Event & Blogger

2009

Mon, 5 Jan 2009 10:15:17 -0800

In response to the biblical doom and gloom reporting about the coming 365 days, I’d like to add my 2 cents..or in this case, the value of my 2 cents is probably now worth 1/2 a cent, but I’d like to add it anyway..

I feel comforted by the fact that the only way is up at this point, having felt the hard, cold bottom below. With that in mind, I’m feeling pretty excited about 2009 and now that my 2 cents is worth only 1/2 a cent, I plan on investing it in myself rather than real estate, the stock market, or even Bernard Madof. Cheers to myself..

Return of the “D” Word

Wed, 10 Dec 2008 17:21:24 -0800

Can I say how delighted I am about the arrival of the term douche bag to the west coast vernacular? I’m sitting here ruminating on the term that was previously only welcome on the frayed edges of the east coast or cinematic italian delis.

It conjures up cat fights in high school, affectionate name calling amongst my very first homosexual posse and a great chunk of vocabulary to teach my unsuspecting German relatives. Simultaneously, sentimental and harsh, not unlike the disembodied voice of Howard Cosell or chunky metal ice trays.

Let me clarify. The east coast owns the term. Just as it owns bagels, the tragedy of 9/11 and the glory of the Ramones.

God, I feel like such a douche bag writing this on my site..

Reunited and it Feels so Good....

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 20:52:55 -0700

My mother just arrived from former East Germany
to come live with my son and I in Los Angeles.
She left the land of the Reunited (Germany)
and entered the Los Angeles flat lands of the
Great Divided. Gangs, Obama vs. McCain,
and white meat vs. red meat. My mother’s cultural divide in America is quite wide, wider than a tombstone in Nashville...or even an ass at Taco Bell.

My mother was one of those women who was set adrift by divorce in the 1970’s. She was the canary in the coal mine of traditional marriage. She gave up education, country, etc. for the job title of wife and mother and when her marriage suddenly ended, lost her identity chip to boot....along with any semblance of pension or career (or any noun that might require an accountant). She’s one of many female refugees from the 70’s.

It took years for her to reinvent herself. Not via yoga, veganism, or even a new marriage, but through sheer patience. Now in her 70’s, still hustling for language jobs in a medieval town in former East Germany (coincidentally the one my father escaped from), I encouraged her to join us and enjoy her later years in the land that time forgot (that’s right, we’re talking plastic surgery).

Having returned to the New World, my mother needs to adjust her references to make sense of this new life. Of course, we will still be eating meat and hiking, but there are some things that must be noted.

Lesson #1: How to spot a gang member. Here are the rules. Hardly the romantic John Dillingers of old, spot the white knee highs, imprinted street names on their necks and if you see them fighting over territories, like toddlers over donuts, bingo, you’ve got yourself a gang member.

Lesson #2: When you see a white truck playing the theme from the Godfather, it is not the Good Humor man. This is a taco truck. It’s a good time to shout out “carnitas por favor”!

And lastly, don’t freak out when there are huge clouds of smoke hovering over the neighborhood. California is biblical by design; you’ve got your quakes, burning bushes, landslides, and that Sodom and Gomorrah called Hollywood. Smile with your big pearly whites - This is just another sunny day in god’s eternal playground.

Wilkommen...

Praying for A Gift From Heaven

Wed, 14 May 2008 15:34:38 -0700

It’s been a really lean spring
and recently I’ve found myself
looking upward, praying for a goddamn
break or at least a gift from heaven. I guess
I wasn’t that specific because low and behold,
my prayers were answered...
something was falling from the sky, a floating
gift....as it neared my head,
I managed to identify the pigeon shit.

It started when I had a fundraiser for my son’s school at my home. There was a lot of activity and the doors and windows were all open. Suddenly, I realized we had 2 new volunteers; 2 pigeons that were so fat, they looked like they had been slumming it at Yum Yum Donuts around the corner. Then, a knock at the door, another volunteer had arrived. He asked how he could help, probably assuming he’d be cutting brownies into tiny fractions. I chucked him a super squirter water gun that looked like an Uzi and said “How’s your aim?” For 45 minutes, we tried to super squirt the pigeons out of the building..I saw this as a type of surge (in war talk) whereas the pigeons seemed to take it as ample exercise followed by a refreshing shower; refusing to acknowledge my lack of hospitality.

Soon my son Anton showed up. He’s eleven and consistent with his chromosomal makeup, loves trains, football, bows and arrows, toy guns and being naked (a German trait that skips a generation). Once again, I pulled out the Super Squirters and said, “Get to Work”. In unison, twice with great strategy and aim, we managed to get the pigeons out of the building, only for them to fly back in through the broken pane of glass that was 45’ above us, about 10 minutes later. We live in an old trolley substation and the ceilings are very, very high.

Well we had the fundraiser and luckily none of the guests got “gifted”. After the event, I was really anxious to get my place back in order and have no more guests flying through; whether bird or mammal. But there was the problem of the 2 “volunteers” that were bent on hanging out and procreating. Yes, the pigeons had formed a nest over a column some 20 feet over the mezzanine. It seemed that one of them was sitting pretty on 2 eggs.

