Glendale Foliage Season

Very few things make me nostalgic for New England as much as images of the reds, oranges, and yellows of foliage season.  The visuals conjure memories of other senses: the slight nip in the air, the crunch of fallen dead leaves, the smell of cloves and pumpkin pie.  In the mid-1980's, I worked a job as an assistant cameraman that found me and a few other crew members flying in a helicopter over pretty much the entire length of Vermont at the height of fall color.  The whole state was a carpet of crimson, tangerine and flaming gold.  Not only was it beautiful, but also gave a sense of perspective about the relatively rural state: it sure looked like nobody lived there.

Ellen and I have talked about going back east for foliage season every year for years now, but somehow it never happens.  Someday, though, it will.

We've had cold weather here in LA for a few weeks now (including, as could be predicted, the week we had no gas and ergo no heat).  The nights have been in the 40's and maybe even dipped down into the 30's.  I know, I can hear you northeasterners snark, "that's t-shirt weather!"  Shaddap.

As evidenced by the photo above, it was cold enough for long enough for some of LA's deciduous trees to actually turn.  As far as I can remember, this is the first time this has happened in my twenty years here.  Or at least, the most colorful.  I point out the trees to Ellen, and she acknowledges that they are beautiful.  Now imagine, I tell her, trees like that as far as the eye can see...

Rain in LA

It rained all over Los Angeles today, that kind of rain that goes all day and never really stops, the kind you get in Seattle or New England or probably a lot of other places.  Extremely rare here, usually we just get a few hours at best.

I have a cold, so I stayed home and just enjoyed it.

Unfortunately, today was the dogs' bath day. Bad choice.

The Bird

Yesterday, driving around, I got flipped off three times!

I admit I  have a tendency to honk when I feel someone is driving poorly.  I'm just letting them know -- hey you may want to improve your skills behind the wheel!

The first was someone who was a bit asleep when the light turned green, and I was behind them.  I assure you I gave them plenty of time!

The second and third were people driving recklessly, too fast, changing lanes in front of me, coming too close to my car for safety, in my view.  The third guy zoomed past me, then stopped in the right-hand lane at a stop light.  A little concerned about him, I slowed and stopped a few car lengths behind him, not excited about pulling up right next to him.  He shoved his arm out his driver side window and gave me a very energetic, enthusiastic Bird.  Then he turned right!  He actually stopped, just so he could flip me off!

Do you think it's the economy?

Belated Thanksgiving Report

Because we had no gas, Ellen made a reservation for Thanksgiving dinner at the Smoke House, a venerable old somewhat-above-mediocre 40's restaurant in Burbank, right next to Warner Bros. Studios.  Maybe Bogie ate here.

When we arrived, Grandma rounding out our party of four, we realized we'd be having dinner with 1,000 of our closest friends.  There was a line of about 50 people ahead of us just to check in!  (See photo.)  The line featured Eric McCormack of Will & Grace -- proof that there are no favorites at the Smoke House.  Patience hanging by a thread, I went to the bar to get us drinks and dragged Hunter with me.  After waiting for a few minutes I found myself yelling at the bartender, "Hey I was here before them!"  Again, modeling excellent behavior for young Master Hunter.

Drink in hand, I decided to loosen up and just enjoy the experience.  Our reservation was for 7:00 PM, and we got seated at 7:45.  It proved to be a little difficult to get napkins, but otherwise it was pleasant and festive.  Lots of big parties.  I've had better prime rib, but Ellen and Hunter seemed to enjoy their traditional turkey dinner.

I decided this year that I just don't love the traditional turkey dinner.  The meat is often cold, and I don't really favor yams.  I'd rather have steak, or creamy pasta.  That's what I'd give thanks for.  But really, the lesson learned is that the best part of Thanksgiving is the adult beverages.  Serve early and often.

The Joys of Gas

The above photo is the ceiling of our laundry area, right off the kitchen.

For about a year, we'd been smelling gas occasionally in our garage.  We had a guy from the gas company come out maybe six months ago.  Maybe two different guys.  Anyway they waved a little wand-like thing around that made high-pitched sound if it detected gas.  I could use one of those when the dogs are having digestive issues.  But nothing.

But now the house has been on the market for a while and our crack realtor mentioned to us in passing that several prospective buyers has smelled gas.  Hey quit being so negative, I demanded, find us someone who wants to make an offer on a house with an undetermined gas leak!

Well time to call the gas co again, I guess.  So the guy comes out with his magic gas sniffer and points it at an exposed pipe in a hole at the bottom of the wall of the garage, and sure enough it immediately emits a high-pitched whine.  The whole process took about fifteen seconds.  He seemed a bit disgusted that the previous guy hadn't found the leak.

Anyway gas company policy is, when there's a leak, to turn off your gas and PUT A LOCK ON THE VALVE.  Suddenly faced with the prospect of no gas -- no hot water, no cooking, no dryer -- I asked the guy, what if I just break that lock and turn my gas back on?  After all, we'd been living with the leak for so long.  He responded, well, it's a felony.  Go ahead John Dillinger! I declined.

That was ten days ago.  The job of finding and fixing the leak is mine and my plumber's.  They jackhammered a few holes in the garage floor and capped the gas pipe (it supplied a gas heater in the office above the garage, a heater that hasn't been there for years).  But that didn't work.  The gas guy came back but the meter still showed there was a slow leak somewhere, so no gas for you!  Boy was I mad.

But it was off to the Y for showers, a trip to the laundromat for Ellen, and cooking on one hotplate for us.

Ultimately the plumbers were unable to find the leak, and had to assume it was somewhere in the concrete slab that sits not only under our garage but also extends to under most of the kitchen.

So that meant going to DefCon 5: running new gas lines from the meter in the basement to the kitchen and dryer (near the kitchen).  Through the walls and ceilings.  See above.

Thankfully, after ten full days, we got our gas back yesterday.

Inchoate

I would like to think my expensive secondary school and university education would lead to a large vocabulary -- or to put it another way, knowing lots of words.  Unfortunately, with me it's an uphill battle.

I used to think the word was pronounced "in-chote" and meant deeply ingrained.  I guess that's just what I thought it ought to sound like and guessed it meant.  Then I was listening to "Left Right and Center" a favorite political program on KCRW, and the conservative guy (a British-y douchebag) pronounced it "in-ko-ayte."  I thought to myself, what kind of elitist, ridiculous, pompous pronunciation is that?

Then, sitting at my computer later, I remembered my feeling of superiority and looked it up on dictionary.com.  There I experienced a moment of private humiliation, similar to crying at home while watching "Pretty Woman."  The conservative douche's pronunciation is of course correct (although "in-ko-et" is also acceptable).  And it doesn't even mean what I thought it meant!  It means beginning, or incipient.  Don't know what incipient means?  Too bad.

Reminds me of the time I asked my Dad what ubiquitous meant.  He smiled at me and answered, "ineluctable."

Election Day

Even though I am a cynical, godless bastard, I do love this country.  At least, I love the idea of this country.

As an interesting side note, the "Yes on 8" sign-holders on our corner have now been rained on twice.  Maybe the Lord is on our side.

Appropriate Responses

Over the weekend, I had to take Hunter to his guitar lesson, where he learns the answers to such timeless musical questions as, which metal riffs played over and over endlessly at maximum volume in the basement, are most pleasing to my parents' ears?

