No I'm not. You are.

~ Preamble ~
Tonight's story relates to one of my favorite times in human development. It's not a time of innocence but instead a time of learning and shaping. It is the time of childhood. This step in human development, especially when contrasted against the terrifying realities of events like the car crash I just heard outside my window (yes, I did stop writing so I could call the police and they responded very fast), is one that is worth protecting and traversing personal adversity to do so. I hope to protect Lisa from such events for as long as possible, and when I cannot be there then I hope she has enough presence, training and knowledge to care for herself , first, and others, second.

Tonight's story takes place in a car.

~ The Amble ~
Hey Lisa, guess what!

What?

You're a Googoo Head!

        The first shot has been fired in the Googoo war! Attack with tenacity!

No I'm not!

Yes you are. I Just talked to Mr. Cauliflower Head, and heee said that... you... are... a Googoo head.

Oh yeah? Well I'm gonna call Mr. Cauliflower right now.

        Lisa picks up the nearest carrot and holds it to her ear. Her locks drape just above her brow, loosening from the barret, revealing a recent haircut. Her eyes are large and dark, impossibly adorable, and inlaid with equal parts mischief and giggle-dust. They lose themselves to her mind, reading the lines of the conversation she's in the middle of formulating. Googoo war has been declared and she will not yield so quickly.

Hello? Mr. Cauliflower?

        a pause as she awaits his reply, motionless in mid breath

Oh my gosh!

She exhales quickly on the 'gosh.' Her eyes widen in surprise and though they are staring out, she is clearly focused inward. I love this part. Lisa manages affected false conversations on telephone carrots better than any four year old i know. I think she'll be a social girl as she grows up; if she avoids that end, it is still agreed that she will be a heartbreaker. Because of this, I sometimes find myself preparing conversations she and I will have as she realizes her eventual influence over boys. I am sad for the heart-broken boys whom she'll never acknowledge and worried about her heartbreaks for the times she does acknowledge a boy. But, these fears are premature by more than ten years so I am content to just watch her behavioral patterns, track how they change, catalogue their patterns and play silly games.

        For now, she hangs up the carrot phone by dismissing it to gravity.

Hey Andrew!

        In the car, she sets inside voice to 11.

Yes Lisa?!

       I make sure to match her energy level so I can keep her interest. This is an art form in a car ride with a four year old because time spent laughing is a reprieve from the alternate timeline of pouting, crying and the draining rollercoaster of her emotional instability.

Mr. Cauliflower AND Mr. Firetruck said that You're Googoo head!

       Her laughter rises like giggles brought to a soft boil.

He did not.

Yes he did.

Did not.

Did so!

Nuh-uh.

        I'm in heaven at getting to be a child again, or at least act like one.

Yes he did. I just talked to him.

Oh... Well I guess that makes you a Googoo head then.

       I learned that trick from Bugs Bunny: deflect, deny and change the game.

No it doesn't!

Yes it does.

       I play it straight laced and deadpan, treating each reply as a serious statement. Imagine Presidential Obama debating Crazy Frog, where every outburst of 'Crazy Frog' is met with a stolid and collegial 'I see.'

Nuh-uh!

Yup.

...

...

Andrew? ...Plaintive now.

Yes Lisa?

I thought bed was Googoo.

        Is she worried about seriously being a googoo head? It's possible. But really she'd be more worried about the possibility of an insult or that I somehow don't respect her. Because I love and respect her and want only joy and peace for her, I concede.

It is.

So why'd you say I was Googoo?

Because it makes me laugh.

        Honesty is important when answering direct questions.

...

...

        And now that she's had enough time to rest and relax and parse this information, it's back on.

And because you are.

No I'm not!

Yes you are, Mr. Napkin Face said so!

        Good ol' Mr. Napkin Face, my ace in the hole every time.

Mom! Andrew said I'm Googoo head. Tell him He's Googoo head!

Maybe you are Googoo head.

        ...she says. My girlfriend plays along well when the situation requires.

No I'm not mom.

Okay.

...

Mom?

        She steers to the right, merging into the west-bound traffic.

Yes?

Tickle me mommy! Tickle meeee!!!

        She kicks her feet wildly in her chair as a momentary spasm erupts throughout her muscles. Her need for attention, love and escape from boredom drive her to this volatile outburst.

'Please mommy tickle me'?

        My girlfriend is a master at the correction of behavior.

Okay. PLEASE mom, will you tickle me?

Is it safe to do that right now?

        She is also the master of diffusing child bombs. Lisa's emotional rollercoaster avoids a high speed crash into the nadir of the downward slide. Her legs stop jostling and she regains some peace and clarity...

No.

        ...and maybe a touch of sullenness.

...

...

        ...the clouds clear.

Hey Andrew!

        Still at 11 and everything else just got dissolved, shoved into the past or forgotten.

Yes Lisa?

Did you know Mr. Cauliflower said that the Earth's name is...

        she begins laughing, and i do too because i know what's coming

...did you know...

        more laughing, her head rolls and bounces with each laugh.

...did you know the Earth's name is... Poopoo-Peepee?!

        She doubles over now, laughing and gasping for breaths between giggles

...Poopoo-Peepee!

