Painted Ladies, Part Deux

The man that I currently live with played with the macro setting on his camera and got up close and personal with a member of the next wave of painted ladies in the backyard, hanging out, oddly or not, on the butterfly bush.

At first this photo appears beautiful.

Stare at it too long and it start to creep you out, especially when viewed at 100% in poster size.

Call for Submissions

The first person to guess what the hell scratched my car will win 2 free weekends in Needles, CA.








So there I was, coming out of the grocery store one morning and there was this scratch, these scratches. These gouges.





The paint has been completely scraped off in places.







I can't figure out what scraped up against my car and around the back bumper. Without actually denting my car.

Any ideas?

I Got the DMV Blues

When we last left our heroine, she had lost her driver license in New York and was rescued by her Knight in Shining Armour. Since then she has been traveling with her passport while trying to garner a new license. During Appointment #1 with the DMV last month, rather than apply for a replacement license, she could renew as it was less than 2 months before her license expiration. For $25, she was finger-printed, vision-tested and photo-snapped. She was told she could take the written test right then, or, if she wasn't ready could return at a later date and complete the application at that time. She chose the latter.

During the next few weeks, she spent her copious free time studying the online Driver Handbook, using the online tutorial, and practicing the online test exams. This week, a letter arrives in the mail from the DMV and it went a little something like this:

DMV Renewal Letter
Please make an appointment with the DMV to get finger-printed, vision-tested and photo-snapped for $25.

No mention of a written test.

So after a night's dreaming of flunking said test, she called the DMV to clarify what she could do to avoid taking it since she'd already met the requirements on the renewal letter. She was told to make an appointment and bring everything and she would not have to take the test. And do you suppose she could make an appointment right then and there? No, that was another online task.

In two weeks (Appointment #2), she will have trouble finding a parking space at the DMV (again) so she can walk in (again) and demonstrate to them something that should be fairly evident in their computer system already. Apparently they need hard-copy proof. Proof that was printed by them and given to me. I have to give this to them. With an appointment.

As our heroine is always looking at the bright side of life (especially after seeing Spamalot on Broadway), she can feel good knowing that, if nothing else, she has learned the following:

1. You cannot park in front of a driveway, even if it's yours.
2. Never use a fire station driveway to turn around.
3. Never make a U-turn in front of a fire station.

CFH (Consumer From Hell) Story of the Week

I know, I know, you're probably saying "Story of the Week?" Shouldn't it be "Story of the Weekday"?

A few weeks ago my mortgage company sent me a notice that they had no proof of my home owner's insurance coverage and to fax them this proof right away. I did the very next day. And I called to confirm that they had received it and got something like "Well, it's not in the system yet, can you call back tomorrow?", after which I promptly forgot about it.

This week I receive a "Notice of Temporary Insurance" and "Our records show that we have not received blah blah blah...". They secured temporary insurance for me and if I don't show them proof of insurance, then some full year policy will kick in at the low, low rate of only $8,222.00 per year.

So I had to get off my ass and call them and punch in account numbers and social security numbers followed by pound signs and sit on hold and get a real person and repeat all the information that I already I punched in so that I could hear the cheerful person on the other side of the line say "Oh yes, you can disregard that letter, we received it already."

So my question is, if I can disregard it, why couldn't they do the same thing by NOT bothering me with threatening letters?

I'm Sure He's a Nice Guy

On Southwest, I usually like to sit in the same row as a big person because nobody else does, which practically guarantees an empty middle seat. However, if I were king, people would be required to wear glaring signs on their head warning you of their annoying personality. I assumed this guy was going to annoy me because was talking loudly either to those of us imprisoned in his general vicinity, or to the people at large (no pun intended) boarding the plane. He would periodically announce things (more than once because no one responded the first time) like "I can't believe this many people want to go to Sacramento."

Let me tell you a little about him, although oddly, I didn't catch his name. He proceeded to bend the ear of a sucker across the aisle from him.
1. He lives in Sacramento.
2. He has spent the last week in Singapore.
3. He had a 10 hour layover in Japan.
4. He was traveling for a courier company, so he had to pack light. By the way, this is a legitimate company.
5. His parents live in Eureka.
6. He'd been traveling since 7am yesterday.
[His right hand starts to fiddle around in his right front pocket. I don't know if he was looking for a photo album to share or what, but he took far too long before giving up.]
7. This courier company was a legitimate company. You get a discounted airfare. He went to Singapore for about $400.
[By now I've plugged in my ear plugs, but they don't seem to be working. I can still hear him clear as a bell.]