At the bottom of our hill, at a big intersection, were about 30-40 people, spread out on all four corners, holding "Yes on 8" signs.  Proposition 8, here in California, would if passed outlaw gay marriage.  You know, to protect "real" marriage, between a man and a woman, with a 50% divorce rate, with the ability to dump a plain first wife if she is sick and get a new rich glamorous wife, the way the Lord intended.

These people looked normal enough, although I consider them bigots who ought to know better.  Just because gay sex is dirty, it's no dirtier than straight sex.  As Woody Allen once was asked, is sex dirty?  His reply: if you do it right it is.  Anyway as I've said recently, I think most of these people just are afraid of gay people, just like they were afraid of black people years ago (or still are).  Does this give them the right to say who can marry?  Even if their "good book" supposedly tells them homosexuality is an abomination?  No. No.  No.  Nein, danke.  We have a little thing in this country called separation of church and state, and that means, to me, in a very basic way, that if the defense of a law is because the Lord says so, then that law is to be struck down.  Which, even if the proposition passes, the California Supreme Court will do, again, if there's any justice.

Well.  As Hunter and I drove by, I complained aloud to him that there was no good way to express one's disapproval with the views the sign-holders were advocating.  Honking, of course, is interpreted as support.  "I could spit on them," Hunter offered helpfully, although there was no denying the tone in his voice -- spitting on people with the approval of one's stepdad would be cool.  No, no, I intoned schoolmarmishly, I do not approve of spitting on people, even if on some karmic level they deserve it.  With any luck, Jesus will spit on them in heaven.

But what could we have done?  Yelled at them? I didn't have a sense of what would be appropriate.  If we opened our windows and booed, it wouldn't have been very loud, and might well have been interpreted as cheering for Kevin Youkilis or Bruce Springsteen.  Maybe we could have stuck out our tongues (see Fig 1) but they might not have noticed.  Perhaps the old Bronx cheer?

None of the above occurred to me until it was too late.  So, I just stewed impotently as I drove away, like usual.  Quite the example for young master Hunter.

Fans of Democracy

Of course, I'm voting for Obama.

I like to think that it's because I am an educated, enlightened voter, up on the issues, in touch with what candidate best reflects my views.  That, frankly, is why I voted for Kucinich in the primaries.  He may be a bit of a nut job, but he best represents my political views.  He was one of the few brave ones to come out in favor of gay marriage, which to me is a simple case of equal human rights.   No more, no less.  The notion that Obama feels he mustn't endorse gay marriage in order to be elected, even though he privately favors it is, to me, sad.  And if he really opposes gay marriage, then I might have to vote for Nader.

Most conservatives, I believe, oppose gay marriage because they think gay people, and the idea of gay sex, is alien and disgusting.  But they use the bible as a crutch to explain why -- the Bible says it is an abomination!  But if you ever meet one of those people, don't let them get away with it.  That quote is in Leviticus.  Make them turn the other parts of Leviticus, where it says it's OK to sell your daughter into slavery, that working on the Sabbath merits stoning, and even prohibits hair trimming.  In fact, any time anybody quotes the Bible to you, tell them to take their good book and shove it, since it's full of little-referenced ridiculous stuff that makes the common stuff preachers always quote completely invalid.

But enough about that (for now).  Whew.

I find myself wondering how anybody could support McCain.  Of course, I admire and revere his service to our country in Vietnam.  And to a large extent he used to be a fairly centrist Republican senator, although still much too conservative for me.  Better than most, I suppose.  These days, though, I think he is a pretty lousy candidate for President; it's a sign of how conservative the country is that Obama isn't ahead by more.

Two things bug me about McCain, and they aren't news.  First, his "I'm going to drop everything, suspend my campaign, and head to Washington to fix the economic crisis" gambit.  Well he did head to Washington, but he didn't really suspend his campaign, still running commercials and letting surrogates represent him on the stump.  And it turned out he didn't really have much to say when he got to Washington.  So the whole thing was an empty political song-and-dance.  How could anyone in the country not see through that?

Then of course there's Sarah Palin.  McCain's signs say "Country First" but that is completely put to the lie by Sarah Palin.  Is there anyone in the universe who thinks Sarah Palin is the best conservative to put second in line for the White House?  Yes, admittedly, lots of other candidates have chosen running mates primarily to help their ticket.  But they've always chosen from a pool of experienced, qualified people.  (Of course I exclude Dan Quayle, but at least he'd been in the Senate for a while.)  McCain met with Bible Spice (Alex Baldwin's term, not mine) for a few hours and made his incredibly cynical pick.

Now you may argue that Obama isn't much more experienced.  That may or may not be true.  But Obama was chosen as the Democratic nominee by millions of Democratic voters who want him as President.  On election day, you can cast your vote as to whether you think their judgment was right.  But Sarah Palin was chosen by only one man -- McCain.  And that choice is a direct reflection on his judgement, what kind of judgement he'd have as President.  And he failed.

Who could possibly disagree that McCain is a terrible candidate?  I mean, you may be desperate to roll back Roe v. Wade, promote the teaching of creationism, and a whole host of other conservative agenda items.  But this guy?  Does 45% of America really think this guy would make a good President?  I really have been struggling over the past weeks to believe that.

Then I realized how most people view elections.  They view them like sporting events.

Most people have a team they root for no matter what.  I admit I root for the Red Sox no matter who is on the team.  It's because I grew up near Boston, and that's that.  I mean, I like a lot of the players, especially Mike Lowell, who took less money to stay in Boston.  (And now of course he might be traded.  He was an idiot for not asking for a no-trade clause in return for taking less money.)  But I root for them even though I don't like a few players: Manny, I came to believe long before he left for warmer SoCal climes, is a dick.  But even though Manny is a dick, I would never start rooting for the Twins or the Rangers.  And certainly not for the perennial cellar-dwellers the Pirates.

So, like their sports team affiliations, most people form their political views in early adulthood and stick to them forever, no matter what.  So it doesn't matter if Bush Sr. picks Dan Quayle as his running mate, it doesn't matter if Reagan broke laws to arm the contras, it doesn't matter if Bush Jr. is an anti-science zealot.  People who consider themselves Republicans are going to support their team, no matter what.

Ukulele Mood

Ellen's friend (and my friend) Cam Clarke had his annual Halloween party again last Saturday, and this year the theme was "Residents of Emerald City."  I went as that guy who first answers the door at Emerald City -- photo to the left.  As you can see, Ellen did yeo-woman's work sewing fake fur on the lapel and hatband.  Still, unfortunately, I ended up looking more like Bill the Butcher from "Gangs of New York" which was not what I was hoping.

Ellen went as a lovely lady dressed in green.  Some others came as witches, there were several other top-hatted doormen, and at least one guy took the green theme less literally and came as The Hulk.

That's not Ellen next to me, that's Susannah, Cam's cousin.  Every year people read scary stories, and some years there are songs, mostly scary ones.  But since this year had a "Wizard of Oz" vibe, I suggested to Cam that he team me up with a singer and we perform that ukulele Iz version of "Over the Rainbow."

Which we did, and it sounded lovely, by all accounts.

Weeks

Jeez -- it's been weeks since I've posted.  Could it be possible that I just don't have anything to say?  Not much happening, no jobs or special events to report on.

Ellen and I went up to her friend Cam's house in Lake Arrowhead last weekend, joining a group of about 8 just relaxing and enjoying the mountain air.  I read most of Obama's book "Dreams from my Father," which I found alternately boring and deeply insightful.  Kind of like therapy, or professional wrestling.