        She says again. This is one of her primo jokes and therefore needs to be repeated as much as is insanely and  near inhumanly possible. 

        Her un-controllable giggling finishes the Googoo war, for now.

The Earth's name is Poopoo-Peepee!

        She continues laughing as my girlfriend drives us into the garage. This drive home saw ne'er a meltdown or tantrum... this time. There is one last obstacle, and that's Mr. Seatbelt. Lisa, in all her budding wisdom and youthful approaches, still adheres to a practice of lettering others do for her even if she can provide for herself. The trials of Mr. Seatbelt are no different. "Lisa, put your seatbelt on." "But I don't know how!" which begets a meltdown of liquid salt pouring from red eyes and harsh brows. "Mommy! I want you to do my seatbelt. I don't know how!" She obviously does know how but its no use pointing out her misdirection. So, when possible, I like to leverage another trend of hers against the trend of needing others do things for her. It is amazing how strong the preservation of self identity can motivate even a child... aka, winning.

Okay Lisa!

        My girlfriend turns the car off.

I'm gonna beat you taking off my seatbelt!

        It's so easy, and I'm so very grateful for that. I set the bait and she bites.

No you're not! I always beat you!

Not this time! Its my turn to win! You better watch out!

        She furiously works the seatbelt somehow hoping that adding frenzy will expedite the outcome. It does not. But somehow, that darn seatbelt seems just too much for me and, once again, Lisa wins the seatbelt race. It is a small price to pay for winning the peace-of-mind game. Every once in a while though, either out of boredom or a desire to keep her glued to the game for as long as possible (because any game can quickly become boring if there's never the threat of losing), I happen to remove my seatbelt faster and proudly exclaim my victory. Lisa hates this, not because it diminishes her but because she lost. This makes her try doubly hard in future seatbelt races and I let her win for as long as she motivates herself. If I ever feel she's losing interest then I make it a close race, and if ever I feel she's too many times in a row then I finish first. So far, for her the fear of losing and the excitement of having fun and winning, is more important than being lazy. I can work with that.

I told you Andrew! I told you I was gonna win!

I was so close! I demand a recount! ... Next time Lisa. Next time I'm gonna win.

No you're not!

       Would I throw a seatbelt race against a four year old, and promote a love of poopoo-peepee jokes to maintain domestic tranquility? Absolutely.
        "Positive role-model status" - Achieved.

        My work here is done.

        ...

        PS. She also wins the race up the stairs to the front door... and the other one to take her shoes off first and put them in the shoe area before walking through the house.

Of Hero Major, Hero Minor and Hero Lost

Of Heroes Major, Minor and Lost ::Preamble::
It has been a long two years for me in Los Angeles and, aside from a few moments of misfortune or the lack-luster results of honest intention, it has been an amazing two years. To date, the actual amount of time I've lived in Los Angeles comes to roughly 2.724-ish years. Tonight's stories focus on heroes: being present, gone or taken. While this offering boasts not of candied smiles nor sugar-plum wishes, I can write that the first story, “Of Hero Minor,” has a happy, if uneventful, ending. This lack of a dramatic ending, I think, may be the thing that most clearly defines this story as actually having a happy ending. All other stories, when pulled off the gloss of the silver screen while keeping in tact the lurid drama that captivates our collective interests so well, become so damaging, exhausting and forlorn when seen on the stage of everyday life; when the events depicted happen to your neighbor, friend, colleague or random body, then the presence of drama sours events, perception and mood often to the point of spoiling, sometimes permanently, sometimes tragically. There is one gift coming from dramatic tales that we can hang our hats or hearts on, and that gift being that we can strive to be something better than we thought we were or could be. In as much as each person decides for themselves, we can find and embrace concepts that inspire us to greatness, because even though we may not have seen them in our daily lives, we may have caught a glimpse of it in our media. Tonight I write about heroism in three different forms: a small act in a split second, a tragedy with no public record, and a dire sacrifice in an attempt to keep peace. Though these stories could happen anywhere, these are all Los Angeles stories.

