Anytime Bread

A weird sight at the grocery store. Is this a new way of labeling bread?
Here's a closer view.

Lunch, anytime, and dinner. What's the difference between lunch and dinner bread? And what bread has the distinction of being eaten anytime?

Health Care Reform

Woooooo! Health care reform!!!!!!!!!1! It makes me want to break out some old episodes of Jackass; surely the disclaimers about not recreating the stunts at home no longer apply now that I have some guaranteed hospital coverage.

In all seriousness, this is exciting news for me, since insurance companies have already labelled me permanently damaged goods. Since my "severe TMJ" is so unsexy and minor to my overall health, I would have never thought I'd be restricted on the grounds of having a pre-existing condition, which I have explained in more detail previously and don't feel like getting into again.

Unfortunately, what should be so exciting is rather bittersweet. It's hard for me to be happy when other people are not, and seeing a good portion of this country up in arms (literally, even) about health care reform is really leaving me in a funny place. I just don't get it. I don't understand why people feel so passionately that I shouldn't have access to emergency care. I tend to pride myself on looking at other people's perspectives and finding commonalities in our differences, but I'm having a lot of trouble seeing anything but pointlessly angry, manipulated fools involved in this Tea Party movement. I want to understand them, but I don't! As a result, my mental health is taking a real beating, and I need some coverage pronto.

Take this girl, for example. She's clearly angry, but how can she understand? Not that I want to discourage young people from being politically active, but what, other than misinformation, could drive her to make this video?

I-mSayingNoToGov.HealthCare

It may appear that I'm making fun on a little kid, but she must be older than we'd assume because in one scene she's behind the wheel of a car, so all jabs are fair game, I figure.

1. Nice use of a Michael Jackson song. I think his lyrics directly contradict the "let's let people die without health care" message, but okay. Besides, isn't MJ's death a prime example of privatized medicine gone wrong? Also, if you're going to be racist and refer to the president as a "bugg eyed MONKEY" (sic), you should be aware that MJ was also black, despite appearances.

2. She's littering, and it's not even worthwhile, since the papers she holds up are not visible to the viewer. Even better though, is the older person trying to get to her car without interrupting the video shoot. At the end of that segment, she breaks into a half-run that I cannot stop laughing at. Half runs are always funny.

3. This girl should really wish she has guaranteed medical coverage. First a truck nearly hits her at the beginning, then she either gives birth to or poops out a monkey, neither of which is normal.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I'm glad YouTube wasn't around when I was a kid, because I would now be in permanent hiding for all of the dumbass ways I would embarrassed myself.

Furries

Are you familiar with Furries? They're people who dress like cartoon animals and have sex. At least that was my understanding of them when I watched this episode of Sex2K on MTV about ten years ago. At the time, it was MUST-SEE television for the high school set. (Now it's only kind of interesting and possibly dated, though I'm not sure what evolutions, if any, have been made in the Furry community since this first air, but watch if you're curious.)

I remember my friend Nicki was the one to break the ice on the topic in the cafeteria. "Did anyone see the show on MTV about the people who have sex in animal costumes? Soooo gross!"

Of course we had seen it. We were a product of our generation who was learning to watch MTV not for music videos, but to remain culturally relevant. If you didn't have an opinion on The Real World's Stephen slapping Lyme-diseased Irene, you best stay home "sick" the following day.

Suddenly, there were ten of us, all of whom would have normally been embarrassed to admit we had watched a show about people who copulate in animal costumes, loudly discussing the shocking content of the show. We are all obligated to use the words "gross" and "weird" in every single sentence, lest anyone thought we watched because we were aroused rather than morbidly curious.

For the remainder of high school, my friends would jokingly refer to each other as a "Furry" if we wanted to paint someone as some sort of sick pervert. I think it's safe to say that none of us were actually Furries, but who knows what happened once they went off to college.

After all, when I was in college, I actually met a Furry! He was a friend of a former roommate of mine. He had small, cartoonish, animal-like facial features. More importantly, his face was framed by the most ridiculous long, moppy hair. Think Farrah Fawcett hair, but darker and on a boy. His appearance practically made him look like a Furry without wearing a costume, so my thought when someone told me he was a Furry was that it was a joke someone had made that later spread as fact through rumor.

