A Few Thoughts on Week 1 of #100daysofinspirationalpeople...

1) It's satisfying to tell people they inspire you. Telling someone they inspire you isn't easy. It's awkward, and it takes you out of your comfort zone. (They say life begins when you step out of your comfort zone...) But it gets easier each time you do it. Also, it helps you connect with people that you otherwise would not connect with... and not just any people, but people whom you admire!

2) The pressure to find a new person for the project every day changes how you look at the world. I don't know what I was looking at before, but now I'm always on the lookout for people who inspire me... It's an artificial(?) reminder to take stock of the people in your life, and also to always be looking for the good in people and the world around you. What are you looking at every day? 

3) Not only do the inspirational people I've talked to not know that they're inspiring for one reason or another, they have a hard time accepting it. This leads me down a line of thinking that A) We all probably inspire others in some way without knowing it, B) We all are inspired by people even if we're not conscious of it; and C) How might we all benefit from being aware of those who inspire us, and also benefit the people who are doing the inspiring if we told them they inspire us?

4) I'm afraid I'll never complete this project, and I'm also afraid to type out  #100daysofinspirationalpeople for fear of misspelling it... 

Even if you don't want to do the 100 days project, just try telling a person in your life, or a total stranger, that you're doing a special project about inspirational people, and that you'd like to take their picture because they inspire you. I can pretty much guarantee you'll both walk away feeling a little bit better.

For Better or Worser

For better or worse, I say “for better or worse” a lot. Like, a lot a lot. It should probably be the title of my yet to be written memoir, because in addition to the fact that I say it all the time, it also sums up how I look at most situations in life. Things happen, and they tend to have both good and bad consequences. For example, I could say, “My parents are divorced… for better or worse”. Maybe it’s a result of my being a middle child, or a Virgo, or who knows… but I believe that all events that occur in life have both pros and cons; an upside and a downside. For better or worse.

Here are several examples that come to mind right now:

For better or worse, this is the first blog entry I’ve written in a long while.

For better or worse, it’s likely going to be an El Nino year.

For better or worse, I ate too much Korean BBQ last night.

For better or worse, I am not employed right now, which gives me time to write this.

For better or worse, I copied and pasted “For better or worse,” so that I don’t have to type it every time.

For better or worse, some people may not be reading “For better or worse” every time, but just skipping over it to get to the meat of the sentence. This is the meat of the sentence, for better or worse.

For better or worse, I had a lot of coffee this morning, and that likely resulted in this entry.
For better or worse, I hate when people say, "For better or worst."

I used to always end sentences with punctuation inside the quotation marks, but I’ve recently been told not to do it that way, so for better or worse, I am now confused.

For better or worse, the previous example was a variation of the established structure.

For bettor or worse, I just forgot to copy and paste “for better or worse,” and as a result I spelled “better” incorrectly, but for the sake of this example being unique I decided not to fix it.

For better or worse, Sea World.

For better or worse, this is my last example.

While I've always considered it to be a healthy approach to life, there may also be a defeatist element to it, too. Right? Like, if something really great happens, like if I were to say, “Oprah just gave me a brand new car!” I might immediately follow that up with, “For better or worse, because now my insurance is going to go up, and this car doesn’t get as good gas mileage as my old car.”

It’s not necessarily a Debbie-Downer effect so much as it is - not so subconsciously - my way of neutralizing something positive so that I can maintain a yin and yang viewpoint of the universe; a seemingly healthy defense mechanism. But maybe this outlook is not as healthy as I like to think. Maybe it prevents me from fully relishing in my victories, and conversely, it also prevents me from fully absorbing my defeats. In other words: not getting the most of out life. But damnit, I love saying it... I'll have to think about it some more, but I'm glad I brought this to my attention, and yours.

On that note, I think I'll stop here for now. And notice what I'm not saying as my last sentence. Clue: It rhymes with more getter door purse. Maybe I'll just start saying that from now on...

Poem of the Day

A Matter of Fate

by Todd Weinger

What a bizarre stroke of fate,

that we should be born at this time,

to this place, with these lives. The odds

are too impossibly great to ponder,

far greater even than the chance that life could

exist at all on this planet,

in this galaxy, or this universe.

And yet every blessed moment passes and blurs

into the next, it seems; days slip into

decades without our noticing, and the memories

we make forever swim around in our dreams.

Stranger yet to think

we’re all given even one chance to ride this

wave called life, and see for the briefest while

whatever ups and downs the gods

might throw our way; and how

many get on at the

            worst possible time, or fall off so much

sooner than what they had in mind.

    

            Maybe that’s why

I woke up in this darkest hour, moments

before dawn, when nothing in the world

could possibly be right or wrong, so I could

remind myself

that the odds of having one good day,

one good minute, or even one good second

are so impossibly small, the fact that

some of us can have so many is the strangest,

most splendid miracle of all.  

Regret: Everybody's Favorite Thanksgiving Side Dish

Hello, and happy early Thanksgiving to you! This is an unusual blog entry for a few reasons. For one thing, I am typing right now with a bag of frozen cranberries on my head. What? Why? Both good questions. Yes, it is true. I do have a bag of frozen cranberries atop my head. No, not because I am a die hard fan of lame Thanksgiving side dishes, and not because I don't have air conditioning on this unseasonably warm day before Thanksgiving in Los Angeles. No, dear reader, I have a bag of frozen cranberries resting on my head for an entirely different reason.