Of Hero Minor
This is the happiest story of tonight's trio and therefore the best place to start. Consider this the calm before the change. It is of minor importance I think, although its effect is difficult to estimate because there is no knowing what would have happened in place of this, if this hadn't happened or the outcome were altered.
Over a year ago I had started a boxing classes at my local gym. The class was meant far more as boxing for exercise as no actual fight training happened. We largely spent our time running laps, crunching our abs and throwing our fists at heavy bags until we couldn't stand anymore, or until the hour was up. I was never sure which was going to end my agony first for any given class.
On one particular night of boxing exercise, I was assigned to a bag that partially rested against the hinges of a metal gate; during class, the metal gate is folded into a collapsed state and rests against its moorings and is therefore in the direct path of the punching bag to which I was assigned.
I love boxing classes and the feel of power that comes from my fists thrusting into a heavy bag. This violent release meted out on an inanimate object representing all those cars that drive too slow, those loaves of bread that go stale too fast, those people telling us to buy organic bread because the other breads have preservatives that aren't good, to those damned bread companies adding unhealthy preservatives making the practice of purchasing food so much more difficult, and to that 8th grade teacher... Why were you so mean? Surely it had nothing to do with me being an obnoxious punk, a know-it-all and a smart-ass. So why? Enter punching bag, and 20 years of distance and everything is forgiven. After an hour, I don't care about any of it. I just feel my knuckles burning because the top layers of skin are smashed and force-pressed into the canvas-laminate bag, and it is good. At some point in this knockabout, where bag collides with gate, the repetitive pounding forces an unseen eventuality. The air is cool, my sweat is hot and burns my eyes by running rivulets from brow to cheek eventually dropping from my chin into night air. All around me are the sounds of muffled blows to soft-packed sand, and chains creaking from the stresses of everyone's vented days. I can hear the gate rattle loudly as I land punch after punch on the bag. Vented frustration leads to vented anger as blow by blow my knuckles wear the bag down while it, in turn, wears my knuckles down. In this raw and undisciplined melee, the collapsible iron gate juts free from its railing and it is free to fall. The sound of the bag and gate colliding ceases immediately, which alerts me to an unexpected change. The lack of sound means the bag isn't hitting the gate, and yet the bag is still moving. I look up to see the top of the iron gate begin a slow acceleration out, wide and down. I am at first immediately gratified slightly believing the possibility that I could have been strong enough to actually cause this to happen. I imagine the continued trajectory of the gate and see a woman standing directly at the gate's probable end of path. I think about the weight of the gate and its increasing free fall and know that catching the falling gate could hurt immensely. Better me than her. With a quick side-step setting my feet up for a forward lunge, I wave the woman out of the way and shout at her to move. I stand in the direct path of the gate and hold out my arms to catch the network of collapsed steel arms. I grit my teeth. My muscles taut in dread and anticipation. For half a split second I imagine that the gate my cut me; I push the thought aside as it is of no use. What's done is done, or soon will be. The woman is out of the gate's reach now. Her face is slack-jawed confusion and eye-brow raising fright. The gate lands in my arms and bows my knees from the pain and weight of impact. She's not sure what just happened but she is sure it didn't affect her, and she knows someone is standing next to her, who wasn't there a moment before, holding a gate and grimacing with pain and the strain of large burden. It's been too long now to completely remember if I dropped the gate, or tried to hoist it back in to position. I believe it was the latter. Twice throughout the rest of the gym class, her boyfriend took the time to thank me for saving his girlfriend from the falling gate. I am grateful that his response is gratitude, especially when so generously offered.
This is a good memory because it represents a concrete event in Life where I got to be someone I respected. Regardless of the fears of who I might've been, I have this as a rock to know I acted like the kind of person I wanted to be well before the rational mind could intervene and possibly veto any action.

Of Hero Lost
Twenty minutes in a Best Buy can make a world of difference.
Los Angeles is a wonderful city. It has almost anything that could be asked of a city or dense collection of anonymous neighbors. In LA, someone can surf the Pacific ocean in the morning, ski the slopes that afternoon and then hit the clubs at night in a dazzling array of mini-skirts, sunglasses, hair gel, frosted vodka bottles and lights in the colors of party and fabulous. With this comes another side of Los Angeles, a side just as well known and slightly less discussed, the Concrete Jungle. As of Oct 1st, 2012, the L.A. Times crime blog posted an annual total of 420 dead in the city by way of murder. The city of Los Angeles has 3.8 million people (as of the 2010 census). The metropolitan area and combined statistical area are, respectively: 12.8 million and 17.78 million. The city police department employs 10,023 police officers and 2,879 unsworn agents; these figures do not include the officers of the County of Los Angeles. (1.) On a Sunday of generally little importance, I was frantically running errands, driving the extents of Los Angeles from South to North and back again. This particular Sunday an errand had me stopping at the local Best Buy on N. La Brea and Romaine, in Hollywood. Traffic in this concrete jungle wore patience like the stress in my jaw, compressing my molars fueled by exhaustion and frustration. The parking lot for Best Buy was simple to navigate; the ceiling is vast, the lighting dim and the lane paint is visible. I parked, pocketed my keys, and with single-minded determination on my face, I entered Best Buy.
Within 20 minutes the errand was complete.
Hurried, because of a hectic schedule, I walked to my car. Oddly, I remember the Best Buy garage left an impression not altogether pleasant. The slate grey concrete walls were stained with dilapidation and enough neglect to dim the light inside its cavernous corners. The painted parking lines were present and bare while the ceiling loomed and engulfed the transient shoppers in a quiet isolation within which no one chose to linger. I quickly found my car and, feeling no warmth from the architect or architecture, engaged the transmission to be on the way. Rolling up to the garage exit, I noticed a single, relatively out-of-sight sign informing all drivers to exit only to the left. Looking ahead, I prepared the car for the necessary left, and expected others to do so as well, though not expecting them to be as quick about it as my schedule required. Expectations be damned; everyone was turning right. A few forward, I noticed that someone was directing all traffic to the right. Hmmmmm.... this isn't normal. Anyone who puts a sign up is intent on the letter of the rule being followed, so to have this clear deviation meant that something was afoot; living in Los Angeles and Santa Monica taught me that most likely a movie was being filmed nearby. Oooh! I perked up, leaned forward in my car to crane my neck around the corner in adoring fascination of the industry for which I work.
At the end of the street, to the left, scattered among the road paint, lay two humans, still, their faces resting on their cheeks, belly down, arms and legs at hollow, off-kilter angles. From a distance, their dress and form suggested the feminine gender, though no motion confirmed nor denied that. The ingress to that branch of the intersection was barricaded by a line of LAPD squad cars, each with an attending officer looking out into the intersection but offering no assistance, no effort and no reprieve for the humans who had not moved an inch. No ambulances were present nor any firetrucks. No medical equipment lay strewn about. No Hollywood camera trucks lined the street, nor any television news trucks. The duty of the LAPD in that instant was to divert the flow of traffic away from that intersection, not assist the two laying askew in the middle of the street about the asphalt crown. This was the western end of the intersection of Romaine and La Brea. You can find it on Google Maps. When my day's errands were complete, I headed home. The day had passed to night but the memory hadn't waned. To the contrary, I needed more than earlier to know what happened and who was laying in the street. Did their parents know? Was it an accident, intentional? Did anyone know, aside from the police and everyone turning right at a left turn only sign?
I tried for an hour to get through, but the local police station wasn't answering their phones, or the line was busy. Constant searches on Google yielded no answers either. I checked for days. When calling the LA Times to inquire what happened and who, if anyone, had been hurt, it was my inquiry that informed them that anything had happened. I was connected with a reporter who promised to check in on the matter. After a few days of emailing, she replied stating that the police had no news of the incident, and therefore had nothing to report. I know nothing more than what I've written here, which seems to be more than the police and the LA Times.
Does anyone know? I truly hope that the people who care, or cared, for these two knows and has the answers they need. If it is ever investigated it should be published on the LATimes local news website:
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/ There is no mention here:
http://projects.latimes.com/homicide/neighborhood/west-hollywood/

