he's not running the red. So I do what any good SoCal citizen would do and obey the golden rule of the road: Do unto others as they've done unto you. I bump his tire. He doesn't turn around at all. He looks both ways and runs the red. I'm not gonna let this guy win the race, so I pedal my ass off until I reach him, but he starts veering into the oncoming lanes (there's no cars coming, don't worry about red-light-running-guy) like he's gonna take a left. I ride past him and raise my arms in victory. I haven't seen him since. I sure showed him. That morning, it took me about 20 minutes to catch my breath. I'm gettin too old for this shit.

Dress You Up

A couple weeks ago I wore a tie on Friday. First time wearing a tie at the new job. I wasn't wearing a suit, mind you. Tie, dress shirt, slacks. No tennies. Loafers. No jacket. By the looks and remarks I got, you'd think I was wearing a Halloween costume.
"What's the special occasion?"
"You trying to show us up?"
"Isn't that tie thing for Thursdays?"

Which brings me to the point of this weeks post: If the "tie thing" is for Thursdays, why haven't I seen anybody wearing a tie on Thursdays?!?!?!?!!! My apologies to Alan and Brady - who both wear ties on a regular basis. One co-worker saw me and said "Oh, you're starting the tie thing. Isn't that for Thursdays? I'd totally be into doing that." Whew. FINALLY!

The next Thursday rolls around (this was last Thursday), so I get ready for work and put a tie on. Lily hates it when I wear a tie to work. She thinks it's dumb. There was once a time in men's work-wear that men were EXPECTED to wear ties. Not just on Thursday, mind you. Monday through Friday, sucka. No "Casual Fridays" anywhere. Just "put on your suit and tie and look like you're going to work" days. Look like you're going to work. These days, seems the line between looking like you're going to work and looking like you're going to have a drink at the local watering hole has been cleanly erased.

Anyway, I get to work, grab coffee and the harassment continues:
"Is it still Halloween?" Yes! And what a unique costume I've come up with!
"Is it dress up day?" Yes! You know how I love to play dress up!
"Is it Thursday?" Ugh.

And my new comrade in tie-wearing forgot about the tie-wearing. Or he didn't know it was Thursday. Or something. Whatever the case, I stuck out like a sore thumb because NOBODY KNOWS THAT THURSDAY IS "TIE ONE ON THURSDAY"!

Here's the deal:
As a member of the TNSC, you get to, on Thursday, wear a tie. Then after work (or after whatever you've been doing all day in your neckwear), you go to the TNSC venue and because you're wearing a tie, Alan - who will be wearing a tie - buys you a drink. If your name is Lee and you were his assistant at one point, he might even buy you multiple drinks! So what are you waiting for? Wear a tie and get a drink bought by AC! The end.

Cheap Trick

I love Halloween. Who doesn't? I mean, at what age will you stop loving Halloween? When you're a kid you love it because you get to go out Trick or Treating and eat candy for weeks afterward. When you're an adult you love it because you get to go out and party your ass off with a costume on. And eat candy for weeks afterward! But somewhere in the transition from kid to adult, I think the message went awry.

Halloween is traditionally about scary. Not goofy, although some of the best costumes are the goofy ones. But Halloween is definitely NOT ABOUT SEXY. I don't know where the train ran off the rails with the costumes, but how the hell did "sexy" make its way into Halloween? Elvira, fine. She's the exception because she's still trying to keep her cleavage in the Halloween vein, but how did every costume you can think of become skewed toward lust?

Example:

"Hey Blanche, what are you going to be for Halloween this year?"

"I dunno, maybe a sexy nurse"

Okay, what the fuck does being a sexy nurse have to do with Halloween? Nothing. Not that we don't like seeing Blanche run around in a short skirt and high heels, but as a nurse? For Halloween?

"How about you, Hildegard?"

"I dunno, maybe Little Red Riding Hood, but Sexy"

Little Red Riding Hood wasn't enough of a costume, huh? You had to go and make it sexy. Ooh, I'm scared!

"And what are you going as, Myrna?"
"I dunno, I was thinking of going as a sexy police officer"

"And you, Doris?"
"A sexy indian, but I dunno."

"What are you going to be this Halloween, Bob?"
"Peter Pan"
"Whew! I was getting worried about all the sexy in Halloween this year, but I knew you wouldn't fall for that old... Bob?"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Which brings to light the real reason why I don't like the whole "sexy" costume idea: There aren't any "sexy" costumes for men. But I know of one. And it's just what I'm gonna be next year. SEXY EDITOR!!! Oh wait, I don't have to wait til next year to wear that costume. I already wear it every day. Aw yeah.

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.