I also took a few hours off to go to a local bar to watch Game 6 of the Red Sox attemtp in vain to reach the World Series.  It was fun -- there's always some half-in-the-bag guy near you wanting to chat or tell you his life story.  One guy introduced himself as a Dr. from Lowell.   At the end of the game I bid him a "see ya Dr. Lowell."  He said, slurring his speech a little, "I'm from Tewskbury."  I mentioned his earlier reference to the once-bustling Massachusetts mill town.  "Oh -- well no one's heard of Tewksbury, so I say Lowell."  I replied with a smile, but to myself I thought, how many more people have heard of Lowell than Tewksbury?

Tonight we head to Cam's annual Hallloween party; this year the theme is "Denizens of Emerald City."  I'm going as the guy who first answers the door.  Also, I'm playing ukulele while one of Cam's singing cousins sings that ukulele version of "Over the Rainbow."

The Swell Season

You might have thought this title was about summer in the Gulf of Mexico.  But actually it's about a concert Ellen and I attended last Saturday night at the historic Greek Theater in the hills of Hollywood.

The Swell Season is the name of band that really only has two members, Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, of the movie "Once."

What's that you say -- you haven't seen "Once"?  Shame on you.  I think it was the best movie of last year, a beautiful small Irish musical.  Of course it hooked Ellen and me from the start, since its first scenes take place in a part of Dublin where we had just walked months before seeing the movie.

It's a tiny-budgeted movie, about an acoustic-guitared broken-hearted Dublin busker who meets and has a brief (platonic) love affair with an Eastern European girl.  She encourages him to record his music, helps him do it, and in the process also helps him to heal his heart.  In the end, he decides to go find his old lost love in London, so it has a bittersweet ending.  But beautiful, I thought.

In real life, there were happier endings.  Hansard and Irglova fell in love (he a boyish 38 and she a very mature 18 -- we'll see how long it lasts) and they pulled off the upset of the year at the Oscars by winning best song.  Unfortunately they forgot to thank the director of the movie but hey -- they were nervous.

Ellen and I just loved the movie, and listen to the soundtrack all the time.  I even have learned to play a few of the songs (poorly) on the gee-tar.

So when tickets went on sale several months ago for their show, I snapped them up.  Literally the minute they went on sale.  Which of course in today's modern world means my tickets were about 30 rows back.  It's an outrage.

The day of the show it rained off and on, but the clouds parted for the show.  Glen Hansard is a real showman and the crowd was totally with him.  A high point was when he stepped away from the mike to play "Say it To Me Now" -- a favorite of mine -- without any amplification at all.  This in an outdoor arena that seats maybe 5000.  But it worked -- everyone could hear him, especially when he stamped his feet and sang at the top of his lungs at the climax of the song.

He's also a guy who really seems to wear his heart on his sleeve in relating to the audience.  He told a little story at the beginning of each song, encouraged people to sing along and seemed genuinely pleased and grateful when people did.  But this fragile connection has its downside too.  When a few drunkards yelled at him (somebody yelled "come on!" during one of his stories) he seemed truly offended and the show suffered.  At first I thought, hey you're a professional, get over it.  But then I realized, if you're really going to put yourself out there, offering your heart and soul to the audience, I guess the thin thread of give-and-take can be easily broken.

Luckily later in the night the crowd got more and more enthusiastic and the broken thread was reconnected.   People sang along eagerly.  Hansard smiled.

Then a very unexpected, oddball treat.  He told us of his and Marketa's crazy time in LA during the Oscars, and how they had met a lot of people.  One such meeting was with an older gentleman, who was asking very specific question about some of Glen's songs, like what key were they in.  Then the stranger let on that he had written songs, too.  Oh, like what, responded Glen.  You ever hear of The Jungle Book? asked the man.  He turned out to be Richard Sherman, co-writer (with his brother) of several classic Disney song scores.  Then Glen invites him out on stage!  And he sits down at the piano and proceeds to sing and play "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!"  The band was all smiles, and the stunned but pleased audience clapped and sang along.  I don't think anyone knew all the words except the woman to my immediate left - Ellen -- who sang them out loud, con mucho gusto.

Can't wait til they come around again. 

P.S. I took the above picture.

Obama-rama

This past Saturday I volunteered to makes phone calls on behalf of Barack Obama.  You know, the black, inexperienced, terrorist-associating, smear-mongering, liberal Democrat.  I like him because he has a good fade-away jump-shot.

Anyway, although this photo makes me look a bit hippy, I had a fun time.  My old friend Steve Tao runs the phone bank with an iron handset, but I think I got into the groove pretty quickly.

Basically, we were calling people in Nevada, a "tossup" state.  It's only a few electoral votes, but of course every electoral vote counts.  If it was up to me, I would junk the electoral college and go with direct voting for president.  Why can't we make that happen?

I was given a sheet of phone numbers, detailing the name, age and party affiliation of likely or possible Democratic voters.  I picked up the phone and started dialing.  Of course, it being Saturday afternoon, no one was home.  Someone answered maybe 15% of the time.  And at least half of those, the person I asked for wasn't home, which has to count as a "not home."

But if, on the off chance I got the person listed, I was supposed to go by my script.  First, to ask if they were going to vote for Obama.  Most just said "yes," although one lady sharply pointed out to me, "it's a secret ballot, you know."  I replied, "Well Senator Obama wants you to know you can shove your secret ballot up your ass."  No, I didn't.  If they told me they were going to give their vote to Obama, I had a box to check off on my sheet.

Next, we were supposed to encourage them to vote early, an easy option in Nevada.   (I was instructed that it's "Ne-va-da" with the middle "a" rhyming with "bat," not "Ne-vah-da.")  A few people told me they were going to vote early, but one chatty middle-aged lady told me she liked the rush of people at the polls.  I agree, although maybe for different reasons.  I like the ritual of voting at my local fire station.

My favorite call of the day was to a man of 91.  An old lady -- his wife? -- answered, and slowly told me to hold on.  Then, I swear to God, literally 2 full minutes went by.  I chatted with the phone banker next to me while I waited.  Finally a very old-sounding man picked up an extension and said hello.  I introduced myself and asked if he was going to vote for Obama.  Oh yes, he answered.  But then as I asked him the subsequent questions I was supposed to, I got the distinct impression he did not know who I was or why I was calling.  I can't remember what gave me that impression, except how he signed off, after I told him goodbye.  He said, "thank you dear" and hung up.

Still, he responded yes, so I checked the "yes" box.  I hope he makes it to the polls and punches the right box.

F**k the Bailout

I'm pretty liberal on most things.  I voted for Kucinich in the primaries, even though he was basically out of the race by the time of the California contest.  He was the candidate that most closely represented my views (even though I acknowledge on some things he was a little woo-woo).  I honestly believe he would have made a great POTUS.  I especially applaud his openness to gay marriage.  Most candidates, including Obama, probably favor it, but pragmatically (or fearfully) won't support it.

But this "bailout" thing has got me feeling pretty Republican.  If it fails, it will probably hurt my own already tenuous finances.  But still, I do not support it.  Why should the US taxpayer be on the hook for $700 billion to the benefit of just a few Wall Street firms?  First of all, I do not believe it will really end the bloodletting.  And second, why address this problem from the top down, rather than from the bottom up?  I mean, the problem is shaky mortgages, right?  So why not use that money to guarantee the average person's mortgage?

I mean, it doesn't seem fair if the government steps in to save some people if they default on their mortgages.  But why is the bailout of a few corporations any fairer?