This guy has a case of itchy feet and removes his shoes to scratch like crazy in various creative ways: using his hands, his feet, the hardware on the floor, whatever he could get his feet on.

My royal decree would require that his hat display: I'M SCREAMING FOR ATTENTION!

He fidgets, and moves around, and sighs heavily with groans so that somebody "Please for the love of God!" talk to him.

I made sure he saw me put in my earplugs so he didn't try speaking directly to me. I waited for the aroma of his stinky feet to hit me, but I guess the Stinky Feet gods were with me, or not with me, or whatever.

As we sped up for take off, my cheerful rotund rowmate announced "We are moving! We are moving!" Peripherally, I see him cross himself. Oh good, a religous man. I assume he's dying to talk to me as he leans way over to see out the window, and I realize it's a good thing I'm at the window and he's at the aisle rather than the opposite because he can accost several other people and continue to leave me alone.

My arch nemesis continues to fidget, he seems in anticipation of the drink order taker. As soon as she arrives, he says "I'm allergic to alcohol, it makes me break out in handcuffs." I think he said handcuffs, but would that have been funny if someone else said it? Anyway, I didn't see the reaction of the flight attendant or the 30 or so passengers around us that surely heard it, but I heard nothing and he did that jokey "oh" realization response that lame bumper-sticker jokesters make and said "I'll have a cranberry juice."

The peanuts come and he makes some comment about our in-flight meal and then proclaims "Boy, I'm just full of it today..." Again no response from the prisoners. Followed by "I'm full of something." A louder silent assent, I've never heard.

When will my comrades start throwing tomatoes or bring out the hook? Christ, Wilbur, or whatever your name is, get off the stage!

As we descend into Sacramento, he cranes his neck from the nose-bleed section of the row and says to the window by my right ear "Looks like Mather, though I can't be sure.......yeah, that is Mather."

As he fidgeted through another deep and heavy sigh, I tried to envision what kind of fellow wacko would be picking him up from the airport.

As he crossed himself, it was easier to imagine him walking over to long-term parking and driving himself home.

Dear Anonymous

? ? ? ? ? ?

If you really wish to remain anonymous, fine. But sometimes I'm curious as to who some of you are and maybe you don't intend to hide from me. I could make you register so you'd have to leave a name, but I don't want to enforce a breach of privacy to those who wish to keep it that way. So if it's all the same to you, please sign your name. Or something remotely identifiable. Like if you just sign "Mole Scraper", then I'll know who it is even if no one else does.

Thanks,
Yours Truly

Thank God It's Monday...

'cause I'm on vacation, Jack! Today was our last day in the Big Apple, so the first thing we did was pound some carbs in the form of the "Best Pancakes" at Clinton St. Bakery in the Lower East Village.

We met Erin's friend Tim at the Ed Sullivan Theatre, where we donned vistor's badges and he sat us down in the theatre while he disappeared back into the control room while we watched Sting (that's right, Sting) rehearse for that night's taping. No sign of Dave, but other crew members came by to say hello (including Biff) and told us that Sting won a lot of money at the Kentucky Derby by betting on the long shot winner because his record producer owns the horse and named it after Sting's son.

In my search for a real-life copy of the latest McSweeney's litmag, I found the Gotham Book Mart somewhere off 5th Ave. and this is the kind of thing I came here for. New York is supposed to be THE literary city of this country and I've been dicking off in art museums and hotel teas. I loved that you could go into this independent bookstore and BROWSE the litmag section. I've never seen so many litmags all in one place. I grabbed my McSweeney's and a couple of others and moved on to the Coloseum Book Store by the big New York Public Library...same thing. Wow!

But where was the Library Hotel? I didn't have an address so I couldn't look for it, but it's around there somewhere with books in all the rooms and lobbies. It would be cool to stay there next time. Like maybe when I'm meeting with editors and agents for my best-selling novel.