Still, the MTV special made me unusually inquisitive about Furries, so I did what any college student would do and turned to Facebook to conduct an investigation. I didn't expect to find anything too damning, since surely a Furry would stay closeted about this fetish, but sure enough, I saw that he belonged to a group devoted to Furries at my college consortium. There's more of them? I wondered, until I clicked on the group and found that he was the only member. He had created the group and was looking for other local college students who shared this identity.

Thereafter, I couldn't look at the guy without picturing him in a mascot outfit with a hole cut out around the genitals, bumping uglies with some other creature. Several months later, I checked in on his group again. He was still the only member and had dejectedly posted an update, "Come on... I can't be the only Furry here!"

Oh, but he could. I mean, I hope since then he's found some slutty fox to mate with, since everyone deserves to be happy, but I can't imagine there are too many people with a bear suit in the closet. But, you know, if you're turned on or whatever, I'll do my best to put you in touch.

Twins

"The twins are twice as ugly when you put them together. Seriously, you see one, and it's an okay-looking girl. Put 'em together and you realize that there's not nearly enough good-looking there to share across two faces." - J.B.

The Crutch

Margarita Mondays has gotten wild as of late. Though our group used to be responsible for the antics, since our numbers have dwindled from forty to a handful, other parties have taken the helm. Recently, the restaurant began hosting karaoke on Mondays, which has brought in a whole new sloppy drunk crowd. It's hard to resist singing and strong $2 margaritas.

If you know me, you know I'm a big fan of karaoke, but it's not a good experience here. Everyone is so awful that it is unpleasant. Sure, karaoke is generally notoriously amateur, but there is really nothing redeemable about the performances. I'm glad that when I do go, we sit outside where we can't hear it.

When it got unbearably cold, however, we went indoors to finish our drinks and did our best to ignore the singers. It was hard to overlook an especially loud group of three bros, however. After performing an adequate (granted, we're grading on a curve, here) rendition of Sublime's "Santaria," I heard them become animated about something and they pushed each other with excitement. "Really? Really?! Okay! I'll do it! I'll do it! Let's go!" I figured they were discussing some questionable next karaoke song choice, but didn't stick around to see their decision.

My party went outside at that point to part ways, but not long after, the bros came sprinting from the restaurant too. "WE'RE GOING TO VEGAS!" one of them shouted. Amused, I told them to have fun. "Wanna come?!" another one asked, but we declined that offer. "Well wish us luck!" he said, which I did with surprising sincerity. I love random acts of Vegas, and know I have been in the same situation on at least a few Margarita Mondays where we're all the sudden drunk enough to think that going to Vegas late on a Monday night is a great idea. Ultimately, we've never followed through, however, because A) no one is in a condition to drive B) we don't have a hotel room and won't arrive until post-midnight at least and C) everyone has jobs or Tuesday obligations they can't disregard. I think this group of bros should have considered some of these consequences, particularly letter A, but I admired their impulsive enthusiasm.

They hopped in their car and kept shouting as they peeled out of the parking lot. As they screeched by, I jumped onto the curb afraid they might hit me. Simultaneously, Melissa went into teacher mode, as she yelled, "Wait, you left your crutch!" I had no idea what she meant since I had been so busy avoiding the car, but there was really a crutch now next to us in the parking lot that hadn't been there before. I asked how it got there, and Melissa said it fell out of the car window.

Either that was a drunken decision that someone is going to regret by the time they get to Vegas or just a drunken accident that wasn't noticed; either way, it was amusing to see how legitimately concerned Melissa was, even if only momentarily, that they wouldn't be able to have a good time in Vegas without their crutch. The mere sight of the single abandoned crutch was a riot and I couldn't stop laughing at their inebriated disregard for the disabled. We waited around in case they should return for the crutch, but that didn't pan out, so Lady Garza decided to take it home as a souvenir.

The next morning, Greg texted me to say that Melissa saw kids playing with the crutch on the road between the restaurant and the nearby school. I had to correct him that Lady Garza had taken the crutch, so the crutch Melissa saw was likely the other one of the pair. Did they throw that one out the window, too? It's like, dudes, even if you're lucky in Vegas, that means you win money, not the ability to walk.

Bathroom Alternatives

Melissa: Don't use the bathroom here.
Kevin: Why?
Melissa: I just got a good whiff of the men's room just from walking by.
Greg: That must be the Spring Break crowd.
Kevin: I don't know that I can make it much longer without peeing, though.
Lady Garza: You can pee in my neighbor's yard if you want.
Greg: Or my neighbor's yard since it's closer.
Melissa: No, not our neighbor's yard, he's a cop.
Kevin: Yeah, no.
Greg: You could use our other neighbor's though, she's an Irish woman.
Kevin: Ah, so she probably pees in her yard all the time.
Greg: Probably.
Melissa: And, oh, the old lady behind us, we just found out she died, so that house is empty.
Greg: You could definitely pee at her place now. Inside even.
Kevin: It's vacant? Maybe I could squat.
Melissa: Literally.

