It Happened One Night... Or Did It?

Some people are in touch with their inner child... Well, good for them! Since last week's postella, I've become increasingly aware that I'm more in touch with my inner senior citizen. Take an incident that occurred the other night as case in point. Be advised, this story involves dangerous blunt objects, police activity, and some implicit sexual content...

Around 11pm, my beautiful, wonderful, supportive, caring wife, Sarah, and I were getting into bed when I heard a car kill its engine in the alley behind our building. We live on the second story of a quadruplex, and I am very familiar with the usual sounds that go on outside. I immediately knew something was amiss - not because of what I heard, but because of what I did not hear. There was no opening or closing of a garage door, just a car turning off its engine - and that was enough to draw me to the window...

I peered outside and saw that a car had parked in the alley. This was highly unusual. I could only see the front end of the car because the rest was blocked by my standalone garage, but I could see enough to know that I did not recognize the car, and I knew it did not belong to anyone who lived in the immediate area. (Need I remind you that I'm a lame Sherlock Holmes?) Knowing all this, I was not comfortable just going to sleep. Not comfortable at all...

Sorry, I could not find a sign that said, "Thank you, First Responders... in Pajamas"

I told Sarah that I was going downstairs to check it out. To my surprise, she did not protest in the least. I suppose she has accepted by now that when I get an inclination to go downstairs to "check something out," I cannot be dissuaded, i.e, when a firetruck or ambulance comes to a stop on our street; when I hear the unmistakable sound of a car accident (or any loud bang); when I hear some sort of commotion like a drunk couple arguing, etc. There are a few other "first responder" type guys on my block who also always do this - so at least I know I'm not alone.

In plaid pajama pants, slippers and a hoodie, I went downstairs to investigate. I was not so foolish as to do this without some form of protection, so I armed myself with a discarded piece of a "Multi-Gym Pro" pullup bar (don't ask). The elastic waistband in my pajama pants was not strong enough to hold the metal pullup bar handle, so I had to hold it in my hand. It was a bit awkward, especially because I was using my other hand to hold up my iPhone, which I was using as a flashlight. You know how in movies when a SWAT team moves in on a house and they look all bad ass? Well, this was the exact opposite.

With my heart rate quickening from the slight surge of adrenaline, I walked into the alley and saw the offending vehicle. It was parked in the middle of the alley, which did not make any sense. I could scarcely see from behind the car that there was a person in the driver's seat. I did not want to approach the vehicle, but I did take note of the make and model, and I also tried to commit the license plate to memory, but of course this was an impossibility...

"Why can't I remember things?"

I went back upstairs and reported my findings to Sarah. She was not particularly alarmed. I told her I was going to call the LAPD non-emergency dispatch hotline. Of course, the number is stored in my phone. Again, Sarah did not protest; partly because she was already half asleep, and partly because she knew I was going to do it anyway.

I went into the living room and called the LAPD non-emergency hotline. I told the operator lady that I was calling to report a suspicious vehicle, and stated my reasons. I knew I sounded like a paranoid maniac, but I stayed the course, stuck to my guns, and proceeded with the report. At some point in the line of questioning, I said something like, "I don't know if it's just a person passed out in there or what..." Well, that led to her connecting me to "fire & rescue" because I had said someone was passed out...

I told "fire" that I did not have visual confirmation of a person who was passed out, and what's more, I do not know why they transferred my call to the fire department when I was simply calling to report a suspicious vehicle. It occurred to me that having a fire truck show up would certainly foil anybody's nefarious plans, but I could not in good conscious allow tax payer dollars (a few of which are mine) to be wasted in this way. The rescue dispatch guy then said that they can't send help unless they know someone is in trouble. I said that for personal safety reasons I was not willing to go back down there to find out...

At about this point, the original operator lady came back on the line, said, "thank you, fire," (which I thought was cool short hand), and then she told me they would send out a cruiser. "Thank you," I said, a bit exasperated, "I'd appreciate that."

What else could I do? It was time to go to bed. I had done my duty. In LA, who knew how long it would take for a cruiser to swing by...?

Twenty-two minutes, that's how long. I heard the cop car's engine groan way down the alley, and I immediately sat up in bed. "That's the cop car," I said, "I can tell." (I also like to think I can identify a car type by the sound of its engine. In this instance I was right, or lucky.) Sarah and I peered out the window, and sure enough, there was the black and white.