Of Hero Major
This last story doesn't belong to me, and for over a year i have debated about whether or not to tell it. This story belongs to a friend, and it is in this story that my friend passes away. Were I to provide you any comfort from this story I would say that still, in these days of popularized and romanticized negativity and isolationism, there are people who do what they think is right.
DB was a coworker at my first post-collegial place of employment, a big fancy-pants video games company. At the time, he was a senior artist, already very good at what he did and very respected by his peers. He laughed easy, worked hard and made others feel welcome, even introverted goofballs as I had so readily been those many years ago. I'd like to regale you with stories of his wit, kindness and intelligence (of which it was clear he always had in plenty), but I cant because I never knew him as well as the others. I know he was good to work with, honest and kind. Others closer to him will know more and I wish someone closer to him wrote this story so that his life and times could be honored as befitted him. In 2003, I left the fancy-pants video games company to trek out into a new life, leaving some friends behind. Seven years passed before I saw DB again. It wasnt until I moved to Los Angeles that we reconnected. Occasional Facebook posts filled the years between, ensuring at least that names, faces and memories were remembered, as well as a mutual good will.
DB was the first friend from my time in video games that reached out after the move to LA. We were both working in or close to Santa Monica so we decided on lunch. He looked healthy and happy. It was refreshing to see because our last common employer was notorious throughout the industry for wearing down their employees and their employees' families. The restaurant squatted humbly in the shadow of the great raised concrete automobile river, the 405. We talked, joked, caught up. We were joyed at each other's successes and felt sorry for each other's losses but agreed that life was improving across the board for each other. Our jobs were better; our personal lives were better; we had both grown happier over the years and in our lunch we had a chance to celebrate that, in that openly stoic way that two male friends are want to do. I discussed sorrow over bridges I'd left burned when leaving the video game job and mentioned that i was too much a child at the time to be socially competent. In his reply, "we were all too young back then to be well adjusted" he brought grace and peace to unsettled memories and regrets. I will always be grateful for that. Lunch wrapped up and we agreed to do it again soon. Soon never happened though. A month had passed, or perhaps four, when the Facebook chatter reported that DB was dead.
The circumstances concerning his death were hazy at first, but as the hours spent themselves it became clear that DB was murdered. A few nights earlier, an argument broke out in front of his house. A woman and a man were verbally arguing outside, at night. Its been reported that DB did what he could to keep calm and intervene. Possibly enraged by this, the man in the argument attacked and murdered DB.
The wake followed soon after and was held in his community. The church sat at the end of an inclined driveway. The walls were thick, the interior space was airy and the pews were as uncomfortable as I'd remembered from my childhood church. I caught up withe old workmates from the days of video games. We briefly caught up; everyone is doing well. I paid my respects to people I'd never met before. Fortunately, a friend to joined me at the wake at my request because i didn't think I'd be able to do it alone. He knew nobody at the wake, which must have been daunting, but graciously helped me keep my shit together so I could speak to people without zoning out or climbing back inside my thoughts.
I wish i could tell you where to send money to his surviving children for college, and whatever one needs that only a father can provide, but those pages are removed from the internet. What I ask instead is that while you may never meet them, please say a prayer for his whole family, and a second prayer just for his children; growing up without a father is a hard life.
This is the only time I can remember using anyone's real name in these essays. Were this not a publicly reported event, I would have abstained from using his name. For more information, please visit: Video Game Artist Don Barnes Fatally Stabbed

Epilogue: Of Everyday Heroes
If you'll allow me this moment of sentimentalism...
What appeal for the hearts, souls and minds of humanity would you hear such that you would bring peace and joy to those you know and likewise to those you dont? Or to yourself? I'd simply like to ask that you be good to yourself so that you can be good to everyone else. This, I believe, is how everyday heroes begin.