Later, I ment Eva and Erin at the Spotted Pig in the West Village for Roquefort cheesburgers and the skinniest shoestring french fries I've ever seen. Yum! Eva then led us down the street to Magnolia for the "Best Cupcakes in the World" that would turn us away from ever eating another cupcake anywhere else. Normally at 10pm, there is a line out the door for these things, but I guess we were lucky. A crowd of people outside enjoying their cupcakes, but no line. So we each grabbed a fresh cupcake (vanilla on vanilla). It tasted like pure sugar. Too much sugar makes me sick. Too much sugar makes Erin high. I only wanted a couple of bites but Eva wanted us to just LOVE them, so I chewed on and then just wanted to barf afterwards. If only I could.

So there were Erin and I, on the subway, me wanting to throw up and Erin wanting to climb the walls heading back to our hotel for our last night of sleep in NYC.

Mother's Day in NYC

We were thinking that maybe there would be certain places to go on Mother's Day because everybody else would be at their mother's house. We agonized over it and eventually gave up and just did whatever the hell we wanted in spite of what short lines we could be taking advantage of elsewhere.

A friend couldn't recommend Two Boots Pizza enough "You HAVE to go to Two Boots Pizza", "Are you going to go to Two Boots Pizza?", "Make sure you go to Two Boots Pizza! It's the best, Jerry, the best!". So guess where we went to lunch.

I was intially disappointed by my first choice: some yucky specialty pizza on a Sicialian crust, which seemed more like the fake low-carb pizzas the frozen food section try to pawn off on you. After a couple of bites, I was grumbling about my choice and overheard a little kid walk in and just order "A slice". Just a piece of plain cheese pizza.

Erin told me to bail on my failed first attempt at pizza greatness and get another piece: "A slice". So I did. It was fabulous.

Afterward we went to Rocco's bakery for the "best cannoli" in the city (or the world, I forget which). Well, I have to say it was the best cannoli I ever had, but then I've never had cannoli before. Nevertheless, it was very good. Erin said it was the best she ever had and I think she's had it at least once before.

Then we walked through Greenwich Village and Soho to Canal St for a look at some fake handbags. I made the obligatory Mother's Day call on my cell while Erin wheeled and dealed on a multi-colored leather-looking number. Here is the almost exact word-for-word exchange that took place between the purse lady and Erin demonstrating that you have to get up PRET-TEE early in the morning to pull one over on her.
Erin: How much is this?
Canal St. Purse Lady: Fifteen dollah.
Erin: (Pauses, then...) OK.
Me: (shaking my head, wishing I could posess such bargaining skills)

Anyway, we then cruised up to Rockefeller Center to the Arts Festival where I found a handbag and Erin might have actually gotten a far better value for hers now that I think about it. Since Erin is the 2nd banana at the Sausalito Arts Festival (the biggest in the country) she wielded more power than she anticipated while scoping out potential vendors.

And since you can't embark on enough afternoon teas while in a big city, we waltzed over to the Astor Court in the St. Regis Hotel where it's All The Blood Sugar You Can Raise with scones, sandwiches, desserts, and seconds on everything whether you want it or not. This was accompanied by the All You Can Get Wired On tea while surrounded by other displays of excess in the form of extravagantly decorated rooms in a lush hotel on 5th Ave. in New York City.

I could have overdone it because I'm currently reading up on how to detox your body which includes eliminating everything I put in my body today: pizza, soda, pastries, sandwiches, desserts, caffeinated tea and coffee.

Returning to our own hotel, we visited the 15th floor Sky Terrace to check out the "city view". You certainly have a view of the city, but you'd never know what city you were in, as there were no world famous landmarks from this vantage point. We're right next to Central Park but we couldn't see it. We were on the wrong side of the hotel.

I watched my first episode of Law and Order (only because Erin's actor friend Jeff whom we hung out with earlier this week was going to be on it.) What a lame show.

Lame TV Show Review: Law and Order This is a lame TV show. Too much telling between two smug Know-It-All detectives and not enough showing to allow the audience to figure out what the hell is going on.

P.S. I meant to include some pics with these entries, but I'm having trouble FTP-ing right now.

Lame Broadway Review: Spamalot

You must see this show. Run, don't walk to your nearest internet-connected computer (and how many aren't these days?) and immediately buy tickets. You must schedule your next trip to New York around the availability of tickets to this show.