To quote Airplane, the Movie: "Shana, they bought their ticket, they knew what they were getting into.  I say, let 'em crash!"

House Cleaning

Nothing makes me want a job more than having to clean the house.

We're having another open house tomorrow (having lowered the price again) and the house is disgusting by Ellen's standards (just a little dusty by my standards) so the house has to be cleaned .  We waited and waited for the cleaning lady to show up, but then remembered we fired her ass months ago when we decided we needed to save money.

So Ellen and I spent much of today cleaning the house.  Why, oh why, did we buy such a big house?  Can't we just live in 500 sq ft of this one and and just sweep the dirt into the rest of the house?

Later, I have to vacuum the pool.  If I find any dog poop in it, I'm moving to the YMCA.

Sonny McLean's

First of all, sorry it's been so long since the last post.  Nothing much has happened.  A few fruitless job interviews, a few movies, a few nice dinners.  And Tom Brady going down.

But this afternoon, since Ellen declined to go with me to a sports bar to see a Pats game, I decided to drive to Santa Monica (45 minutes to 1 1/2 hours, depending on traffic) to Sonny McLean's, a Boston sports bar.  (Can't afford the NFL Sunday Ticket this year.)During the previous two World Series in which Boston participated (and won) you couldn't get in to Sonny McLean's without being a regular.

Anyway it was really fun.  When I arrived the Red Sox game was on TV, and the Sox managed to fend off the Blue Jays and win, right before the Pats game went on at 1:15 PM Pacific time.

Almost everyone in the place -- and I think by the middle of the game there were maybe 150 people -- wore some sort of Boston garb.  There were Moss jerseys, Brady jerseys, Bruschi jerseys, and other contemporary Pats player jerseys.  But also lots of vintage jerseys, bright red: people like it to be known they have been fans for a long time.  Also plenty of Red Sox attire, including a "Feed the Monster" t-shirt.  One guy also had a "Title Town" t-shirt withsilhouettes of the two World Series trophies, three Super Bowl trophies, and the recent NBA championship trophy on the front.  And best of all, there was a guy with a "Cassel" jersey -- can't be more than 6 days old.

It was tons of fun to have everyone rooting for your team.  First half was kind of a nail-biter, but the second half was pretty much all Pats except for one good Brett Far-vra drive.  Pats are now 2-0.

The four large glasses of Sam Adams October Ale helped the enjoyment immensely.

Look for me there next week!

Nantucket Wedding

No pictures yet, but just got back from our Martha's Vineyard/Nantucket Adventure.  Definitely tried to do it on a budget -- frequent flier miles, stayed with Ellen's sister, not that many meals out.

Flew Burbank to Denver, Denver to Boston, Boston to Martha's Vineyard on Tuesday.  Spent a couple days there with Julia, Ellen's sis.  She has a new house on a quiet road.  Went to "Illumination Night" at the former Methodist Camp - everyone puts Japanese lanterns on their porches.  Quite beautiful.  Also went to the fair, complete with rides whirling, bolts flying off, large pigs, etc.

Then took the high-speed ferry to Nantucket on Friday, checked into our cute B&B, and pretty much went straight to the night-before Clambake on the beach.  Big tent, great food, lots of speeches, booze flowing like wine.

Next day window shopped, rode bikes, then dressed up for the wedding at the bride's parents house.  House turns out to be a huge (at least 10,000 square feet) mansion on a bluff with an ocean view.  Big tent, great food, lots of speeches, booze flowing like wine.  Met some great people lots of fun.

More later when there are photos!

Movies

Not much happening here in the dog days of August.  A friend gets married next week.

But there have been movies:

1. Tropic Thunder.  Really, really not funny, if you ask me.  But everyone loves it!  Maybe I'm just a square, or a prude, but when a real character steps on a land mine and blows up rather graphically on camera (the director) I'm put off and not laughing.

2. Frozen River -- great.  Very understated but very real.  Deep sense of place.  Compelling drama, with unpredictable characters.

3. Vicky Christina Barcelona.  Lots of fun.   Only occasionally funny, but never boring, very sensual, everybody's great in it.  The real star is Barcelona, to which I would like to travel very soon.

4. Space Chimps.  I went by myself.  Wish I had stuck wood slivers under my fingernails instead.

Weblag

It's been way too long since I last blogged.  Really, it's because not that much has happened.  I know that seems unlikely -- how can a dazzling, sought-after Angeleno like myself not have some hilarious movie-star encounter to relate?  Several potential lawsuits prevent me from commenting on my recent celebrity encounters.  You understand.

Last weekend, Ellen and I went back to North Reading MA to help celebrate my Dad's 80th birthday.  He's in pretty good shape for an old man, still getting around with no problem if a little more slowly, and in very chipper spirits.  One highlight was after the serving of the birthday cake: sister Lee Anne brought his old trumpet out of the basement, still in its old case that looked like it had survived the Battle of the Bulge.  Dad gamely grabbed it and played a few notes, then a tune or two.  A little rusty, but he can still play.  Later he was heard alone in the basement, picking out a few old tunes.

Also of note was a trip into Boston featuring me, Ellen, my brother Bill and his 7-year-old daughter Tatiana.  We followed a bit of the Freedom Trail to Fanueil Hall and Paul Revere's house, punctuated by a quite dramatic thunder-and-lightning storm, during which we beat a hasty retreat into a North End watering hole for an adult beverage.  (Tati had to settle for an Arnold Palmer.)  Then on to a delicious early dinner at a North End Italian restaurant, for which Bill sprung.  Thanks Bill!

Now back in Los Angeles, looking for a job.  Ellen's waiting to hear on a job at Disney.  Later in August, I have a second interview for a job at an effects house that wants to make movies.

Yesterday I went to see "Man on Wire," the documentary on Phillippe Petit, a slightly crazy French wirewalker who in 1974 snuck into the World Trade Center, strung a wire between the twin towers and wirewalked 100+ stories up.  I loved the movie.  The Petit himself, and the coterie of assistants and acolytes who helped him, are all a little nutty and fun.  And I hadn't expected to be so struck by the beauty of a man on a wire between the late, lamented towers.  (In the past he had also wire-walked between the towers at Notre Dame, also a stunningly beautiful image.)  I had heard about this story because Robert Zemeckis is planning to make a feature film about his WTC adventure, which I think is a great idea.  It's like a heist movie in the way that they had to meticulously plan for the attempt, and then of course it went wrong and went right in unpredictable ways.  Really fun, I recommend the documentary.

That's all for now!

Fat Free Waffles

I decided to make waffles this morning, so I checked that we had all the correct ingredients.  We didn't, but I decided to proceed anyway.

Let me assure you, waffles made with whole wheat flour, artificial yellow-colored dairy-free spread, skim milk and fat-free half-and-half are refreshingly flavor-free.  We do have geniune maple syrup, but it didn't help.

Still, the Brown 'n' Serve sausages were delicious.

The Lazy Man's Earth Hour

I missed the actual Earth Hour this year. Earth Hour, as you probably know, was started in 2001 in Sydney Australia as an experiment to see how much electricity could be saved if everyone in the city was asked to cut down or eliminate their electrical usage for one hour. (See the before and after photos to the right.) The idea was to raise a little awareness of our individual and collective use of energy. This year, on the last Saturday in March, dozens of cities around the globe participated. raging success, by all accounts.