Notes... 1. All statistical data regarding Los Angeles was pulled from Wikipedia:
Los Angeles entry on Wikipedia
LAPD entry on Wikipedia

Cigarette Smoke

::Preamble::

A good moving journal has written for it the occasional metaphorical contrapposto, as the tilted arm or slumped shoulder hangs off the rigid posture of rightness and movement so popular in the character sketches of the old masters: Leonardo, Michelangelo and even as recently as Degas. This contrast in expression and timely movements creates a single frame wherein a viewer could look for hours if well told. And further, if well told, could then embed grace in the very antagonism of contrasting poses: one arm strong and supportive where the other is bent, pliant and lost in the wind. Contrast is what drives us, more so than the simple notion that change drives us. Change is random whereas contrast is change with memories of before. Contrast is why we remember the dance step quick-quick-slow better than quick-quick-quick. For the sake of contrast, tonight’s subject is about the opposite of moving, changing, fluctuating, and molting. For contrast and the grace of balance, tonight’s subject is about roots and the beginning of a new awareness to that which happens when things stop changing.

::Bucca::
My new friend will be known as Bucca. Clearly this is not his name. He smokes. He’s old and seemingly closer and closer to a life in the hospital. I wish many things for Bucca. I wish him well. I wish for the feeling to come back to his leg so he can exercise. I wish his wife hadn’t passed and that he had someone. He does have a roommate right now and she is company and a steady ride to the hospital when needed. Bucca is old. It’s in his face, deeper than the lines and crevices, deeper than the skin slowly being drained of its suppleness. It’s in his face because it’s in his eyes. Bucca has sad eyes. His eyes look out, they skim and survey and land only fitfully on various things in their view. His eyes find no interest in what they see but seem so practiced in looking for things that they know no other habit than to look, survey and move on. I like Bucca very much; this affinity was not immediate.
Bucca sits most mornings on a nearly off-kilter, collapsible chair; it is at the least more sturdy than Bucca. He likes word puzzles. Most mornings he sits in front of his door, smoking his morning cigarette and solving puzzles in a book. We are not so dissimilar as I have my own collection of puzzles I habitually solve; the collection is on my iPhone and the puzzles deal with numbers, but these are only surface variations. We share a habitual practice to occupy our time and we do it with puzzles.

First Impressions are thankfully sometimes wrong-
At first I thought Bucca was a lonely, bitter, old man. I believe though that as I get to know him more that my first impression is incorrect. In fact, I look forward to the day when my first impression will be wildly incorrect. Bucca is the only person I see regularly in the morning and even in the evenings. He stands, looks out, surveys, registers no interest and continues looking and surveying until his cigarette burns through its life. Once complete, he turns with a slow shuffle and heads inside. In the mornings he sits studying his puzzles; they keep his mind sharp. I walk by, discuss the weather, ask about his health and if he had been to see the doctor recently. I want many things for Bucca but I think the thing I want the most it to see him every morning and evening so I can have someone to say hi to and I have some company as I pass time between work and living. Bucca is a man that has stopped to grow his roots in one place and, as I have so very little practice in growing my own roots, it always brings me comfort to see him study his puzzles and smoke his cigarettes. I absolutely hate cigarette smoke and especially loathe that lingering smell that even now permeates my clothes and steals the joy from the air. This however is a small price to pay for knowing that even as I plant roots for a single life in Los Angeles, I have a friend with his own sedentary roots who spends too much time playing games instead of getting out.

Bucca-
You would like Bucca; he doesn’t say much but when he does he complains about neighbors and reminisces about his wife. And Bucca has an excellent quality to share for anyone who wants to be known or heard in this world; Bucca is always happy to see you.

A California Night from Santa Monica

"Someone Saved my Life tonight."
A truck passes leaving a muffled, quiet rumbling in its wake. In five seconds the void returns and the lyrics drift in through the slatted glass window.
"someone saved, someone saved, someone saved my life tonight."
In looking out over the night covered streets the song comes from nowhere. The courtyard below, and the corner grocer parking lot, are empty. Cars pass occasionally and temporarily burning after images in the empty corner with their headligts - but here, on 17th and Ocean Park, Santa Monica is asleep save for Elton John's pleading voice. This is when and how the city block sings out loud when it believes no one is listening. 
"Someone saved my life tonight."
While inside one of the many apartments, the Latin Playboys are on an indefinite loop with the song "Crayon Sun" stating "This is what I am. This is what I am."