This Is What It Sounds Like When Pigeons Die

Three dead pigeons fell to the ground. We had walked by the same spot a half hour prior on our way to lunch and there were no pigeon carcasses to be seen, so they had to all have died in that same short time frame.

The corpses had attracted a crowd of people who were trying to guess what happened. "They must have been electrocuted," someone said, gesturing toward the power lines above where a few other pigeons were resting.

Though that's the obvious choice, I know that can't be true because of SCIENCE! Science says birds don't get electrocuted on wires. Just don't expect me to explain how conductors and all that jazz works, because I couldn't do it for all of the money in the world, but I know that I've heard it before.

Look, I believe I'm a pretty smart guy, and that generally that comes across when I meet and have a conversation with someone. The main exception is when someone brings up a scientific topic. I don't know the difference between a proton and a neutron; my periodic table would consist of magazines. If you were to ask me anything of a scientific nature, my blank stare would probably give you the impression that I was home schooled -- or perhaps just a product of the public education system in the past five years - zing!

It's not that I don't believe in science. I think science is truth. I just don't know truth, apparently, and I'm content having blind faith. Someone should know science, hell, a lot of people should know science, as that is way more useful knowledge than my degrees in grammar and bullshitting, and I am counting on these people to make sure the world continues to work.

For a while, my lack of scientific understanding made me flirt with the idea of becoming a creationist. Then I could just outright dismiss all of the things that were way too confusing to me and attribute it to "God!" Gravity? God. Cell division? God. Photosynthesis? God. I wouldn't even need an answer, God would cover everything.

But even though I'm stupid, I'm not stupid, so I put my faith in science, even though I don't see it or understand it. Maybe I have more in common with a creationist than I'd like to admit.

Clearly, I can't explain the dead bird thing though, so I'm counting on one of you science-minded readers to explain how three pigeons can simultaneously die in the same spot like that. One could just be natural causes, two could be chalked up to some big coincidence, but three... those power lines have to be responsible somehow. As much as it would be easier to declare it a "miracle" (though who would declare the death of three pigeons a miracle other than poop-stained statues?), something real killed those birds. Use your wizardry science to explain it to me.

Margarita Mouth

Have we talked about the Margarita Monday that Jocelyn attempted to prove how big her mouth is?

She was quite confident she could get her mouth around the glass meant for margaritas on the rocks, but that didn't quite work out.

Then she made a valiant attempt to fit the whole dish of salsa into her mouth, also to no avail.

But then she made one last try with the base of the blended margarita glass and the result is not only successful, but truly impressive.

What a large mouth she has!

Making a Mess of the Situation

Someone (not me) vomited on my friends' floor the other night, so I felt obligated to mop the floor to make it good as new. Why did I feel obligated? All right, maybe it was me, but that's beside the point.

Tonight, I exited my house with my mop and bucket, and passed by my neighbor. "Did you get a new job, Kevin?" he asked. "Oh God no!" I said dismissing his joke. "Oh, I just thought... I saw you with the mop..." my neighbor sputtered. He hadn't been joking.

It's worth noting that my neighbor is a custodian, a fact I wasn't considering when I gave some asshole elitist response to his inquiry. I might as well have told him that I'm too good and white for a cleaning job. And then I left him in a position to apologize for insulting me, when he was the one that was rightfully insulted.

Sure, with all of the money I've invested in higher education, I'd like to think I'm qualified for a more prestigious career, but as someone who has been minimally employed at best for the past year, I'm not really "better" than that in any shape or form. I've still got more of my Connecticut upbringing in me than I'd like to admit.

Ugh, he's the one neighbor with which I'm actually friendly.

And I thought I was a douche when I vomited on the floor...

The Diner

There's this diner by my house that I've always meant to try, but have never gotten around to. Actually, I did try it, or try to try it rather with a few of my friends on New Year's Day to mop up our hangovers, but when we arrived, the waitress shooed us out, saying they were closing early for the holiday. Rude! Last week, I finally returned at 3:30 p.m., since they advertise a cheap off-hour lunch special. The waitress I had previously pegged off as rude greeted me warmly, but that might have had something to do with the fact that I was the only customer in the place.