OR.... you could do what I did and go stand in the cancellation line at the Shubert Theatre in New York at least 1 hour before showtime and be seduced by a scalper eliminating your waiting in line altogether BUT!... a word of warning. Do not get a "Partial View" ticket. Full view tickets are imperative. The guy told me "extreme orchestra" and I just figured I'd have to crane my neck all night, but I just couldn't see the left third of the stage at all and it killed me when everybody laughed or clapped and I was crawling into Erin's lap saying "What?! What?! I can't see! What is everybody laughing at?!?!? AUGHGHGH!!!!"

I got lucky and the usher let me stand on the side against the wall back far enough until I could see the whole stage "But if the manager comes by you'll have to go back to your seat!" and let me tell you, this show is fabulous! I laughed. I cried. Okay, I didn't cry. It was too funny to cry! The songs, the costumes, the set! Very creative! Tim Curry! (who was shorter than I expected, maybe it was the heels in Rocky Horror, I don't know) Hank Azaria, David Hyde Pierce. The leading lady (Sarah Ramirez) was awesome!

All this after spying Hugh Jackman at the Borders in Columbus Circle earlier in the day.

A Broadway show, a celebrity sighting and I didn't even mention the afternoon tea in Union Square or the ultra-artsy Ashes & Snow exhibit on Chelsea Piers...how New York is that?

Entitlement Has Its Privileges, Or Does It?

Man, there's nothing like traveling in Business Class to over-inflate your sense of entitlement. And it's not just me.

At first I was pleasantly surprised to be redirected to the shorter line at the airport to get through security this morning. But when I discovered that the mile-long "peasant" line and the shorter exclusive line ultimately converged into the same line, I scoffed. How dare they mix us all together. They should give us our own line and they should just wave most of us through. I mean, how many explosive-wielding terrorists travel Business Class? Al Qaeda has a budget too, you know. They can't be pissing hard-laundered money away on frivolous travel conveniences if it can buy another gross of shoe bombs.

And you'd think as a Business Class passenger, you could relax during the boarding process, since we don't have to crowd in via cattle boarding. Everyone has an assigned seat and First and Business get to board first. So why are all the upper classes crowding the front, ancy to get on board? What are they rushing for?

Overhead bin space, that's what. If you don't push and shove your way on, you lose primo parking for your luggage, because the sign of royalty is having a clear space underneath the seat in front of you (even though you can't kick it with your outstretched legs if you try).

And when the eager beavers get on the plane and someone is taking too long to load all their shit in the overhead bin, the people behind them start clicking their tongues, rolling their eyes and shifting their weight as if to say, "Excuse me, but I'm in Business Class here and I need to get to my seat before the overhead bin gets filled up and besides, I didn't pay for Business Class just to stand here and wait for you, old lady!"

The truth is, they probably didn't pay for Business class period. These entitled pigs expect the privilege of First Class while behaving like cargo. Coach is what they really are and they probably upgraded like all the rest of us.

A word of advice with the upgrading: unless you have a bazillion frequent flyer miles to burn, think twice before upgrading. Only do it for long flights on big planes. The service, food, and comfort are significantly better on the bigger planes.

My First "Professional" Published Story

You may have read in an earlier post that T-Zero Magazine decided to accept a short story of mine and is paying me a big fat fifteen dollars. It now appears in their May edition. If you want to read it, go to the T-Zero website and then click on the story entitled "One Man's Trash".

Well We're Movin' On Up...

...to the Southside! Those of you in the market to buy a house should wait, because as soon as escrow closes on ours, housing prices will plummet. (Click here for a larger picture.)

As someone who can't make a decision from a restaurant menu and as someone who doesn't love shopping, it has become a personal challenge for me to learn to embrace, rather then dread, the thought of sitting down at the Design Center and in one single appointment select the perfect coordination of flooring, countertops, appliances, fixtures, shower walls, etc.

In the weeks and months ahead, I can just about promise many, many forthcoming Consumer From Hell stories. A brand new house? Can't you just imagine the potential?

WOTD: perambulate

perambulate v. (per-AM-byu-late)
1. To walk about; roam or stroll.

As in: Obliged to impersonate a marine biologist (rather than his preferred fake job of an architect), George's anxiety was outweighed by his unlikely heroism of saving a whale when he and his old high school crush perambulated on the beach and came upon a crowd of people pleading for a marine biologist.

(Please do not kill me if I misused ironic - I'm still having trouble with that one.)