A few minutes ago, whilst putting a compact rolling duffel bag into the upper regions of my closet after our trip to Denver this past weekend, I stepped up, up, up the step ladder... and cracked my head on the bottom of the door frame. Yes, 'twas painful. Yes, my cat watched as I cursed once, stepped down from the ladder, and proceeded to lay myself on the floor and wait to pass out. No, Whisky (my cat) did not call for help. And yes, she's still watching me as I type this, in awe of my ways.

This has happened before, by the way; my hitting my head on the door frame while ascending the step ladder to put a bag away. So, in addition to being mad at myself for allowing it to happen again, it made me wonder: do we ever learn from our mistakes? I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and I think the simple answer is... yes and no.

One thing I've gotten better at as I've grown older and slightly wiser is saying to myself, "Well, X might not happen if I do Y, but it definitely won't happen if I do Z." It sounds simple, but it took me many years to learn this. Earlier today I said/thought to myself: "I probably won't electrocute myself or chop off my fingers if I don't unplug the immersion blender before cleaning it, but I definitely won't electrocute myself or chop off my fingers if I do unplug it." And yet later that same day, the step ladder incident occurred.

In case you're wondering, "why frozen cranberries?" Well, I should tell you that I have used this same bag of frozen cranberries many times before to ice my wounds. There's no special reason why I use this particular bag, I simply don't have an actual ice pack, and I never have occasion to use them for their intended purpose (consumption). Also, it works better than a bag of ice because it doesn't get all melty and drippy, and the cranberries mold to my head. Unlike, say, frozen peas, frozen cranberries do not clump together. And using frozen asparagus would just be silly.

Another reason why this blog entry is unusual is because I am putting very little effort into it. It's mostly stream of consciousness, which is kind of fun more me. [Typo there, speaking of stream of consciousness, but I like it so I'm leaving it.] Maybe it's because of the blunt trauma inflicted upon my skull in recent minutes, but I am not going to write and revise and revise and revise as I usually do. No, today I am simply going to write it, proof it, and publish it.

And having said that, I'll conclude with a hope that in the future I'll say, "I might not hit my head on the doorjamb if I step up the ladder without thinking about it, but I definitely won't hit my head if I don't put the luggage away."

Happy Thanksgiving! And this just happened: My wife Sarah came home and said, "Are you eating cranberries?" No, dear, I am not. You married a lovable dummy who may or may not ever learn from his mistakes. Oh, and happy birthday!

Please note the offending doorjamb in the background.

What I’ll Say When I Call My Wife

I haven’t called my wife yet, but when I do, I’ll say something like, “You know that old homeless guy in our neighborhood? The one with the beard who’s always sitting on the bench listening to a handheld radio or reading the newspaper? I think I just saw him die.”

“You saw him die,” she will ask.

“Well,” I’ll say, “he may have already been gone by the time I got there. The paramedics were in the middle of resuscitating him, but it wasn’t working. I even heard one EMT say on the phone (to a boss or somebody) that they had been working on him for over fifteen minutes.” I might also add: “It’s very sad. He was a sweet guy. Always kept to himself…”

But then I’ll put a positive spin on what I witnessed by telling her the exact same thing I told a surly female police officer at the scene: “I’m glad we live in a society that makes such a noble effort to save a man’s life. Doesn’t matter that he’s homeless or rich or whatever.” Surly Officer agreed with me. She even added with a profound lack of emotion, “And we’re lucky to have the resources that we do. One minute this guy’s on a bench reading the paper, the next he’s in a state of the art medical facility.” We were less than a mile from Cedars-Sinai, and I guess she was optimistic about his chances, or she was trying to make me more optimistic.

Truth is – and I will tell this to my wife when I call her – that he was not declared dead at the scene. As I said, they were trying to revive him on the sidewalk for more than fifteen minutes, and they kept trying as they loaded him into the ambulance. A few minutes later, when the ambulance sped away, its sirens were blaring, so who knows, maybe there’s a chance that he’ll make it. “If he was already dead,” I’ll ask Sarah (that’s my wife), “would they still put on the sirens?” Although it’s also possible that the EMTs just didn’t want to sit in the back of an ambulance with a dead homeless guy for any longer than they had to. Are EMTs like that? Even the ones who try for more than fifteen minutes to save a man’s life? My wife won’t know the answer to that, but I’ll ask her anyway.

I don’t know if I’ll need to add this next bit when I talk to my wife because she will be busy at work, but in future conversations with her about the incident, probably over dinner, I’ll say, “It made me think of Painter Bob.”

Painter Bob is another homeless friend of mine who I talk to all the time. Truly one of the most upbeat people I have ever encountered. Whenever I offer him food or money, or a guitar or what have you, he says, “miracles, miracles!” I often think of Bob when I’m lying in my comfortable bed at night, especially when it rains, or when I cook a meal in my kitchen... I’ll tell my wife that I want to say to Painter Bob, “I don’t want to see you go like that, man… Let’s get you off the streets and into an apartment.” But I don’t know what we/I can really do for Bob, who’s 77, from Chicago, and painted the homes of many celebrities back in the day. But at least I’ll tell my wife that I’m always thinking of ways to help him… But I digress.