The neighbors in my building have in past and or present represented many unique points on the nations vast demographic scales. Criminals, a published Christian essayist, Korean school girls, parents, a septa or octagenarian, multiple visual effects professionals, caucasians, African Americans, mixed race couples, writers, visual artists, teens, forty year olds, mustaches, gray hairs, transients and long-timers. Not everyone gets along but at least people don't fight with each other in shouting matches. Sometimes a tv is played too loud, or sex is had at volume eleven, at one in the morning. Homeless people are invited around by one resident who has once gone so far as to make a lobster dinner for his homeless acquaitance and deliver it with some beers and served on top of a garbage bin next to the laundromat. Regardless of day or night, the bitter, and sometimes acrid, stench of wacky-tobacky lingers in the open air halways, just outside apartment windows. On some nights, random strangers stand in the dark alley with the tiny cords coming from their ears. Their eyes are often lowered as usually they desire to avoid direct eye contact. One person wore a hoody, stood completely in shadow against the day care hedges. This warranted a call to the police of suspicious activity. Of the weekly or monthly craziness that happens on my block, some of which starts in my apartment building, nothing was more scary or absurd than the resident who was hauled off to jail for human trafficking. We never learned where he was keeping the trafficked humans, but it wasn't in our apartment complex. This was over a year ago and there's been no similar trouble since.

Tonight though it's quiet as the city sings "someone saved my life tonight" and one apartment quietly replies "this is what I am."

How to Fix Your Brakes, Illustrated

::Preamble::
Tonight's post wraps itself around the soft, inviting cover of hobbies, manliness and auto repair. Rarely is a blanket of comfort so well weaved than when time alone meets personal accomplishment and hardened steel tools. Being able to take time aside from a busy life to build or repair something and to do so with the strength of my hands, the hardness of my bone and the stubbornness of my will is a deeply reaffirming experience. To look at something physical and know my hands have laid upon that material, formed or fitted disparate pieces together and repaired or created it brings pride without hubris and gratitude without expectation.
Additionally I should note that tonight's post brings two hobbies together. The description of the second will be laid out in great detail in a follow up post: the "How-To" of how this post went together; I assure you it is more interesting than it reads. The rest of this post should be humorous...

::Postamble::
Ah brake repair. It is so necessary a task. Without brakes airplanes would crash into levees, auto drivers would crash through fast food restaurants and order their meal while idling inside the kitchen. Even kites need brakes, for without a method to stop those flying daggers every third person would have an eyeball permanently attached to a flying piece of nylon on strings. And what of the Vikings? Without a method to stop their boat they might have accidentally carved a new river in North America as they missed their turn at Greenland and continued heading west.
What follows is a series of photographs from an old auto repair manual. I was fortunate enough to find these photos before I fixed my own front brakes last weekend. In case you're interested I replaced the brake pads and rotors. I'll relay the text as best as possible from the book I found. It is old so forgive the liberal interpretation of the instructions. From the illustrated manual, we can see that fixing your brakes, the front ones, is an easy process requiring no more than 8 steps. So... on we go...

"Step 1: Hire an Assistant-

The hiring of an assistant is of a dire importance. Assistants can be trusted colleagues who anticipate your every move and have the precise tool ready for you before you speak it's name. Working together side by side, you and your assistant will create a bond stronger than..."

Okay, this part gets fuzzy, but I think the author is trying to give examples of things with strong bonds like "Tango and Cash," "Bert and Ernie," or dihydrogen monoxide. The author then gives instructions on how to find an assistant including greetings of proper etiquette of the time. Below, the photo illustrates hiring an assistant.

"I say fair maiden... want to get in my buggy?"

"Step 2: Inspect Your Tools-

Now Reader once an assistant has been hired be sure that all working equipment is in operable shape. This is often where the bonding between you and your assistant starts. The pairing of technician and assistant must start here. Ensure your assistant understands the tools and job at hand."

Umm... I'm not sure what's going on here but I think the technician is excited by his assistant's knowledge.

Great Googly-moogly!!

"Step 3: Read the Instructions:

Well done reader. If you have made it this far, you certainly are quickly preparing yourself for the task at hand."

This photo is straight forward. Make sure you and your assistant read the instructions.

Find the nearest book and read it (this one!). All books contain useful knowledge.

"Step 4: Take a Break:

Reader by this point you have surely worked up a thirst. The road ahead will be arduous, take naps, cat-naps, breaks and rests often. I wager a shilling dear reader that you're ready for that nap!"

I guess people back then got tired easy.

Zzzz.... Oh not that insufferable Mr. Darcy again.... Zzzzz....

"Step 5: Fire that Chipmunk!

By now my fellow auto enthusiast you've witnessed that accursed chipmunk waiting around the edges of your project trying to take credit for your work, take your assistant or steal your Lucky Charms. Clearly I do not have to tell you this can not be tolerated. Fire That Chipmunk!"

Look at the chipmunks they had back then. I had no idea chipmunks evolved that fast in a hundred years.

You'll never work in this town again if my mustache has any say in the matter!!

"Step 6: Fix the Brakes!

This is it dear Reader. This is what all your napping and rodent expunging has lead to. It's time to fix your brakes! Make sure your assistant uses the big 'x' shaped tool in the general area of the engine bay. Buff the B-post!"

I think this illustrated guide is missing some key steps...

"Step 7: Congratulate your Assistant on a Job Well Done-

It is customary to show your appreciation to your assistant by making idle conversation and offering fair recompense. It would be rude to not ask your assistant if she is free on the morrow's Thursday to wed and make babies. The modern woman particularly finds large mustaches and waggy fingers appealing."