Here is a snippet of the conversation that transpired between the cop and the other person - a woman. Apparently there was a gentleman in the car with her, who chimed in a few times.

COP: What are you two doing?
GIRL: Nothing. We were just... talking.
COP: Someone called us to report a suspicious vehicle.
GIRL: Someone CALLED you?

She could not believe it. Her voice was a perfect blend of panic and sheer befuddlement. The cop proceeded to ask if they lived in the area. They said no. The entire exchange lasted about 30 seconds. The cop asked for her name, and then shortly thereafter both parties took off in opposite directions.

In all likelihood, the girl and her male companion were getting it on, defiling my alley in unimaginable ways. (This is the sexual part - sorry if it's a let down.) Here are a few other possibilities that crossed my mind: 1) They were fighting, 2) He was proposing, 3) They were teenagers getting high, 4) They were lost, looking at a GPS, 5) They were picking each other's noses... Okay, that's all I got. Who knows? All I know is, they were clearly not aware that they were parked in the alley... of a guy who is very much in tune with the usual sights and sounds around his building... and they shan't be back any time soon.

Well, that's the story, folks. Make of it what you will. Actually, now that I think about it, this non-incident does not entirely "prove" that I am in touch with my inner senior citizen. If anything it highlights some other quirky aspects of my personality that I care not to explore at this time. Maybe all it proves is that I am incredibly lucky to have a beautiful, wonderful, supportive, caring wife, who loves me in spite of my mishegas. Or better yet, because of my mishegas... Eh, not likely. But just imagine for a moment what I'll be like when I am a senior citizen...

In any case, I don't feel bad for calling the cops, and if I had to do it all over again I would. Heck, before long I probably will.

Follow up!

In case you're wondering what this is... let me just say that if you drive on the 100 block of North Kilkea Dr., and you're about to make a right turn onto Beverly Blvd., and you DON'T hit a huge pothole - you're welcome!  This baby was filled within 48 hours of my reporting it. Boom!

Please read my latest blog post (below) if you missed it so you know what I'm talking about...

Procrastinator With a Heart of Gold or Grumpy Young Man with Too Much Time on His Hands?

It's been a busy, productive day, dear reader. Very productive indeed! Although not at all for anything that is related to my career, which of course is what I should be focusing my attention on. No, here are some of the important matters I've tended to thus far today - and it's barely 11am!

1) I reported to the concierge desk at the Grove that they should install male/female icons outside their restrooms to assist patrons who do not read English. The Grove receives more annual visitors than Disney Land - google it if you must - and it's safe to assume that many of them do not speak English, much less read it. The idea came to me when I saw a confused old Asian man - a tourist, I presume - standing directly in between the signs that read in a classy cursive, "Ladies" and "Gentlemen." He followed me when I passed him on my way into the mens' room, confirming my suspicion (I'm kind of a lame Sherlock Holmes) that he didn't know which way to go on account of a lack of iconography. (Speaking of iconography, I learned how to insert images!)

   

2) After delivering my bathroom sign request at the Grove concierge desk, I also put in yet another followup request to have a traffic light installed at the intersection where cars pass through the promenade. A-hole LA drivers* (see my post about why LA drivers are A-holes) love to squeeze through pedestrians and nearly kill them. This happens to me almost every time I go to the Grove, which is usually a few times a week (because I often work out of the adjacent Farmers Market).

3) When I got home, I called the Department of Transportation to report some major potholes in my neighborhood. I hate potholes, and every once in a while I call to report them. Once reported, they usually get filled in short order, especially if you tell them you damaged your car (I learned this extra tidbit from a friend awhile back).





 4) I also called Traffic Control to request having a speed bump installed (or whatever it's called) on my street. We live on a residential block that has a traffic light on one end, so A-hole LA drivers always race down the street to make the light, and also because they're A-holes. I often yell "slow down, D-bag!" at cars that drive too fast. I also once threw a water bottle at a car that ran through a stop sign and kept speeding along. (I also truly hate when cars don't stop at stop signs.) Admittedly, I realized as soon as I threw the bottle that it was not a smart way to handle the situation, and I also realized that my concern for others' safety may have revealed hidden anger issues inside of me...

When I Googled "slow down sign" this is one of the images that popped up, so, here you go.