I thanked the EMTs for their heroic efforts, and I also thanked Surly Officer, although she wasn’t doing much except keeping looky-loos like me from getting too close. And I’m not proud of this fact, but I also took a few photos, discreetly, of course, in case I ended up writing a blog entry about this episode later. When my wife gets home, I’ll ask her if she thinks it’s in poor taste. And later, I will ask her if she thought it was a good blog post. Too weird with all the mixed tenses? Perhaps. But alas, I will ask...

The Ice Bucket Challenge... of Calling Your Bank

So…I'm very grateful that thus far I've managed to avoid having to do the ALS ICE BUCKET CHALLENGE. That is not to say that I haven’t made a donation to ALS in recent weeks – what do you think I am, some kind of jerk? Well, I video-taped my wife (with my iPhone) as she accepted the challenge and threw ice-water on her head, and “we” subsequently made a donation, so my conscience is clear. The only problem with the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, in my opinion, is that soon there will undoubtedly be other similar “challenges” for other worthy causes, but people will be so burned out from the first one that they won’t want to do it again. But at least in the meantime, ALS has received lots of awareness and donations, so I can’t complain. And I’m sure Stephen Hawking must be thrilled.

He’s actually one of my all-time personal heroes, Hawking is; you know, the renowned author and physicist and cosmologist who unfortunately suffers from ALS. How a man with his physical limitations could accomplish all that he has and made all the contributions to science and who knows what else… it’s truly inspiring.

But one thing I can’t understand about Hawking is how come they haven’t updated his speaking voice since like 1983. I’m not going to make fun of him – ‘cause that would be fucked up – I’m just saying, with all the advances that have been made in recent years in robot voice technology, I really don’t see why he has to have the same voice as a Speak & Spell machine. If you’re not a child of the ‘80s you probably don’t even know what that is, but basically it was like a giant calculator that helped kids (like me!) learn to, well, speak… and spell. “The word is ‘Heavy’ – spell it: H-E-A-V-Y.  BOO-BEE-BOO-BOOP.” That’s the sound it made.  

So how come Hawking – who is beloved by millions around the world – sounds like a Speak & Spell… but when you call American Express or Bank of America – which everybody hates – those robot voices sound amazing? Doesn’t he deserve better? Especially if he’s going to narrate TV shows and whatnot. Maybe some of that ice bucket money should get thrown his way for an upgrade.

Although I will say, while robot voice technology has gotten much better over the years, the brains behind the voices have gotten much worse. In other words, they’re fucking idiots. I had to call BofA the other day ‘cause I was double charged by my dentist. No need to get into that now, but it was so frustrating just to get a human on the phone. This robot lady picks up – and of course she’s very friendly:

BofA: Hello! How are you today?!

And for a second, you’re not sure if it’s even a person or a robot, so you answer...

ME: Ahh, fine?

BofA: Please tell me why you’re calling. You can say things like, “Questions about my bill,” or “Order new checks.”

ME: I have questions about my bill.  

And then you think, "Hey, maybe this is actually going to be easy…"

BofA: Let me get this straight. You want to order new checks. Is that correct?

ME: No, not even close. Representative.

BofA: BOO-BEE-BOO-BOOP.

I swear, they use the same boo-beep sounds as the Speak & Spell. Go figure. And they always ignore you the first few times you ask for a representative.

BofA: Sorry about that. Let’s try this again. Please tell me why you’re calling. You can say things like, stop a check, or report a lost or stolen credit card.

This is where I get angry, and who cares because it’s a robot so it’s okay to be rude.

ME: REPRESENTATIVE! I’d like to speak to a human-fucking-being!

BofA: You said you wanted to speak with a representative. Is that correct?

ME: YES!

BofA: Okay. I’ll connect you with the next available representative.

ME: (exasperated) Thank you!

BofA: But first: Please, give me another chance and tell me why you’re calling. You can say things like, “Questions about the conflict in the Middle East, or “Golden Girls” trivia…”

ME: No! Just put a person on the phone before I blow my freakin’ brains out!

BofA: I believe you said you wanted to kill yourself. Is that correct? BOO-BEE-BOO-BOOP.

Oh, how very frustrating… I think I’d actually prefer talking to the operators in India, and I can’t even understand a freaking word they’re saying… But at least I feel like I’m being heard. You know, here’s an idea: why not at least give Hawking one of the operators in India? Even that would be an improvement over the Speak & Spell voice…

That’s all for now, but before I go, I'll leave you with one question: What happens when Stephen Hawking has to call his bank...?

All In A Day's Work: Helping A Man Reunite With His Lost Dog

After working at my home office for the first half of the day, I decided to go to my other office in the afternoon. No, not that other office meaning the bathroom; my other office meaning “my” table in the northeastern-most corner at the upstairs area at the Farmers Market on 3^rd and Fairfax. 

Not my work area, but the Farmers Market nonetheless...