Of course there are skeptics who note that cities like Sydney really only cut their power consumption for the hour by 15%, and that there was a corresponding spike in electricity demand in the hours before Earth Hour -- as if everyone just decided to run their dishwasher early in order to avoid the designated hour. Even given these cranky naysayers, I do believe that the experiment is a good one, even if it's just to make everyone a little more aware of how they use electricity in their own house.

So, since I missed Earth Hour, I decided to try my own. I even thought I might make it a monthly event, as suggested by talkgreen's Tara Benwell.

We tried it this past Thursday night. I made sure to schedule it on a night when my 14-year-old stepson was with us, and also made sure it was after dark for full effect. I thought the stepson would hate the idea, but when we decided we would turn off everything and then play a board game, he was surprisingly into it. Even better, he chose the game "Clue," a murder mystery game, perfect for playing by candlelight. It just so happened that my mother-in-law was also with us, so it was a big family affair.

As the appointed time approached, everyone actually seemed to be looking forward to it. "Is it time yet?" I was asked more than once. When the hour arrived, we all rushed madly around the house turning off lights and unplugging televisions. I thought I had explained that only things that can't be shut off (like TVs that constantly draw power) need to be unplugged, but I guess I wasn't very clear since my wife and her son went around happily unplugging everything.

Here's the "lazy man" part: we wimped out a little, I'm ashamed to say, when it came to things that were a little more difficult. If I unplugged the yard's sprinkler system, I explained to my wife, I will just have to reprogram it -- a pain in the neck. So we left it on. And, we could not figure out to shut off the little digital clock in the oven -- wired in the wall somewhere. But still: when we started the hour, the little wheel in our electrical usage meter was spinning madly, and when we were done it had slowed to a crawl. We felt pretty good.

The rest of the hour was spent playing "Clue" as Lincoln would have, by the light of several candles. This was probably the first activity that the four of us -- me, my wife, her Mom, and my stepson -- had participated in together for months. So, dear readers, you don't even have to care about the environment: Earth Hour is good for family togetherness!

Now one other thing I must admit: we didn't even make it to the full hour. I had promised to take everyone out for ice cream when the hour was done, as a reward, and the second game of "Clue" ended with five minutes left to go in the hour. We all looked at each other, then jumped up and headed for Baskin-Robbins. Yay!

Tune in next month, in which I commit to turning off the electric sprinkler system, even if it means I then have to reprogram it. I really want to see if we can get that spinning electric meter wheel to stop entirely.

Chewing

My little medical episode really put me down for the count, and I felt sick and couldn't really talk very well for a day or two.  I sounded like Brenda Vaccaro after some Primal Scream Therapy.

But now I am back to normal.

Last night I cooked a couple of small steaks for me and Ellen, accompanied by some delicious garlic butter green beans.  Or should I say, the garlic and butter tasted delicious, the only downside being the taste of green beans.

I made sure to cut my steak into smaller pieces than usual and chew them thoroughly.  I felt like that guy in "2001" who ends up a decrepit old man in a bright white room, slowly masticating his little bits of food and looking around nervously.  Ellen, I suppose in this scenario, is the mysterious black monolith?  I admit the comparison sort of runs out of steam here.

Anyway it all went down fine.  I may switch to an all-gruel diet sometime soon.

My Fun-Filled Wednesday

This is probably the most boring kind of blog entry imaginable: what I did yesterday!  But it was a relatively eventful day, at least for me, so I thought I would just set it down in prose for your enjoyment.

I spent my morning doing my first stint -- in what I hope is a weekly ritual -- volunteering for Habitat for Humanity.  I figure if Jimmy Carter can do it at 80, so can I.  From an altruistic standpoint, I'd like to do something to help my fellow man, just like us all, right?  And from a non-altruistic standpoint, when people ask me what I am doing with my time while unemployed, I want a better answer than "nothing" or worse, "writing a screenplay."

So off I went to the bare-wood-frame condo complex going up near me in Glendale.  Maybe 6 units, 1200 square feet each.  Right next to the highway, but what do you want for free?  The deal is, if you are a low-income family, and want a Habitat house, you have to put in a certain number of hours yourself toward the building of the house.  Which I think is cool.

Arriving at the site, I was a little nervous, because Accuweather said it was going to be in the 100's.  Yikes.  In anticipation of a sweat-fest, I chose shorts.  But of course, it was a quite pleasant 80 with a cool breeze.  And I dinged my legs several times on bare wood planks, due to the shorts.  Great.

My image of myself pounding manly nails with a big manly hammer were dashed as the Construction Manager assigned me to clean-up duty on the plywood-and-bare-rafters roof of one of the buildings.  Me and a tight-lipped 17-year-old, who must have been doing the "I need good stuff for my college applications" deal.  So the two of us spent five hours sweeping up sawdust and nails.  Yippee.  Five hours.  I have to tell you, at the end of that five hours, I was exhausted.  Ready for a nap.  Maybe I need to get in better shape.

Then, at around 6 PM, I headed off to meet my friend Beth for a drink at the Ahmanson Theater and then to take in a performance of "The Drowsy Chaperone."  I hadn't seen Beth in maybe two years, so we had a lot of catching up to at the lovely outdoor bar outside the theater.  The show itself -- I loved it.  It's a sort of parody of and love letter to the cheesy old broadway musicals like "No No Nanette" that didn't really make a lick of sense, but had a jaunty romantic comedy story and upbeat, silly songs.  Really fun.  It was Beth's idea to go to dinner after the show, which I was reluctant about -- I'm usually in bed by ten!  But after the show I was hungry and full of energy, only to have Beth say, "I'm tired."  Hmmph.

That's when the night really got interesting.  I went home and boiled some spaghetti.  You know the way I like it -- with just butter and parmesan cheese on it.  Almost dry with so much cheese.  Some of you might remember a previous blog entry in which I choked on some food.  Well it happened again.  As I was snarfing down the spaghetti and chasing it with delicious Sprite Zero, suddenly I started choking.  I could not breathe, unless you call ghastly croaking panicky attempts to draw in air breathing.  Ellen immediately got behind me to give me the Heimlich, with an decidedly frightened look on her face.  I really could not breathe.  But either from her efforts or just from my body trying to do its job, I spit up the Sprite Zero and some of the spaghetti.  So now I could at least take in air.

But unlike the last time this happened, I was not able to eventually swallow or spit up whatever was blocking.  I could not swallow any water without it backing up in my throat and potentially blocking my windpipe again.  Not a good feeling.  As I sat waiting for the blockage to go either up or down, even the saliva I was producing was backing up in my throat, and I had to spit it up occasionally as Ellen looked on, concerned.  Minutes ticked by, and nothing changed.  After about an hour, I acquiesced to Ellen's plea that we go to the local Adventist Hospital Emergency Room.

By this point it's past midnight, and I was feeling pretty bad.  The sensation that nothing, not even liquid could go down, and having to throw up saliva every once in a while, is a very unsettling and discomfiting situation.

It took maybe two hours to see the doctor, which is really not bad for an Emergency Room.  I thought for sure the doctor would just sedate me, snake a tube down my gullet, and poke out whatever was in the way.  But he advised that the esophagus is delicate, and snaking tubes down there willy-nilly was "counter-indicated."  So, as I was spitting and retching into my home-brought garbage can, they proceeded to try various muscle relaxers to try and get my food tube to loosen up.  First, it was a little tab of nitroglycerine under my tongue.  I thought -- are they trying to explode my blockage?  Well that didn't work.  So then we proceeded to intravenous (since I couldn't swallow anything) Glucagon, a more powerful muscle relaxer.  It's a synthetic version of a hormone naturally produced by, I kid you not, the Isles of Langerhans. (One trivia note -- check out Weird Al Yankovick's Beach Boys parody song "Pancreas" for a mention of both Glucagon and the Isles of Langerhans.)