While waiting for my food, I read a book, and noticed a photographer on the sidewalk taking pictures of the diner. After a moment, he walked all the way up to the window I was sitting next to and started taking photos of me from the outside. I thought it was strange, but figured he was some art student that found this classic looking diner inspiring, so I just continued to focus on my book and not interrupt his misguided art.

I heard the bell jingle on the door as the photographer entered. He continued to take photos of the diner, first some empty booths, then returning to take some long shots of me. Again, I let it slide, not wanting to be affected by his presence. By now, the waitress took notice of the guy and asked what he was doing.

"We're scouting for a commercial," he said. A woman entered the diner at this point and introduced herself, explaining that they were with Boost Mobile and how she felt this diner had a great feel and asked for some particulars about the spot.

I noticed that my food was now ready, sitting on the sill waiting to be delivered. Unfortunately, the waitress was preoccupied. She wanted to know all about the commercial. I finally got her attention to bring my meal over, and she quickly said, "Sorry, business." Actually, your business is to bring your one paying customer his food, but I suppose the adage about all Los Angeles waitresses being aspiring actresses is right.

The photographer then came to crouch next to me and resumed taking photos as I was eating. I played a long for a couple of shots before asking what he was doing. I knew it was for a commercial, but why so much attention to me? He explained that he needed to show the diner with people in it, and since I was the only person, he was focusing on me. He asked whether he could get my name and phone number because sometimes the director sees the scouting photos and thinks "that person is perfect" and wants to use him or her in the commercial. I'm pretty sure he was just humoring me after clearly ticking me off after taking my photo so much without asking permission. There is no way that they're going to use me in a national commercial, but I obliged anyway and scrawled down my information. Still, I didn't kid myself for even a second that it would ever actually happen. Okay, maybe a little bit.

And that's when the waitress swooped in. Even though I had twice politely asked for a glass of water and she still hadn't brought it, she wanted to discuss being an extra, too. She's done it before, she said. Five months ago, Verizon filmed a commercial in this same diner and they used her as the waitress. She was considered a "principle" role, paid $700, and became SAG-eligible. I know she thinks she's selling her case, but she clearly doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut. There's no way in hell that a competing cell phone company is going to use the same location, never mind the same waitress.

Now the Boost Mobile people are suddenly explaining that they need to check out some other diner locations, because, duh, but they politely take the waitress' telephone number in case they are looking for extras. Before they exit, she tells them that her day off is on Fridays, so they should film on that day. You know, because they choose their shooting schedule around a waitress.

Once they left, the waitress got on the phone and excitedly told a friend that she thinks she's going to be in another commercial. Also, she's perfect for the part because she "really understands the role" of pouring coffee in a diner. That I had yet to see - where was my glass of water? Since she's so busy not attending to her one customer and instead going crazy thinking about stardom, I finally tired of waiting to receive my check and just left the proper amount of money on the table. I left far too much for tip given the circumstances, but I didn't want to wait around to receive change.

Anyway, I'm pissed. Sure, I'm pissed that the waitress effectively killed both of our chances of being on this commercial (oh to dream!), but I'm even more pissed about the service. Shitty, shitty service. No wonder she was in a Verizon commercial.

The "Gentle" Giant

A friend just asked me about the students who reminded me of potential school shooters. The first one that came to mind was Henry, a huge guy, I'm talking NFL-size, who was in my freshman English class. Henry was all sorts of socially awkward. Between his size and lack of friends, he was pretty scary.

I had thought about referring Henry to the school psychologist to have him analyzed, but I didn't have a concrete reason until I received his how-to essay. (How-to essays are a ninth grade staple; remember this monstrosity about making paper airplanes?) It had nothing to do with the quality of the writing - poor overall, but on par with his peers, unfortunately - and everything to do with the content. The essay starts out fine, at first I thought it was rather responsible of him to choose a topic that could aid in his future. Oh wait, no, he's just thinking of killing people. It's a How-To essay, not a What-Not-To-Do essay.

Click on the essay to enlarge:


I mean, sure, Henry was saying "not" to sell drugs, kill people, run from the police, etc, but with each additional detail, it's like, damn, you've given this a lot of thought, huh? So I gave it to the psychologist, who agreed that it set off some red flags. A week later, I got an email from the psychologist who said that everything checked out with the kid and I had nothing to worry about. Since it wasn't my area of expertise, I dropped the issue, but I was little extra scared of Henry since he must have now known that I reported him because of the essay. He never said a word, though, (eerily, he rarely ever said a word,) so I decided to envision him as some sort of gentle giant.