My friend, Christopher, who is creating this amazing sculpture of the “Illustrated Man” on the property offered to help and he and his assistant, Scout, pulled in a fireman’s ladder, climbed up the column and pulled the nest down. I put the nest outside, hoping to encourage the pigeons to relocate. No way. They found another column and began making another nest. What I haven’t said and which is disgusting is there was pigeon shit everywhere. You could hardly eat breakfast in the main room without getting hit. There were ugly, chalky white puddles everywhere. I was constantly mopping and disinfecting the filth.

Anton and I upped the anti and pulled out our plastic bb guns (basically glorified toy guns) in the hopes of annoying the hell out of the birds. Home became Vietnam or Iraq (whichever war offers more sentimental imagery for your generation.) Constant gunfire with white bb’s everywhere. Every time a child visited and was tempted to eat something off the floor, I had to interject that those things that looked like edible tic tacs were actually bb’s. Anton and I would go over our morning strategy of which windows to open and how to corner them. We’d spend all of our time together shooting and running around the building with what looked like revolvers, in various state of undress. My god, what kind of a parent am I? My god, Anton looks deliriously happy ....

Next, I get a call from Christopher (see link What or Who is in the Shed?” on home page) that Ray Bradbury is coming by to take a look at the sculpture. Chris wheels the sculpture of the “Illustrated Man” into the main room. The sculpture looks amazing. A gorgeous man, 8’ tall, is standing in my living room and I don’t want him to go. He is the perfect height for me. With sunlight streaming via arched and circular windows, he looks stunning. The doorbell rings and Ray Bradbury arrives by limousine. He is wheeled into the main room and takes in the sculpture which he seems to love. We lay out cheese and open a great bottle of wine and suddenly my ears hear a sound from far away, the slight whir of wings. I cock my head and eye the pigeon on a beam above the table. I shift the cheese over by 2 feet, pick up my glass of wine and gracefully jump back into the conversation. Suddenly, Anton gets hit from the opposing direction. I quickly move the cheese northward and the bottle of wine in the direction of Ray. Anton runs to the bathroom and cleans up. I return to the room and assess that the pigeons have changed beams to get a great view of one of Ray’s close friends who is sitting next to me. Just as I hear the ominous whir and try to give him a warning, I realize that I am too late. He’s been hit! I apologize profusely and help him clean up. Scout offers “What’s a sculpture without pigeons?” It seems that Ray is unaware of the drama that surrounds him as his hearing and his eyesight are compromised. However, if he gets hit, that might change. After 2 hours of my eyeing the sky of my home for gifts from heaven and enjoying great conversation, it is time for Ray to go. As he sits in his wheelchair by the front door, I hear the whir once again and quickly tilt my head to the side. Quick, move the wheelchair!...Missed....

The following day, I knew I had to take drastic action. When I dropped Anton off at school, I whispered “I’m gonna do it.” Anton knew immediately what I was talking about and said “try to get them in 1 shot”. I got home and felt like throwing up. I really don’t want to hurt or kill anything. However, I got out the lead pellet gun and slowly climbed the stairs, then suddenly decided to climb up on the roof instead and try and repair that 1 broken pain of glass. I got a ladder, opened the roof hatch with my piece of cardboard and a roll of tape in hand, in hopes of scaling the 45’ high roof and covering the 1 open pane of glass. Somewhere in there, I forgot that I am afraid of heights, and more importantly, who was the damn protagonist of this story... Well, I started shaking, as I often do when I look down from exceptional heights and decided to scale backward. Pissed off, I threw the cardboard over the edge of the roof, did my usual aria of curses and backed my way back into the building.

I gave myself 5 minutes to recover, picked up the gun and aimed for 1 pigeon that was perching on a ledge about 30 feet away from me. I took one shot and hit it where the chest meets the throat. Blood started spurting everywhere and drizzled down the column. Oh my god, I freaked. The pigeon was dying and blood was pouring 20’ down and pooling on the floor. I ran out of the building screaming. I’ve never killed anything. I don’t like the feeling. I ran to my friend Christopher who was sculpting and stuttered about the blood. He ran in, climbed a ladder, and accidentally dropped the bird from 20’ high, I jumped and screamed as it just missed landing on my head. He waited for me to shoot the 2nd bird, and offered to get rid of the body and clean the mess as it was obvious I couldn’t handle it. Once again, aim, 1 shot and something fell from heaven...

An Evening of Food, Spirits & Music!

Sat, 3 May 2008 13:38:24 -0700

The Huron SubStation and Friends of Mt. Washington present
The 3rd Annual Silent Auction
located at the Huron Substation,
2640 Huron St., Los Angeles, CA 90065.
Admission: $10.00
(includes 1 drink). Food and additional drinks extra. Bid on great auction items you won’t find anywhere else.Enjoy music, friends, art, gifts, food and spirits!