I was out the door by 2:45, and was right on track to being at my table by 3pm sharp. I rode my bike east along 1^st Street, near the repaired potholes, past Rose’shouse, then crossed over Crescent Heights… and that’s when I saw up ahead what looked vaguely like a dog jumping out of a moving black Jeep Cherokee. I rode past the SUV, slowed to a stop, and asked a construction guy who was taking a break in his pickup truck what had just happened, since he had a clear view of everything.

“That dog’s running around,” construction guy said, twiddling his moustache.

“Is it her dog,” I asked, referring to the woman in the SUV.

“I don’t think so.”

By this point the SUV had pulled over, and the driver, a middle aged woman whose name I would soon come to know was Carolyn, was calling to the dog. Apparently, the dog hadn’t jumped out of the SUV, but it did jump up to the side of the car as it was driving by, and now the dog was running around in the neighborhood. If ever there was a situation that demanded my attention, this was clearly one of them.

I walked my bike over to the northwest corner of 1^st and Laurel where Carolyn was trying to get this little dog to sit still on the lawn. Not an easy task. The dog was one of those miniature greyhound fellas, the kind that are twig-skinny and extremely skittish. Thanks to CesarMillan, Carolyn understood the importance of exuding a sense of calmness in order to make a dog feel calm, however, it didn’t help much with this particular dog, who very well could have been on his own for days or more.

Carolyn and I tried to get the dog into a doggy-run (ironically enough) on the side of the house. I had noticed a For Rent sign on the lawn, so I assumed that the house was currently vacant. We figured that if we could keep the dog contained back there, it would be preferable to letting it run around and into the street, which it did several times. As we all know, drivers in this city tend to drive too fast and do not stop at stop signs. But the little pooch was too darn skittish, and try as we might we could not convince him to follow me through the gate to the side of the house. 

And even if we had succeeded at this, Carolyn and I wondered what would we do next. Well, dear reader, I should probably mention here that this is not the beginning of the story…

Earlier that day, while walking to the gym, I crossed over Beverly Boulevard at Crescent Heights (only a few short blocks away from where the dog was running amuck), and I happened to notice a Lost Dog sign posted on a street lamp. And don’t you know, the dog in the picture was a miniature greyhound. Holy shit. Jackpot. When I saw the sign, I had an instinct to take a picture of it, as I often do, but on this particular morning I decided to go against my own instincts… that’ll learn me.

             “I know this dog,” I said to Carolyn. “I mean, I’m pretty                   sure I saw a Lost Dog sign with his picture on it just                         earlier this morning.”

And from there we devised a plan: Carolyn would do her darndest to keep the dog on the lawn of the corner house, and I would ride my bike to the intersection of Crescent Heights and Beverly Blvd. to find the sign and call the owner. Ready, set, go! I hopped on my bike and took off. Never mind my plan to be at the Farmers Market by 3pm; I now had a new plan; a mission, if you will: to save a freakin’ (literally) dog. I  tore down the terribly uneven sidewalk along Crescent Heights on my bike. A car came flying out of an alley and nearly wrecked me. “Watch it, asshole!” And then I arrived back at the sign, and promptly called the number.

As soon as the phone started to ring, a terrible thought occurred to me: What if it wasn’t the same dog? Was I about to get the hopes up of a person who lost his dog, only for those hopes to be shattered if I was wrong? That’s what was running through my mind when the guy, Glen, answered the phone, and as such I was a bit unsure of myself as I said, “Hi, I think I may have found your dog?”

Glen’s number was a 917 area code, and when I told him where the dog was, he sounded a bit confused. I immediately made a few assumptions about Glen. He was a New York transplant, late 30s, possibly gay (something in his voice), probably came out to LA for work within that past year or two tops, and he was a bit high-strung – not unlike his dog. I asked Glen where he was coming from, and quickly rattled off specific turn-by-turn instructions on what route he should take. Ordinarily I wouldn’t insult a fellow Angelino by giving him specific driving directions, but in this case I had a feeling Glen needed them. I’m sure it sounded right out of SNL’s Californians sketch.

            “Take Santa Monica to San Vincente, San Vincente to                     Beverly Boulevard, Beverly past Crescent Heights, then                   right onto Laurel by Swingers Coffee Shop. We’re at the                 end of the block.” 

Trust me, it was absolutely the best way to go. I know this shit. But did Glen listen? Of course not. Damn New Yorkers....

            “I’ll be there in ten minutes!” Glen said.

            “Great! I’ll meet you at the house.”

And with that, I raced back to the house.

I was afraid that when I got there the dog would be long gone, along with Carolyn, but alas, Carolyn and dog, whose name was Logan I learned, were both still there. Not only that, but another woman had joined the party. She may or may not have been Carolyn’s partner. If I recall correctly, the woman’s name was Anja, with the J pronounced, like ganja. Or maybe it was Manja. Whatever. Let’s just call her Ganja. She was wearing a long, African style shirt, down to her ankles. Ganja had less patience than Carolyn and was anxious to leave. She must have been waiting in the car for the first part of the ordeal.

            “Are  you able to stay here until the dog’s owner arrives,”               Ganja asked me.

I knew what she was implying; she wanted to leave and take Carolyn with her, which I did not want to happen because it would have made my “job” of keeping the frantic dog safe much harder.