That mentality carried me all the way through the end of the school year when Henry went on a violent rampage and literally beat the shit out of someone over a misunderstanding while I tried in vain to restrain him. So much for being a gentle giant.

Columbine

While looking for book recommendations, I saw that Dave Cullen’s Columbine made a list of 10 Best Non-Fiction Books in 2009. I was attracted to the book for a few reasons. Firstly, I prefer reading non-fiction these days, and this book was sure to have real-life action, adventure, and drama. Secondly, when I was a teacher, I had a handful of students that seemed off enough that I did sometimes worry that they could become school attacker types, so I was curious to learn more about what made these particular individuals tick. Thirdly, as someone who was in high school at the time, the incident had a profound effect on my life. My school dealt with numerous bomb threats shortly thereafter and my Spanish teacher went on this unjustified inquisition of all the students who wore trench coats. She wanted to ban trench coats, as if the clothing were the real problem as opposed to the guns and bullying, seeming to misunderstand that her plan to outcast the outcasts further was the real recipe for disaster.

I checked the book out from my local liberry, but not without apprehension. Though my intentions were pure, I was worried that someone would assume I was some wannabe copycat killer and I was studying up on the incident. Previously, I received a long judgmental stare from the stuff liberrian when I checked out Sex for America: Politically Inspired Erotica (I was just scouting for another possible erotica book club selection, but alas, it sucked), so I could only imagine what would happen with Columbine. Fortunately, this time the liberrian didn’t even flinch. Because I was about to fly home for the winter holiday, I tried to preemptively renew it, but someone else had put a hold on it, so I had to give it back before my trip after having only read a few chapters.

A couple months after returning to California, I thought about the book again and contemplated renewing it. As a friend had already pointed out, checking it out once probably already put me on some government watch list (I’m probably on so many by this point), and checking it out a second time would probably set off some red flags. As much as I was embarrassed to check it out again, it was a pretty good book, so I wanted to finish it. I went to pick up Columbine and, fortunately, once again, the liberrian appeared to make no judgment.

Cut to a hour and a half later when I received a text from Stacy. “Did you hear about the shooting at the library?” She had gone to drop a book off and the police were surrounding the premises. Apparently, shortly after I left, a teenager was shot just outside of the liberry.

This is alarming for several reasons.
A. I consider my quaint little town (well, as quaint as a section of Los Angeles can be) to be rather safe.
B. I was just there! I had even lingered outside for a while having a phone conversation where I paused to watch a bunch of young kids in the nearby schoolyard play tug of war.
C. I had just checked out Columbine, so not only was I on a list, perhaps I was a suspect!

I may not have been guilty, but that didn’t stop the paranoia. All the same, I’m going to play it safe at the liberry from now. The next few books I’m going to check out will include Pacifism for Pacifists, Being a Good Person Like You Always Have Been, and The Bible.

Turning Twenty-Six

For Jessica and Paul's joint twenty-sixth birthday party, they had piñatas to correspond with the digits of her new age. It was a fun idea, and appropriately antics were had with the props. It's like if Sesame Street were on recreational drugs.



But it's not about those photos. No, the money shot is when, at the end of the night, Jessica fell on her back and landed on the piñatas, crushing them. She laid there, sprawled on her back looking like a socialite who went on a coked out birthday bender. Look at that photo: this woman is a high school teacher, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, and on that note, no coke was actually consumed. Still, does it get any more beautifully trashy than this?

The best part is that this photo has became so epic in my social circle that as people turn 26 it is now being used as the artwork on birthday cards. I mean, really: is there anything that better encapsulates what being 26 means?

Courted by Scientologists

Allison and I were walking through Glendale on a rainy day when we passed an ornate building labeled "The Way to Happiness." Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the pitiful nature of my life, maybe it was just curiosity, but something called to me to enter the building and investigate this strange sight further.

The person at the front desk greeted us warmly and invited us to take some literature. I asked a couple of indirect questions about the place to see if I could figure out what it was all about, but she offered no solid clues. The interior was fancy, lined in brass and gold with furniture that rivaled a fancy hotel lobby. Along the walls were children's art, pictures of international service projects, and life lessons. We were most intrigued by the commandment-style decrees posted menacingly along one wall. There were twenty-one rules including "Be Worthy of Trust" and "Fulfill Your Obligations." None of them were out of line, but something still seemed fishy and cultish about it.

