Question: How does one walk a dog?
Answer: With a leash.
Question: How does one walk a dog in California?
Answer: Pulling it in a wagon.
While playing basketball outside with Kev, I witnessed a site I believe could not happen in my home state of Illinois. A girl, about our age, was walking black labradog pups. But not in the normal way—in a wagon. Pulling them. Behind her.
That is ridiculous. And could come to pass only in the Golden State, I’m willing to speculate.
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My first exposure to the California beach scene. Kev and I hit up Newport Beach. Took forever to find parking. I bitched at him. Saw lots of hot, underage girls. Didn’t feel that bad for gawking. Saw some fake boobies. Didn’t feel that bad for gawking. Saw crowded parts of the beach and less crowded parts of the beach. Wondered aloud why people did not efficiently distribute themselves along the beach to make optimal use of the limited beach resources. Kevin laughed at this. Talked about pathological liars. Was amused. Wondered what the deal is with all those ridiculous “low rider” bikes. (Never got an answer on that.) Went back to the car, returned home.
Well yeah, that’s the beach, eh.
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I’m in Los Angeles. For bidness, you know.
The freeways here are huge, big, amazing. Yes, everyone talks about them, and I think I’ll chip in. I’m a huge fan of the “carpool lane” idea—if you have two or more people in the car, you get to ride in a super special lane on the left that goes faster. Now there’s a grand idea from the school of economics: build a an external incentive into the environment to shape human behavior. Or maybe that’s sociology. No wait, psychology? But hey, I like it.
My rental’s a Pontiac Grand Am. Can someone tell me why all these rental cars have to be white? Does it keep the company’s insurance costs down? Because it keeps my visual excitment down. Anyhow, the Grand Am is actually reasonably fast, and I’m enjoying the break from my geriatric 1987 Toyota Camry, even if I look like white trash while doing it.
And lastly: valet. What is the deal here? To me, this is just a small step above the gas station attendant. I drove my car to a place, dammit, so I think I can handle parking it. On the other hand, perhaps it’s just more glamorous, and if there’s anything the world needs, it’s glamour, right?
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I take the train home every day. My train matches the pace and direction of the train beside it. The two slide back forth, alternating between leader and follower, and the rows of faces in the windows glide with the trains.
We are separated only by two panes of glass. And back and forth the trains go, showing me his face and her face once and twice.
Then my train, the Express train, gathers itself and charges ahead, leaving the rumbling Red to make another stop.
I often think how strange it is that I will never again see many of those people in my lifetime. I often think how strange it is they will look me in the eye through the two panes of glass more readily and more fiercely than anywhere else we might pass. I often think how strange a world it is that we have crafted for ourselves, this.
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A couple of weeks ago, I debunked the myth of bad offense in the 2004 NBA East playoffs. Today, I’d like to make an announcement: I’m a genius, and all the “experts” can sniff my earthy aroma.
(more…)
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From published news reports on the techie sites, I knew this was coming, but it’s still a beautiful sight to log into one’s Yahoo! Mail account and see this:
Uhh, move over, gmail snobs.
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