            “We’re supposed to meet someone,” added Ganja, “Right,               Carolyn?”

Carolyn agreed, but fortunately for me, I could hear in Carolyn’s voice that she was prepared to stay. I was not a fan of Ganja henceforth. Ironically, at some point Ganja was actually able to pet Logan, something neither Carolyn nor I was able to do at any point.

For the next twenty minutes or so we waited with Logan, ordering him to “sit!” and “stay!” – anything to keep him from running off – with mixed levels of success. Glen called a few more times as he was en route. As I said, he did not follow my instructions, and ended up on the wrong (north) side of Beverly Boulevard. Sigh. Logan was getting antsy. As was Ganja. Around this time, a bedraggled homeless man came down the street with his shopping cart full of stuff, and started chatting with the construction workers near where Carolyn and Ganja’s car was parked. 

SUV parked just off screen to the left...

            “Oh, shoot,” said Ganja, “I left the passenger door open…”

Meaning, she was afraid the homeless guy was going to… I don’t know what, take a shit in her car? Steal it? Who knows. But imagine Carolyn and Ganja’s surprise when I told them not to worry.

             “It’s okay,” I said, “I know that guy. He won’t do                               anything.”

And that was the truth. His name is Raul. He’s originally from Cuba, lived in Miami for awhile, then came out to LA. Supposedly has a daughter out here. He also essentially “owns” the alley behind my building, at least when it comes to the recyclables. God help the dumpster diver that tries to take “his” bottles and cans out of the bins in the alley. Don’t ask me how I know all this, although I should say that I am not one of the unfortunate dumpster divers to feel his wrath. But given how I feel about "my" table at the Farmers Market, I totally understood where he's coming from.

Glen called me again, getting closer. He asked me to stay on the phone with him until he arrived, even though it was entirely unnecessary.

             “Okay, I’m passing the coffee shop now...”
             “Great,” I said, “Just keep going to the end of the block                    and that’s where we are.”

             “I see some people…”

             “Yup, just keep on going…”

             “I don’t see a stop sign…”

             “Trust me, there is one. That’s where we are. Just keep                      going, you can’t miss us.”
              “I see some construction people…”

Uch, so unnecessary. I hate talking on the phone when there’s truly no need. I also hate unnecessary text messages, but I’ll save that for another post…

Glen finally pulled up to the house in a new compact Mercedes sports sedan, which did not surprise me in the least. He got out, opened the passenger door, called to Logan, who immediately ran over and jumped into the car. Success!

 Glen thanked me and Carolyn and Ganja. Of course, he had no idea what a major team effort it was to keep this dog safe, nor was he as overcome with joy as I anticipated a dog owner reunited with his lost dog would be, but so be it. Perhaps he was so relieved that he didn’t know how to act, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Before leaving, Carolyn said, “Have a nice life, Todd,” and I could tell from her voice that she genuinely meant it. I wished her the same, and with that Carolyn and Ganja rode off in their black Jeep Cherokee. Once the women were gone, Glen took out his wallet and asked me in a half-assed way if he could give me some money, but I refused. It crossed my mind to give Glen some friendly advice like, “Please keep a closer eye on your dog in the future,” or “consider getting a dog collar,” but who the hell am I to tell a grown man these things? I kept my comments to myself, and then we went our separate ways. In hindsight, I should have said yes to the money and given it to Raul. Oh, well…

Ironically enough, I almost got taken out by a few a-hole LA drivers on my way to the Farmers Market, just a few short blocks away. But alas, I arrived safely, and was in my seat at the northeastern-most table at the upstairs area by 3:35. As I took out my laptop and got to work only 35 minutes later than planned, I was reminded that it usually doesn’t take a whole lot of effort to do something incredibly nice for a stranger, and to do your part to make the world a better place... or at least, .00000001% closer to the world you/me/we(?) want to live in.

Thanks for reading yet another long-ass post of mine. If you don’t already have a collar (and ID chip) for your dog, please consider getting one… And have a nice life!

A Mitzvah for the Books

In honor of Passover this week, and Blood Moon (not really), I want to share a story about something that just happened in my life. I still don’t know if my actions constitute a genuine mitzvah, or yet another gigantic exercise in resistance and procrastination. Either way, I feel good about what I’ve done and that’s all that matters.  

It all began with the passing on of a sweet old lady who lived in my neighborhood. At least, I assume she was sweet; I can’t say for sure because I never even met her. Although I did once see a middle-aged man, presumably her son, escorting her from her front door to the sidewalk one morning while I was walking home from the gym.

In that brief moment when I saw Rose Levine – who I did not yet know was named Rose Levine – for the first and last time, with a man who may or may not have actually been her son, I became very grateful. Grateful to be young(ish?), that everything in my mind and body was working as it should, and that my own parents were both still alive and healthy (B”H). All those thoughts rolled through my mind as I kept walking along, and I never gave much thought to the frail old woman who lived on the corner of 1^st Street and La Jolla Ave for at least another year...

