Sunday Expedition

I have zero interest in the Avatar sequel, but I'll watch the heck out of the LA Natural History Museum's exhibit on Cameron's submersible journey to the Mariana Trench.

There Are Worse Reasons

I'm thinking of going to San Francisco in March to see Jake Shimabukuro perform on his ukulele. 

I know that's loopy, but here we are.

The Condo Is Only So Big

I'm thinking of turning off the water in my condo's half-bath and making it a comic book storage closet. These are desperate times.

Bring A Platypus to Work Day

G'day, mates! Happy Australia Day. I made ANZAC biscuits to take to work. We shall celebrate with Captain Boomerang (not in person, I'm not sure of his current status).

Violators Will Be Prosecuted

I was on the L.A. Red Line yesterday, in transit from Union Station to Universal. The train was crowded and filthy, something fairly common since mid-pandemic. At Westlake, a tired, older woman in a once-frilly indigenous dress, maybe Salvadoran, slowly pushed her cart onto the train. A younger man with a bicycle didn't make it on before the doors closed, as they shut right behind her. 

A vendor guy inside the train, his shirt covered in a necklace of chargers, was suddenly at the door. He nonchalantly tugged the emergency door release and slid the door open, letting the bicycle guy onto the train. He then shut the door and pushed the emergency handle back into place. 

The train continued on its way, as if nothing unusual had occurred. The vendor kept moving, not even a glance at the guy he'd just helped out. 

"Anybody need chargers, speakers, pepper spray, tasers" he said in a monotone as he proceeded through the car, bored.

Many Years Ago in Ohio

A person I didn't really know much in college had this photo of me in the WYSO production studio. Was it late and I was doing my homework? No idea. Maybe he just clicked the camera right when my eyes were closed.

Lazy Bears

Every time I see one of these signs, I wonder if they've ever met a panda. 

There's nothing express about them.

Sunday Brunch

I went to Venice today to meet Steve Buccellato for breakfast. I can't really go near Abbot Kinney without getting nostalgic for when I stayed around there with Steve in 1995. You could park anywhere, driving from Santa Monica to LAX to ship files to New York took 20 minutes, and you could pull up in your car outside Arrivals and run the pack of Syquest or Zip disks in to the freight desk. 

Back then, we could afford Electric Crayon office space in Santa Monica. I had an Ugly Duckling rental car, which was stolen right outside our apartment. And you couldn't stay on the boardwalk at night without worrying about gangs.

Today, it's hip and gentrified and a good place to buy candles. Lots and lots of candles. So many candles.

SoCal Rainy Season

When I went through the security gate to the office building today, the guard said "It's like we're ducks." 

I kinda laughed but it wasn't really raining that much, so I chalked it up to him not being used to rain. But the storms got more and more dramatic as the day went on, and I agree with the guard now.

It's like we're ducks.

Staying Warm

Catching rays without getting cold.

I Wish I'd Seen the Cover

I’m at the coffee shop near my Jersey City home, first thing Saturday morning after putting my sheets in at the washer at the laundromat a block away. Old-school JC is nowhere to be seen here. Balthazar pastries compete with locally designed cup sleeves for my attention. Five-dollar coffee once seemed to have no place in my neighborhood, but this thriving shop opened the year I bought the house, and has since expanded to other branches.

There are two Jersey City police officers in the coffee shop this morning. Their squad car is outside and they are on break. They sit two tables apart. One stares absentmindedly at his phone, his thumb occasionally brushing the screen. The other is deeply engaged in a hardcover book, something with a scarlet dust jacket. He’s halfway through. His wrists peek out of his uniform sleeves, and they are covered in tattoos, something dramatic, flowerly, professional.

As I wait for my large oat latté, a family of three sits between the two cops. Bored cop tilts his head to stare out the window, THAT stare evident, you know the one where you’re trying hard to not eavesdrop but it’s really hard as the conversation is going on a foot away.

The tattooed cop keeps reading, deeply engrossed in his book.

Yet Still They Share It

The Kitty Tube is only just big enough for an adult feral with its winter look.

Off to the Storage Unit

A couple of fun things I found in my storage unit today. 

I’ve got plenty of other color charts but didn’t find them. 

I left the Finch paper there. I’ve only needed it once in at least a decade.

Poor Li'l Possum

I wonder if the world wants a book called "The Poor Little Opossum," about a wet opossum frantically searching for snacks in a cat bowl on a patio in the rain on New Year's Eve. 

I can't think of how it should end, though. Maybe a human sees it, puts out cat food, which is then eaten by a raccoon, and then the poor little opossum befriends a nun who offers vegetables from her garden.