Times sure have changed since then...

Good Work Technician. Wiggle your mustache and she is now satisfactorily flattered! Prepare to make babies!

"Step 8: To the Victor go the Spoils

Soon the morrow's Thursday will approach. Prepare with a clean shave and practice your waggy fingers!"

Clearly not all technician / assistant relationships ended in babies back then. I think the author was deluding himself by this point.

Dear Technician, did you forget to properly display your waggy fingers?!?! A modern woman deserves better!!!

Artist and Bon Vivant: Tito Margolis Van Amsterdam O'Shaunessy IV

::Preamble::
Tonight's post is written from and with love and brings what I hope to be some lighthearted laughs at the spontaneity of a child's newly maturing sense of humor.
I wish, I wish, I wish I had the wherewithal or imagination to write tonight's entry. Were I to give credit to where credit is due, for the first section in tonight's post, I would credit my friend and his five year old son. I won't use his son's real name here, so instead I'll refer to him as "Tito Margolis Van Amsterdam O'Shaunessy IV." Though not a blood relative of mine, Tito Margolis Van Amsterdam O'Shaunessy IV is like a nephew to me and his sister is my Goddaughter. In an odd turn of events, I am their father's father.
The first section in tonight's post is a retelling of a dinner conversation at my friend's dinner table. In this conversation Tito Margolis Van Amsterdam O'Shaunessy IV references his "Andy Watching Eye." Tito Margolis Van Amsterdam O'Shaunessy IV will tell his father that he can keep an eye on me all the way from Chicago. This keeps me safe and I am grateful for Tito Margolis Van Amsterdam O'Shaunessy IV watching over me, from Chicago, with his "Andy Watching Eye." He's been known to see me on the beach, or after earthquakes.
The second section, shows a visual comparison of a drawing, of me, by Tito Margolis Van Amsterdam O'Shaunessy IV against an actual photo of me.


::That Which Succeeds the Preamble::

As told by my friend / son about his son, my nephew...

So last night we are having beef.  I'm certain it was.  My wife cooked, so it was absolutely amazing.  Tito is farting around with his dinner as usual.  I finally say:

(Dad) "Look…you need to eat that or you will never be big and strong."

(Son) "What makes me big and strong?"

(D) The meat and the veggies.

(S) This?

(D) Yes.

(S) How much should I eat?

(D) Depends on how big and strong you want to be.

(S) Really big and really strong.

(D) Probably all of it.

(S) Then will I be big and strong like you?

(D) Strong yes, but don’t eat too many sweets or you will be big like me.

(S) No, I want to be strong like you, but big like Andy.

(D )Well Andy is not big, he is skinny.

(S) No, not like that, I meant BIG.  Like he is so tall.  He touches the ceiling with his head.

(D) Really?

(S) Oh yea.  He is huge.  He is like a giant. Last time he was here, he left marks on the ceiling with his head.

(D) Really? Wow. How is he doing, Tito?

(S) I don’t know.  I haven’t checked in a while.

(D) Can you check please? 

(S) Sure.  I need to go to the bathroom and put my Andy watching eye in. 

(D) OK, be sure to wash your hands.

-Tito leaves for bathroom…we here sounds like bzzzzz clang clang clang bzzzzz (similar to transformers)

(S) OK I got it in.

(D) Did you wash your hands.

(S) I used Alcohol.

(D) Oh, OK.  So how is Andy?

(S) Oh no.

(D) Oh no?  What is going on Tito?

(S) He ate too much beef.

(D) Huh?

(S) Dad, he grew huge!  He busted down his building and is walking through the city.

(D) Oh no.  Is he breaking things?

(S) Kinda, because he is so tall.  He has airplanes around his head.

(D) Like King Kong?

(S) -laughs- Yea! Just like that.  They think he is a gorilla because he is so tall and hairy!

(D) -now I am laughing- Oh wow!  Are they shooting at him?

(S) No, he is a friendly tall hairy gorilla.

(D) He is a gorilla?

(S) Well, he isn’t a gorilla, he just looks like one.

(D) Are you sure you have the correct eye in?

(S) Let me go check.

-Tito runs into the bathroom, more transformer sounds.

(D) Did you wash your hands?

(S) No, I used alcohol.

(D) OK.  Was it the right eye?

(S) No, I have the right one in now.  That one was my King Kong watching eye.

(D) So what is Andy doing?

(S) Oh not much.  He is just watching some TV.

(D) Oh…ok.      ….    ….   How many eyes do you have?

(S) Lots. 

(D) Like a spider?

(S) Yes.

(D) That is gross.

-         Tito Laughs- finishes dinner.

::Comparison of Artist's Rendering to Actual Photograph ::
A few weeks I received an image which Tito himself drew. It's a portrait of me wearing my well known fedora. In order analyze the visual accuracy of Tito's artistic rendering I've created side by side comparisons of the rendering to an actual photo. It may be difficult to tell the differences between the two, so in the second image I've labeled some of the differences between the drawing and the photo.