Then about a month ago, while walking to the gym in the morning, I saw flags outside of Rose’s house, and also, a sign: Estate Sale Today! Poor Rose… That was my first thought. My second thought: Estate sale today! Sweet! I’m not one to seek these things out, but I must admit, I do enjoy looking through other people’s junk in the hopes of finding treasure. On many occasions when passing a yard sale, I have said things to my wife like, “Honey, we really need that speaker/painting/ashtray/rug/tchotchke/sweater/lamp/chair/shoe/dog bowl/faded VHS cassette of Ghostbusters II/whatever the hell that Army thing is...” And in her infinite wisdom, she always responds in the exact same way: “You don’t need it. It’s crap. We have enough crap.”

Well, later that day I went back to the estate sale, and I just so happened to have a red-hot ten dollar bill in my pocket and no one sensible with me to tell me what not to do with it. I stepped into the two-story house slowly and respectful-like. This was not just some yard sale or antique mall, after all, it was the home a recently deceased sweet old woman whose spirit could still be felt lingering in the halls… along with an omnipresent smell of mothballs. 

The first room I went into was the den. It had an old TV on a rolling table, an old couch, and two walls lined with books from floor to ceiling. This is when I first learned that Rose was very well read, and very Jewish (though I still did not yet know her name was Rose). Of the thousands of books, most were Jewish-related; prayer books, books about Judaism (with titles like “To Be  Jew” and “Jews in the Middle Ages”), books about Israel, Jewish cook books, books entirely in Hebrew, and also books by famous Jewish authors, a few of whom I had actually heard of. I perused all of the shelves, but could not find a single book that I wanted. Oh well. I decided to keep moving through the house…

Found this pic online, but this is what Rose's bookshelves looked like (in case you've never seen bookshelves).

Upstairs, in a bedroom, I found something that surprised me: Thousands more books! Some of them were Jewishy, but most were plain old novels. It made me sad, or at least contemplative in a stoner kind of way, to think that the brain that had consumed and absorbed all these books was now… no more. Whoa.

I then found myself in the master bedroom, where I happened to notice a cable bill on the dresser made out to one Rose Levine. Once I was able to put a name to the former homeowner, and all the stuff inside the house, I lost my appetite for bargain hunting. Other people around me were sifting through garbage bags stuffed with linens, or jewelry boxes, and clothes still hanging in the closet, but I couldn't help but feel sad for poor old Rose. I imagined her having a(nother?) heart attack at the sight of strangers rifling through all her stuff.  “Don’t touch that, it’s mine!” But I digress. Time to head back downstairs…

Arriving in the kitchen, which was littered with boxes of cooking utensils, I learned that Rose also loved to cook and bake. She had countless pots and pans, baking tools, bowls, etc. None of it fancy, just well-used. I could then hear in my mind’s ear some little Jewish kid boasting about his bubbe’s stuffed cabbage being the best in the world, or Rose’s adult son (the guy I saw earlier) saying, “Nobody makes chopped liver better than my Ma.”

When all was said and done, I ended up buying an old cast-iron skillet, and an electric hand blender. (What, you thought I wouldn’t regain my bargain hunting appetite?) The woman running the estate sale shrugged as she considered how much to charge me. “Ten bucks?” she said. Sold! On one hand I felt kinda dirty walking home with Rose’s cast-iron skillet – which undoubtedly made countless delicious chicken cutlets in its day – and her nifty immersion blender, but on the other hand, I thought Rose would be glad to know that her things were going to good use… in a Jewish home no less (albeit not a kosher one).

I thought my story with Rose Levine had come to an end, but in fact it was just… the middle.

A few days ago, as I once again passed Rose’s house on my way to the gym, I saw that a bunch of moving boxes had been left outside on the grass next to the garbage cans. At least a dozen. Apparently, movers had come to the house, packed up anything of value, and left all the worthless books to be thrown away. I blamed the movers, but mostly I blamed her son. These were your mom’s books! How could you let this happen? Such a shanda… Rose would have been devastated. To me it was akin to the Nazi book burnings in 1933 Germany. Okay, maybe that's a stretch, but it was still pretty upsetting.

But what was I really going to do about it? Salvaging all those books would require a decent amount of time and effort, not to mention a friggin’ truck. Did I really even give a damn? Nobody reads actual books anymore anyway. The answer to my question about what I would do – at least for now – was nothing. I casually looked over the books in the boxes, found one that I wanted, and took it home with me. “Portnoy’s Complaint,” which I’ve been meaning to read for years. Once gain, I felt dirty taking Rose’s stuff, but this time I was reassured knowing that Rose would certainly be happy that at least one of her books was saved from certain destruction. The rest were not my problem…

Later that day, however, when I was driving home, something compelled me to take a detour by Rose’s house. I guess I was curious to see if the books were still there, and to be honest, I was hoping they wouldn’t be. But lo and behold, there they were. Didn’t anybody want them? If you leave an old chair or TV out on the curb in my neighborhood it’ll be gone within an hour, but books? Not so much. As I was about to drive off in disgust, I could hear old Rose calling to me from beyond the grave… “Please, Todd, don’t let my books get thrown away. Some belonged to my husband.”

What choice did I have? Especially now that I knew her dead husband was in the mix. I grudgingly popped the trunk and loaded three boxes of books. Seemed like a good compromise. Maybe I’d stash them in my garage and sift through them later, or maybe I’d just drop them off at a donation center… I still wasn’t sure. All I knew was, I was glad I was able to save the ones that I did, and the rest could go with God for all I cared.