I don't remember which of us compared it to Scientology first, but we quickly dismissed it as a joke. In Los Angeles, there are several prominent buildings scattered around that announce themselves to be related to the religion loudly and proudly. Scientologists aren't nearly as ashamed of their identification as they are portrayed to be. One of the commandments even said "Respect the Religious Beliefs of Others," which left me impressed that some group might want to instill positive values in society without having a religious affiliation.

That didn't make it any less dubious. Firstly, who falls for this? How many people walk in off the street and say, "Oh, yeah, I should be a good person!" Secondly, how can they afford this property? Surely this well-intentioned venture would fail. Allison and I whispered about it a little more before bolting for the door.

The lady at the front desk had additional literature and information on classes on the premises if we so desired, but we opted to leave quickly instead. I felt a little guilty about feeling creeped out by a place that was promoting positive values, but I just didn't trust it.

Later, when I recounted the experience to (now former) roommate Dan, he was all like, "Those are totally Scientologists." After I Googled the organization, I found out that he was right. Though The Way to Happiness isn't technically linked to Scientologists, it is funded and run by known Scientologists as a way of spreading their message without having the stigma of the organization. It's a front to pull people in and then switch them to the group.

So that explains the shady atmosphere and ridiculous amount of money being pumped into the Way of Happiness. Freaking out, I called Allison to reveal that we had been wandering in the Scientologists' playground. Allison then went back to read the pamphlet and found the following paragraph:

Jealousy and vengeance are the greater monsters: one never knows when they will cease to sleep. It is all very well to speak of "being civilized" and "uninhibited" and "understanding"; no talk will men ruined lives. A "feeling of guilt" is nowhere near as sharp as a knife in the back or ground glass in the soup.

Do you even understand what any of that means? It's from the chapter called "Don't Be Promiscuous," not that you'd ever guess that from the context. But still - what does that mean? Glass in the soup? Scientologists really are secretive - even their message is cryptic.

But, like, I'm totally going to take some classes at this place. I want to be happy at any cost.

What's Yours Like?

Saw this game at Target:



The cover is a little, uh, suggestive. They have to realize that, right? What is the answer? Condoms?

Crossing the Street

I was walking down the street when I spotted an elderly couple was standing on the curb, looking toward the other side, presumably waiting to cross the street. As I approached them, however, I realized that there was no crosswalk signal, which meant they could walk at their discretion, which could have been any time since no cars were passing through at all.

A few paces ahead of me was a man with headphones playing music so loudly that I could make out the song. I was counting on him to blow past the couple and show that crossing was safe, but since he was not paying entire attention, when he hit the edge of the block, he stopped, dutifully waiting to cross the street when appropriate.

Next, I reached the curb. As much as I didn't want to pause there, I felt obligated to assess the situation. I stopped between the old couple and headphoned guy and tried to figure out why we were waiting. I was pretty sure the music man was just aloof and following the cues of others, which was stupid, but then again I was doing the same thing. Nearly ten seconds later, I decided to lead by example and walk across the street. Even though it was entirely safe and legal, it felt remarkably defiant.

I couldn't help but keep my head turned over my shoulder to see if anyone else followed suit. Absorbed in the music, headphone guy was paying attention to nothing external, yet suddenly whipped his head around in confusion. Realizing he had been standing in place for no reason for nearly thirty seconds, he practically sprinted across the street to make up for lost time as the old couple continued to stand in place, looking as aloof as ever. I stared at them, but they didn't pay attention to me, instead looking around timidly. I would have guessed that they were waiting to meet someone there, except that they were so close to the curb that their toes were hanging over the edge. Maybe this is Candid Camera I thought. No, maybe they're performance artists! That's it, they've staged an act to fool other people.

I've lived in Los Angeles too long if I've started suspecting that a pair of unassuming, stationary elderly people are performance artists.

Shave It

After a dramatic, late night, Christine, Angel, and I left a party in a slaphappy mood. As we passed by a store, I literally screamed for them to stop the car so we could inspect a storefront titled SHAVE IT.




I figured it would be some glorified bikini wax/hair removal place, but it ended up being a business that sells flavored shaved ice, snow cones essentially.

I can't wait until this place goes out of business. (Let's face it, between the name and the product - syrupy ice - there's no way it will survive.) Once it's gone, I'm buying the sign!