Well one side effect of Glucagon, at least on me, is violent, wrenching nausea.  This is pretty much my least favorite feeling in the world, so far.  I prefer the kidney stone to this.  But, I admit, I've never been shot or broken a limb.  Yet.

Anyway I get a severe bout of technicolor lunch, but not much comes up.  So they double the dosage.  This time I really wretch.  It's excruciating.  But then -- it came up!  The big stuck wad of spaghetti.  After a period of recovery from the puking, I feel much better.

The doctor, the nurse, and then a jaunty trio of other nurses who sauntered past my screen arm-in-arm with a "can we see your spaghetti" -- they all expressed amazement that I could wolf down such a large relatively unchewed piece of food.  They all scolded me -- chew your food!  In fact my release form included the rather parental-sounding, chastising "Be sure to chew your food properly."

It was 4:30 AM, Ellen and I were exhausted, and we headed home.  With not a little bit of the feeling of -- it's nice to be alive.

Today, my throat is so sore I can barely talk, and I'm very tired (couldn't sleep much past 8:30) but I feel fine.  Aren't you sorry you read this entry?

Tissue? I Hardly Know You.

Here's a pet peeve of mine, for those of you who wear spectacles, like me.

Have you ever been at a friend's house and notice that your glasses are a little dirty?  Maybe you left a few too many fingerprints as you grabbed blindly for them while the alarm clock screamed?  Maybe hot grease flew onto them as you checked too closely to see if the bacon was done?  Maybe the dog licked them?

Whatever the reason, something on your glasses is bothering you, so you reach for a Kleenex (or other brand) tissue to clean them.  You breathe delicately onto the lenses to moisten them just the right amount, then gently wipe away all the imperfections, preparing for the rest of the day to look bright, shiny, and crystal clear.

Then you put your glasses on, and you realize your mistake.  Awww -- you whine to your host -- are these those Kleenex that have lotion in them?!?  You can't quite see your host, though, because your lenses are now coated with a thin, semi-translucent patina of moisturizer. The world now looks like one of those White Diamonds perfume commercials in which they have heavily filtered the lens in an attempt to make Liz Taylor look anywhere south of 50.  Good luck getting it off without Windex.  At least your glasses will now be soft and supple to the touch.

Next month's pet peeve: President Bush.

Toddenda

I wanted to add a little something to my blather about the Todd concert.

I wrote that Todd is "just a guy...." etc.  Well he may be playing small clubs, the world may not care about him anymore, but the guy has written and sung:

Hello It's Me

Couldn't I Just Tell You

A Dream Goes On Forever

Real Man

Can We Still Be Friends

Love is the Answer

and a few no one but Todd fans know

Just One Victory

Cliche

Parallel Lines

and others.

These are some of my favorite songs.

I feel like in my last column, I belittled the achievement of someone like Todd Rundgren.  OK, so maybe you don't write another great song, ever.  Or maybe you do.  Time will tell.  That doesn't diminish the great ones.

It's like, whenever I hear people complain about Woody Allen's recent movies.   Why do so many of them stink. I always think to myself -- or say aloud with a lot of attitude -- how many great movies do you want a guy to make?  Jeez -- Sleeper, Annie Hall, Manhattan, Hannah and Her Sisters, Crimes and Misdemeanors.  Come on -- that is a staggering lifetime's achievement. 

Todd is Godd

Todd isn't really Godd, at least not anymore.  He's just a guy who used to have a few hits, sell a few records, and tour, both solo and with a band called Utopia.  I've been a fan since 1974, seen him through the ups and (mostly) downs.

For the past several years he's been living on Kauai, making music when he feels like it, making the kind of music he feels like making, seemingly without regard for sales or popularity.

But that's probably stating it too favorably.  I think he'd like his music to be more popular than it is, and can't seem to find the right groove anymore.

Which is why he used to play 3000 seat arenas, but last night played the Key Club in Hollywood to a crowd of maybe 200.  I was there, with my friend Doug and his friend John.

First of all, the "Key Club" makes it sound like some sort of exclusive, polished brass password-only speakeasy.  But no.  It's not much more than the usual sticky-table-and-bar-food music venue like all the others on the Sunset Strip, like the Troubador or the Roxy.

One notable image of the evening: Doug's friend John had brain surgery 8 months ago, and has lost a lot of weight.  He seems to be recovering well, but the surgery was a shock to his system, and he still cannot swallow anything, so he has a feeding tube in his stomach through which to put formula, etc.  But the tube also accepts dry martinis, which John proceeded to suck out of his martini glass with a large plastic syringe and inject directly into stomach via the tube.  Doctor's orders!

A lackluster opening act wandered on and off stage, whining pitifully about some Gen-Y problem or something.  Todd came out around 10:15, which of course is when I usually go to bed.  True to Todd's iconoclasm, he played only about five old songs to begin with, a few of them covers -- one was The Call's "The Walls Came Down," a song I really like -- and then launched into all 13 songs of his new, yet-to-be-released album.  13 new songs in a row is a bit of a grind for any audience.  But everyone listened politely.  I even liked a few of the new tunes.

John is friends with a few guys in the band, and had managed to get us a reserved table upstairs and our tickets comped.  But unfortunately the sightlines from upstairs sucked, so after a while I went downstairs to stand with the rest of the Great Unwashed.  This was more fun, I was pretty close to the stage.  (See the photo above, from the crummy camera in my iPhone.)

As I was stomping my feet and generally enjoying myself, I looked around and noticed everyone looked really old.  Many gray and balding heads, lots of paunchy guts.  Gross!  I suddenly felt tired.  The show ended soon after.

Todd, of course, who just turned sixty, looked great.  Come to think of it, I hate him.

Jesus and Three Friends

I found this image online, and it took me a few seconds to figure out what these three guys are doing.

Comments

To me, there's a certain serenity in posting to my blog and not caring if anyone ever reads it.  It's just a thing to do, like exercising or meditating or yawning, something where the doing is as important, if not more important, than the end result.

That said, isn't there anyone out there?  Why aren't I getting the attention I deserve!

If you take a look at the "comments" section for each entry, you would think that the only person that reads this blog is my sister.  And her, not very often.  How humiliating -- my blog only has one reader, and she seems bored by it.

So you other readers -- I've heard tell of a few of you -- start commenting!  Doesn't anything in my posts make you want to respond, even if it's to say, your life stinks?  Experiment with your inner Siskel and Ebert -- rate my blog!  "I give Brian's life two thumbs WAY down!"

Better yet, start your own blog, and let's link to each other's.

Maybe if I get up to five readers, I can start selling advertising.

More Wildlife at 1433 East Mountain

Ellen spotted this hawk hanging around our front yard for the last day or two.  He's sitting on a branch of our 80 year old pine tree, screeching about something, who knows what.  Jesus, Shut UP!

My web research leads me to guess that this is a red-tailed hawk, a common sight in Southern California.  They eat rodents (including squirrels!) but also insects, snakes and frogs.  They can live as long as twenty years.

Maybe I will tame this one and give it a name.  Then I can call it my friend and train it to help me exact revenge from my enemies.  You know who you are.