The two images are amazingly similar which I think stems from the similarities of the hat. Unexpectedly, there are more differences then you may have originally noticed. You'll see from the photo that I actually have no abdomen whereas in the artist's rendering I have cloven hooves for feet, yellow hose, a purple sundress and a bullet hole.

The Little Things

::Preamble::
I am blessed and cursed by the play and intricacies of the little eddies and whorls of events that encompass and provide constant causation for the unseen and unsung mechanics of this magnificent world. Lately I have been more blessed than cursed by these nearly minute circumstances. Tonight's post, while perhaps not quite an ode to the little things, is at least and certainly a celebration of how small objects, events and circumstances can so perceptibly describe and massively impact all of our lives. So to these things I write in grace, with humor and from observation.

~ Post Preamble ~

::Immediately::
It has been a long day with friends and good people. This is a time in LA when the evenings get cool. I shan't say "cold" because of my friends and brothers in far colder climes. It is nights like this when the temperature drops and I come home to a dark apartment, empty of presence save for my own. I come home, turn on the wall heater, and curl up to the warm blossom of radiating heat and let it open around me.

::Thumbs::
Thumbs. Little, fragile, important. Today, from the love of exercise and physical activity, my thumbs are bruised to a degree I've never seen. I've asked my trainer to begin incorporating reflex exercises into our sessions. We added a new weight exercise. Using two 2-lb weights, we take turns throwing the balls at each other at random directions. This involves diving low with one hand while stretching high with the other as two small weights are always in the air. From catching the hurled weights, in which the use of thumbs of is repeated, I have thumbs near doubled in size. Two of my smallest digits are now black and blue and as tender as a steak cooked medium well. Every minute I feel their injured presence with every flexion and
retraction.

::This is NOT Penis Cream::
I have spent my whole life as a jester and probably as also a fool in such a degree as is necessarily associated with jesters. My adult years have only tempered my jesterhood but ne'er will this be wrought out. If it should ever empty, please know that pod people have invaded and I am no longer in my right mind. In short, sometimes I'm an ass. A few weeks ago i ran out of checks. I needed checks to pay the rent. So a few weeks ago i visited my online bank dressed only in the finest garb that a bachelor does when online
banking: a t-shirt and a glass of milk (it was cold, i needed the shirt). While perusing the créme de la créme of today's elite world of online check art i noticed that i could also order a personalized rubber stamp with my address on it. Why, if I had a stamp with my name on it, I'd be somebody. I might even be famous someday. That logic degraded when it came time to listing my address for the personalized stamp production. This is what i ordered:
THIS IS NOT
- PENIS CREAM -
FROM SANTA MONICA, CA 90405
Oh, my address book is out of date. Please send me your current address so i can send Christmas cards.

Idea originated from Steve Martin as a skit on SNL. Thanks Steve!

::Crushes::
Does anyone know if Alanis Morissette is single yet? If you see her let her know that I'm totally cool and awesome. Oh, let her know I smell like roses but manly roses: like what you'd get if you mixed a bouquet of roses with gun oil. She probably doesn't like guns, so tell her it's from a sensitive gun. It feel really, really, really bad when fires a round and instead of bullets coming out a flag appears that says "Hey, I'm totally sorry for scaring you, but you did break in to my house and that was naughty. Now be a good lad and call the police while I pour us some tea." On second thought... that's awkward. Just tell her I say "hi."

::Doughnut or Donate::
The local Albertson's is not unique save for it's location. The halls exceed at creating such a manifest beigeness that it's difficult to recall specific details. I dare say the past sentence was more exciting in explaining the store's passive presence than the it's use of mute beige. While in line to purchase my goods, at the last moment possible to add an item of purchase to my list, i look over and see a laminated sheet with bar codes for $1, $5, or $10. Ah! Of course, it's seasonal donation time at Albertson's. I ask if it's too late to donate and he says "No! There is still time. What would you like?"
"I'd like to donate please."
"How much?"
"Five dollars please."
He rings me up, hands me the receipt and says i can pick up my items over there. His hand gently pushes the air in a direction behind me. I am confused. I dont't think i'm supposed to get anything for donating.
He now points to a location on the receipt and shows me where i've made my purchase of five doughnuts. We have a minor back and forth to clarify any miscommunications in the end I decide that the hassle isn't worth having him refund the doughnuts and charge me for a donation. I can just as easily give away doughnuts as I can dollars. So I have 5 sugary, stale sweets - that kind of stale, sweet stickiness that congeals after too many hours in the air and not enough hours in tummies. I ask the cashier what donut he would like. Any doughnut is fine with him. One down, four to go.

::The Current Word Processor and Self Publishing::
This entire missive, and many others like both published and unpublished, is written on two small devices and requires two pieces of software. The total weight of the hardware may be as heavy as two pounds but it feels like that like less a half. The iPhone is the heaviest component as it carries all the brains. The wireless keyboard though greater in volume weighs noticeably less. The software I use to write with is an iPhone app called "Office 2." It cost me about $3. The other piece of software used is "blogger.com" at a mere zero dollars and zero cents. The phone I bought used at $100 and the keyboard, new, at $80.

::A Final Image::
A candid snapshot at the company holiday party this year, disco themed. Can you dig it?