The next morning, on my way to the gym, I saw that the remaining boxes of books were all still there. I still wasn’t prepared to do anything about saving them, but I did decide to move them onto the driveway so that they wouldn’t get ruined by sprinklers. And then I was done, for real. Those books were officially someone else’s problem, I told myself. I had already done more than I should have. End of story. 

Well, for someone else it may have been the end, but not this guy...

Check out the new icon at The Grove bathroom! 

A few hours later, I had a nagging Schindler-esque feeling in my gut that I could have done more. I needed to do more. I tried to ignore the feeling, hoping it would subside, but it only festered and grew inside me. Before long I found myself Googling National Council Of Jewish Women… and called them asking if I could drop off books to be donated. Yes, of course, the woman said. I then said, “What if I had many, many, many books… like a dozen huge boxes… would that be okay?” I was hoping she’d say no, but of course, the woman replied with a resounding, “Sure!”

Well, dear reader, you can imagine what happened next. In spite of all the work I needed to do that morning (you know, like for my career and stuff), I chose to clear out my trunk, lower the back seats, and load up my car. The process took at least a half hour because I had to consolidate several boxes in order make room for all the books. A few neighbors eyeballed me as if I was some kind of heartless scavenger. When all was said and done, every inch of my car was filled with Rose’s books.

               

Picture me driving, if you will, dripping with sweat, in a heavy car packed with boxes of books, half-listening to Morning Becomes Eclectic. My seat belt alarm chimed incessantly because of the boxes in the passenger seat. Upon arriving at the donation center on Fairfax, I drove around into the alley and backed my car up to the donation drop-off area, where I proceeded to unload all the boxes, and watch impotently as an old man loaded up one dolly after another with boxes filled with Rose’s books. 

                          

And that was that. I drove away with a hankering for a pastrami sandwich at Canter's, which I never got but had certainly earned. Who knows where the books will ultimately end up? Will any of my actions make the slightest difference in the world? Probably not. But at least I had a satisfied feeling knowing that one old lady who’s already resting in peace can now rest a little easier.

Thanks for reading! And liking! And sharing with friends...? Until next time, happy Passover! And Easter! And Blood Moon (not really). 

21 Things LA Drivers Do That Make Them Bigger A-Holes Than Drivers in Other Cities

I’ve driven in – or been driven in – many cities in America and around the world, and it’s safe to say that asshole drivers are truly everywhere. Los Angeles is not unique in that regard. However, LA is unique when considering the sheer number off asshole drivers. Not just shitty/dumb, or crazy/reckless drivers – but pure, dickish assholes.

Beijing drivers, for example, do some of the craziest things I’ve ever witnessed on the road, but the drivers themselves are generally not assholes; they are merely cogs in a giant piece of machinery that I actually think functions quite beautifully. Like controlled chaos.

The major difference, in my estimation, is that every shitty thing an LA driver does has an F-you factor that drivers in other cities just don’t seem to exhibit. (Explanations for this phenomenon will be explored in Part II of this series: “Reasons LA Drivers Are Bigger A-Holes Than Drivers in Other Cities.”)

It’s worth noting that not everyone in LA is an asshole all the time; they just become assholes as soon as they get behind the wheel. And everyone – including myself, and you, and even my own mother (sorry, Mom) – is guilty of being an asshole LA driver, at least on occasion. Some people I’ve talked to freely admit to it. “But I’m not an asshole driver,” you might say. Bullshit. Of course you are. Keep reading to find out why.

Before we get to the list, bare in mind that I am trying to avoid listing typical dickish driving behavior that can be found in asshole drivers anywhere in the world, not just LA. Some examples of this would be, say, tailgating or running yellow lights. Neither is worth mentioning herein. So, without further ado, here is:

21 Things LA Drivers Do That Make Them Bigger Assholes Than Drivers in Other Cities

1)  They drive entirely too fast. This may sound generic, but what makes LA drivers bigger assholes than fast drivers in other cities is their reasoning behind it. It’s not that they urgently need to get somewhere, they just want to get to where they’re going before you get to where you’re going (more on this in Part II). I call them “speedies,” and I can spot them in my rearview mirror – or even hear them – from a mile away. Newer, fancier, sportier cars are usually the worst offenders.

2)  Not only do they do not stop at stop signs, they barely slow down. Yes, we are the proud inventors of “The CaliforniaStop,” but LA asshole drivers are always pushing the limits of this act. Also…

3)  They a don’t give a damn whose turn it is to go at a stop sign, they just go whenever the hell they want. And when four cars are at a four-way stop sign all at once... may the biggest asshole win.

4)  Texting while driving… and generally doing things while operating a motor vehicle that don’t involve driving. Yes, of course this phenomenon exists everywhere, but LA drivers are especially egregious about it, so let’s just say excessive texting while driving. They often do this while not stopping at a sign, as I have witnessed on numerous occasions.

5)  Excessive honking… Especially when it comes to the unnecessarily long “fuck you” honk when a short, friendly toot that implies, “C’mon fella, let’s move it along” would easily suffice. It’s worth noting that the person they are usually honking at is most likely texting when their red light turns green.