A Few Work Notes

Nothing much to report except a few work notes. While I continue to look for a job, I am also still flogging my three pitches around town. Yesterday I pitched to a guy named Jason Lust at Jim Henson Productions, which is now located at the old Chaplin studios on LaBrea. I believe they own that lot now, which is steeped in Hollywood history. (First it was Chaplin's Studio, then for the longest time it was the home of A&M records, now it's Henson.) The place is beautiful, although I take slight issue with the big cheesy Kermit-as-The-Little-Tramp that tips its hat to passersby.

Anyway I plied my trade there, and there were no takers. Still, Jason was very pleasant and certainly left the door open for future interactions.

This coming Friday I have my first meeting at Dreamworks on my Dolphin project. I first pitched it to them on April 7, so it gives you an idea of how long deals take, even on a project where I basically accepted their offer. Now we're in for at least a year or two of development, maybe five, and then either abandonment or a movie made. Be sure to check back in.

Yesterday's Post

Yesterday's post was actually a cut-and-paste from a new thing I'm doing to fill the time and exercise my brain a little.  There's a new Canadian website called "talkgreen" -- a kind of clearinghouse for eco-news and meeting place for eco-discussions.  I'm sure it will tank in a matter of months.

But they advertised for writers and I decided to do it.  There's no money involved, just a share in the potentially worthless ownership of it.  And I don't know yet if the guy who is running it knows what he is doing.

But it's fun.  All I do is surf the web (generally using StumbleUpon, a thing I heard about from Peter Gabriel's monthly video blog) and find something I think is noteworthy.  Then I write a little paragraph or two about it, trying to bring to it my irreverent but hopefully fun tone.

We'll see.

Do the Eco-Hustle

One of the many problems with trying to get people to live greener is the widely held view that it involves uncomfortable sacrifice. For instance, at one end of the spectrum is the so-called "No Impact Man," (www.noimpactman.com) who made a well-publicized experiment of living in New York City for one year and attempting to have no net impact on the environment. As you can imagine, this was quite the challenge and called for siginificant deprivation. No fridge, no A/C (in the NY summer!), no TV, no electric lights. And, in the most disgusting bit of denial, no toilet paper! Of course, in the process of giving up all these creature comforts, No Impact Man found amazing new ways to bond with his family and has ended up remaining very low impact, preferring the mostly-off-the-grid lifestyle. But that's a topic for another day. Most people would consider his lifestyle VERY uncomfortable.

But club-goers in London now have a new way to enjoy themselves AND draw very little power from the grid. How do they do it? Just by dancing.

According to London's Evening Standard newspaper, come July 10, a rich real estate entrepreneur named Andrew Charalambous will be opening London's first eco-dance club.

When London's energetic dance youth arrive at the new club, they will be charged ten pounds entrance fee -- unless they can prove they walked, rode a bike, or took public transportation. In that case, entrance is free. Drinks are served in cups made of eco-friendly polycarbonate cups. And, gray water will flush the toilets.

But the most interesting thing about this club is its dance floor. It is raised a few inches, supported by an array of short columns made of piezo-electric crystals, which generate electricity when compressed. So, when the hordes of half-drunk young Londoners pogo madly to the beat of the latest endlessly repeated Euro-house dance loop, they will be generating up to 60% of the club's electricity.

Charalambous and his new organization Club4Climate (dedicated to helping halt climate change) plan to open clubs in New York, Cape Town, and Rio. Their motto: "All you have to do is dance to save the world."

If only that were true. But, this new club is -- forgive the pun -- a step in the right direction.

The Happening

 "The Happening" -- a film by M. Night Shyamalan.

We went to see it today.

Why, you might ask?  Isn't that the same M. Night Shyamalan that directed recent cinematic turd "Lady in the Water"?  Didn't he also write and direct that shaggiest of shaggy dog stories "The Village"?  Didn't "Signs" really suck?

And doesn't this movie garner a Bush-type-approval-level of 20% on rottentomatoes.com?

Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

But we went anyway.

We went partly because we liked the trailer, partly because I had read online what the secret of the movie was, and partly because of "The Sixth Sense" and "Unbreakable" -- two actually good movies, if you ask me.

Guess what.  We liked it.

Probably our expectations were low.  And, admittedly, some of the movie is ludicrous.  (I almost feel like I am spelling that word wrong, having read the spelling "Ludacris" so often in People magazine.)  And the acting is bad.  I think unless M. Night lucks into good actors, like Bruce Willis, he is at sea.

But the idea of the movie is really good and fun and scary, and there are lots of really suspenseful scenes built on very little.  I call that filmmaking skill.  I don't want to give away the idea, even though it is discussed not too far into the movie, in case anyone reads this and wants to watch it.

Anyway, it is far from the disaster that everyone says it is.  Like all Shyamalan movies, it is slow-ish.  But I found it interesting and at times gripping.  Loved the way it ended.  And I think it is a really good idea for a movie.

So there.

Now, that said, I can't help but include a link to a particularly clever and resourceful vandalization of the teaser poster:

http://filmonic.com/the-penis-or-the-happening

Maybe This is Why

I didn't get the ImageMovers Zemeckis job.  Perhaps, as suggested by the ad to the right, I didn't shave close enough!

But apparently, from the brief phone call I got from his agent today, it was really all about Zemeckis, and I guess I didn't make enough of an impression on him.  After the interviews he apparently decided very quickly he wanted to hire someone else, without a lot of discussion.

The weird thing about Hollywood is knowing the people who made the movies.  I truly love some of Robert Zemeckis' movies, but now when I watch them I'll always have a little tinge of -- hey he didn't want to hire me!

Make Way for Ducklings

It's beginning to seem like the only real news in this blog is duck visits.

A few days ago we came home to find a Mommy duck and nine ducklings in and around our pool.  Between the waterfowl and the multiple birds nests in the nooks above our covered patio, it's a regular sanctuary.

The ducks seemed to be having a great time until the little ones tried to get out of the pool.  They couldn't.  Of course Ellen and I immediately flashed on having to fish nine lifeless tiny bundles of furry feathers out of the skimmer.

A few of them were able to figure out how to jump up onto the floating chlorine dispenser and get out.  Others weren't.  Were we witnessing survival of the smartest in action?  Ellen decided to step in, God-like, and help out.  First she went out and put one end of the the clothes-dryer sneaker-drying rack into the pool, a kind of metal ramp for the ducks.  (When she first entered the pool area Mom -- and the few ducks who had already jumped out -- jumped right back into the pool.  So at first, she made the situation worse.

But then a brainstorm: she stuck a few Noodles (long tubular pieces of styrofoam used as pool toys) of varying widths into the skimmer.  After some skeptical examination, the ducklings each hopped their way up the styro-staircase and out.  Success!  After some dilly-dallying, the ducks then exited through the gate toward the front yard and disappeared into the ivy that covers our front slope.  Bye-bye!

Roadblock

A minor film noir effort.  It's basically about a tough-guy insurance investigator who falls for a femme fatale who is bent on finding a rich guy.  By which she means, not him.  But he's desperate to get her, so he cooks up a scheme with a local crook to steal some cash being transferred between banks.  But in the meantime, she's fallen in love with him, and so after the crime is put in place, she ironically doesn't need him to be rich anymore.  At that point, like in many good film noirs, it's too late.

It contains a bit of dialogue I love, early in the movie when she is still in the take-no-prisoners golddigger mode:

Her: I'm tired of being kicked around.  I'm gonna start out with silver fox and go straight to mink.

Him: Then ermine, sable?

Her: Everything.  Know what everything is?

Him: Happiness doesn't count, eh?

Her: Can happiness buy money?

I also love that in the car chase at the end of the movie, his destination to get away is Glendale.

In Search Of...

...the elusive good photo of Elliot.

Louie is naturally photogenic, and because he is white, his nose and eyes stand out.

But Elliot is harder.  Harder to expose correctly, harder to pick out his nose and eyes, and thus his personality.

This image is a start.  Stay tuned.

Editing Previous Posts

I just finished changing one of my previous blog entries.  It mentioned a lunch I had with a well-known animation director, and it used to mention him by name.

But this morning I read an article in the New York Times Magazine about a well-known blogger and her many regrets about very personal information she shared in her blog,  exposed for all to see.  Some very offending and embarrassing personal information, apparently.  She chose, rather than to take the blog entries down, or change them, simply to password-protect them, so only her friends could read them.

I chose to go back into a few of mine and in one case, take out a nasty comment that I now regret, and in this recent case just take out someone's name.  The blog entry is fun and I think mostly positive, but not ALL positive, and this person might be offended.

Is that so wrong?

Yet More Crowded House Shows

I didn't take the picture to the right, but I certainly did attend both Crowded House shows here in LA recently.  (This after attending four last year.)

Friday night, the first of two nights, I just went by myself.  There's only so much CH Ellen can take, after all.  (She likes them but will occasionally comment "all their songs are so sad."  Mentally I reply, "exactly!")  The lovely, somewhat restored Orpheum theater in downtown LA played host to the band, so I dragged myself down there in the Prius, wondering if I should score some crack since I don't get down there very often.  Instead, I had a $9 margarita at the bar next door to the theater, then ordered a bacon cheeseburger at the little greasy spoon window-service establishment adjacent to the parking lot. They have a little tiny linoleum counter bolted to the outside of their closet-sized cooking area, with ugly stools.  I sat there, basically in the parking lot, munching on my burger, watching the BMWs enter, perfectly happy.  But perhaps that's the margarita talking.

Then I went into the show, Row J.  Not too shabby.  It turned out there were two "singles" on either side of me.  One was a 20-something Brit who was in LA on business and took advantage of the coincident CH tour schedule.  I liked him until during the show he several times called somebody on his cel phone, yelled something, then held up the phone so they could hear a distorted, unrecognizable bit of live music.  On the other side of me was a 50-ish woman who came with her sister, but they couldn't get tickets together, so her sister got the second-row seat.  They had taken the subway and misjudged how far away the subway stop was from the theater (about ten blocks), and were a little nervous about the walk back late at night.  I told her I thought she'd be fine as I mentally made a note of her appearance for comparison with crime scene photos in the paper tomorrow.

Then the band came on, which was wonderful of course.  I won't blather on and on about it.  Crowded House shows are always different, they like to mix up the set list, take requests, banter with each other, play old obscure songs, make up songs on the spot.  That, and beautiful ballads like "Fall at Your Feet" and "Don't Dream it's Over."

After the show, the lady next to me tapped my shoulder and said "nice to meet you."  On the spur of the moment, I turned and asked her if she and her sister wanted a ride to the subway stop.  The look on her face said, "I suddenly realize you could be a registered sex offender" and she declined.  Hey I didn't really want to do it anyway!

The next night Ellen and I went to a fun Irish pub (reliving our last year's trip) downtown before the show.  I had "bangers and mash" which is Irish for bland sausage with brown gravy and mashed potatoes.  This being LA, they were garlic mashed potatoes.

The show Saturday night was even better than Friday.  Crowded House -- c'est bon!

Louie Cools Off

It's been hot here.  Up to almost 100 yesterday and today.  So, even though we try to be good citizens and money savers and set the A/C at 78, it comes on fairly often.

And the dogs are not immune to the heat.  So (and this is a relatively new phenomenon) once in a while Louie will plop himself down in front of the heat/cool air vent and let it blow over him.

See above.

It can also be viewed on youtube:

http://www.youtube/watch?v=Zlfh9La1QqM

My Lunch with Fred A. Nonymous

In trying to broaden my search for what to do next,  I have been trying to meet different people, maybe even find someone who might be willing to cook up movies to pitch together.

For instance, a few weeks ago I decided to invite Fred A. Nonymous to lunch.  (I decided to give him a pseudonym, not because this story is so bad, but just to courteous.) The same Fred A. Nonymous who co-directed several famous top-grossing animated movies.  I had made a tentative connection with Fred  through a website called "LinkedIn," a sort of FaceBook for businesspeople, I think, since I have never been to FaceBook.  I'm too old.

Anyway I figured, in a rather mercenary way, that I might be able to convince Mr. Nonymous to work with me to cook up an animated movie idea for me to produce and him to direct.  After all, I'm good at coming up with stories, and he hasn't had a movie made in a while.  Maybe he'd be up for it.  (I already have three animated movie ideas that I am pitching around, but the three of us who cooked them up do not have the name value of Fred N.)

I send an e-mail, and Fred quickly agrees to lunch.  I guess he's in the "hey it couldn't hurt to meet anybody" mode too!  We meet at a groovy forties-style deli in Glendale at noon last Wednesday.  Fred's maybe my age (a little under 50), still got all his hair, or most of it, and has an open, young-looking, generous face.  He smiles when I introduce myself and we get a table.  I order the pastrami.  I forget what he ordered.  But so far so good, lunch couldn't be more pleasant.

I ask him to tell me the story of his last few years (since it's been that long since he's gotten a movie made).  What happened?  Well Fred launches into his narrative of woe.  The stories are very entertaining, full of visits to development hell, development purgatory, and development boredom.  There are good guys and bad guys, and many hurt feelings.  I ask, what happened to Ethelred the Unknown, his partner on all his movies?  Well, he's at (another animation compnay), laboring away, also trying to get a movie to direct.  (But seemingly happy there, to hear Fred tell it.)

What's Fred doing now?  Well trying to get some movies going with various former colleagues.

Just to clear the air, I asked him if he was offended by the idea of sequels to his movies.  No, he answered, I just avoided seeing them or thinking about them.  He had heard a few of them were good, and a few of them were bad, no skin off his nose.

So I launch into my pitch.  I've spent the last 8 years cooking up stories at Disneytoons with some level of success.  I know he doesn't know me from Adam, and I worked on mostly sequels, but maybe we could help each other.  I would do as much of the heavy lifting as he wanted in terms of cooking up a story, and we would together use the leverage of his name to pitch around town, trying to get something set up.  He nodded politely, and I could tell already he was not ready to accept this offer right now. 

So I backed off, saying it's something that maybe could be filed away as a future possibility, that right now it's great to have met and establish a relationship.  Yes, he agreed.  But, I continued, maybe there was a way for him to familiarize himself with my work, since I of course was already familiar with his work.  Although it may sound nutty, the movie I am most proud of from my DisneyToon days was Cinderella 3.  Maybe he'd like a copy to watch?

Well you should have seen the look on his face.  It was as if I had handed him a knife and asked him to go home and stab his mother.  He was trying very hard to be polite, but it was clear that underneath the polite smile was the feeling, "I'd rather drink my own urine than watch Cinderella 3.  Didn't you hear what I said before about the sequels?"

Well there you go.  I accept his reaction.  And I still found him charming and pleasant.  But it was a clear reminder where the direct-to-video sequels stand with some people.

Onward and upward!