6)  Disregard for someone who wants to change lanes. These assholes just don’t want to let you in. In fact, they will often speed up when they are behind you and in the lane you want to be in so you can’t get in front of them. I oftentimes don’t put on my turn signal before changing lanes because I know some asshole back there won’t want to let me in if he sees me signaling.

7)  They won’t alternate when two lanes are merging, especially in stop-and-go traffic. They often avoid eye-contact to hide their cowardice. The bolder ones might look you right in the eye and scowl or grin. There is a special place in hell for these assholes.

8)  Disregard for pedestrians… Even when pedestrians have the right of way (which they always do). These assholes love to make a right turn right in front of you as you step into the crosswalk, or as you approach from the far side of the crosswalk. And which Angeleno among you hasn’t almost been killed in a crosswalk by someone making a left turn? But here’s what makes LA drivers especially big assholes: They’re not sorry! Just a few days ago some asshole making a right turn gave me the middle finger after he almost ran me over as I walked through a crosswalk. Huh?

9)  They stop in the middle of a crosswalk at a red light, forcing pedestrians to go around their stupid cars – often making them walk uncomfortably close to oncoming traffic. Most of these assholes don’t back up even when they can. Instead, they look down at their phone to avoid your gaze, making them even bigger assholes.

10) Disregard – nay, disdain – for bicyclists. If there’s one thing an asshole LA driver hates, it’s when he’s trying to speed down the right hand lane of a major boulevard at rush hour (another asshole move, however legal) and he gets stuck behind a bicyclist. (Yes, LA bicyclists can be assholes, too, but at least they’re doing their part to decrease their carbon footprint.) Assholes will often cut off a bicyclist to “show him who’s boss.”

11) Disregard for the “two-cars-per-yellow-when-making-a-left-turn” rule by being the third car to go. (If you’re not from Los Angeles you probably don’t even know about this rule… which really pisses assholes off when you’re visiting LA and you don’t move into the intersection when waiting to make a left turn. In fact, it probably pisses them off when they visit your city, too.) Point is, being the third car to make a left turn at a yellow/red light is a dick-move, but assholes here do it anyway every. damn. day.

12) They make a left turn long after the turn-arrow has turned yellow/red… often nearly killing pedestrians. Nuff said.

13) Disregard for the “No left turn between 7-9am, and 4-7pm Mon-Fri” rule (at certain intersections). These assholes will stop in the middle of the intersection – even when they know they aren’t allowed to turn at that time – and make the cars behind them wait… leading to more assholes who honk their horns for entirely too long.

14) They make a quick right turn in front of you when you’re driving straight… only to then go very slowly. They often don’t stop at a sign when making this shithead maneuver.

15) They take up more than their fair share of the road when approaching you head-on on narrow side-streets… And, of course, they drive entirely too fast as they do it. It’s like a lame game of chicken which often results in busted side-view mirrors. Our city’s lame version of jousting.

16) They go in the far right lane at a red light (even if it’s right-turn only, or even if it’s not an actual lane at all)… only to zip ahead of everybody when the light turns green. Usually a maneuver performed by speedies, these assholes will accelerate rapidly, nearly crash into the parked cars ahead, only to cut the driver next to them off in the last second. Being stuck behind one of these assholes is especially frustrating when you want to make a right turn at an intersection and no cars are coming… and it’s a very long red light.  

17) Excessive lane changing. Either in heavy traffic, or when it's moving fast, these assholes are just never content to stay where they are. They especially hate assholes who won’t let them in… while at the same time they won’t ever let anyone in front of them.

18) They back out of a driveway knowing that one or more cars is probably driving down the street. “Is it safe to pull into the street? Who gives a shit? I want to go now!” That’s what they have tattooed on their backs.

19) On the other side of the coin from #18, this asshole will speed up to a car that is pulling out of a driveway (or making a three-point turn)… then slam on his brakes and honk his horn for an excessively long time… making him a far bigger asshole than the one who pulled out of the driveway without looking.

20) They are filled with RAGE! I’m not talking about general road rage, which is just adorable in other cities. I’m talking about how LA drivers have an amazing ability to get incredibly angry at the flip of a switch. They will scream and/or give the middle finger almost immediately. The worst offenders usually get upset because someone did to them what they usually do to others. Take a yoga class, go to a shooting range, listen to whales… I don’t care, just take a breath and chill the fuck out.

21) Being an asshole in general. This is deliberately vague because LA drivers are always coming up with new and innovative ways to piss off other people and prove that the rules of the road just don’t apply to them… and that they are huge, gaping assholes. “Road closed? Yeah right, not for this asshole.”

    Maybe you only do some of these things on rare occasion, or maybe you do all of them all the time. I know I’m certainly guilty of some of these things… (takes one to know one, right?). In any case, the end result is the same: an entire city of asshole drivers.  

Please stay tuned for parts II and III of this series, “Reasons Drivers in LA Are Bigger Assholes Than Drivers in Other Cities,” and “Things LA Asshole Drivers Do… When Not Even Driving.” 

And of course, please feel free to let me know in Comments or Facebook if I missed anything!