Hold on a minute. I have one more thing to add to my list of "accomplishments" but before I do... What's going on here? Am I Andy Rooney incarnate? Is it possible that I am taking negative energy that I am unaware of from other aspects of my life and somehow misdirecting it? But it's for good reason, damnit!  I care about safety and confused tourists and whatnot, and as a result, stuff bothers me. Let's come back to this notion in a minute. In the meantime, I also care about the earth...


5) I then placed a call to the sanitation department to request having trash cans installed in my neighborhood along West 3rd Street, between Fairfax Ave and La Cienega. This is about a one mile stretch of road in the heart of what's known as Beverly Grove, a bustling commercial area with many useless, high-end knickknack shops, charming cafes, and places that do exotic waxing. I walk this road most days on my way to and from the Grove/Farmers Market.


Anyway, there are literally no trash cans near bus stops or anywhere else along the way, and people in LA are only too happy to leave their Starbucks cups or whatever else wherever the hell they want. It may come as no surprise to you that I really hate litter. I pick up a few pieces of trash off the street almost every single day, usually on my walk to/from the gym in the morning. On one hand it makes me happy to do something good for the earth, but on the other hand it makes me hate my fellow humans. I still don't know what's better in the long run for my overall well-being.

This song just popped in my head

So, again, I ask: what am I? a genuinely concerned citizen? a guy with way too much time on his hands?  a grumpy old man in the body of a vibrant 35 year old? a writer finding elaborate ways to avoid doing his work with justifiable, "necessary" deeds that may or may not serve mankind? all of the above? Who knows...

All I know is, in addition to the above, I have also on more than one occasion yelled out my window, "Cut out that racket!" and also called the police on the loud punks across the street for blasting their crappy music after midnight (that's right, I call them "punks" because that's what they are). I have also thrown a tin can onto the second story balcony of a neighbor who would throw many cigarette butts into the alley with a note saying, "Please use this can for your cigarette butts instead of throwing them in the alley." I have also placed little flags next to piles of dog poop that people have left on my lawn that said, "Thanks for the gift, neighbor!" in addition to many other signs requesting that people be decent human beings and considerate neighbors by cleaning up after their damn dogs. I do love dogs, but I must confess that I hate many, many dog owners.

I do all these things, dear reader, and more in what I consider an effort to make our world a better place. They say "don't sweat the small stuff," which makes good sense, but I also think the small stuff is important! Please believe me when I say that I am not boasting here about my good deeds, if you can call them that. If anything I am embarrassed about most of this, and also concerned for myself for having severe procrastination issues, not to mention possible issues with unaddressed anger, which we can explore some other time...

Okay, I have to get back to work (or start), so this is where I'll leave you for today. But before I do, you may like to know that I cannot have a speed hump installed on my street because "the program" was scrapped from the city's budget in 2009. That's right, as of 2009 speed bumps cannot be installed in Los Angeles. I am considering buying a megaphone, a la Modern Family's Claire Dunphy.

Thanks for reading this longer than usual postella. Please share - or pick up some litter - if you think doing so might somehow make the world a better place. Until next time... slow the F down!

Your Critic and You: A Conversation with an Artist Who Struggles as Many Artists and Non-artists Do I'm Told

Some people call it their critic, others call it a censor, but whatever you want to call it, we all got one. You might not even be aware of it. You might think the negative voice that pops up in your head at will is just... you. But it's not. Not really. It's only part of you. I used to think of mine as a force so strong it could only be speaking the truth, and it was crippling. But thanks to the Artist's Way book and workshop (whoops, didn't mean for this to sound like an infomercial...) I've learned to work with and even love my critic. But man oh man, they can be really... mean! Check out this recent encounter I had with mine. I took the pleasure of recording it for you. I promise I did not allow the editor in me to revise it much. I wanted to preserve the conversation in its purest, original form...

--

ME 1: Oh no.
ME 2: What?
ME 1: Don't tell me you're doing this...
ME 2: Doing what?
ME 1: Writing bullshit instead of doing work again.
ME 2: Isn't this technically work?
ME 1: Aren't you "technically" trying to have a career?
ME 2: Yes.
ME 1: Then what you're doing right now - writing this nonsense - is a waste of time.
ME 2: How is it a waste of time if I'm writing? I'm getting the creative juices flowing.
ME 1: No, you're wasting time. You're avoiding doing actual work under the guise of-- Wait, what I mean to say is, with your claim of doing actual work... you're operating under a guise of some sort... And the bottom line is, you're an idiot, and it's no wonder you're a failure.
ME 2: Whoa... who says I'm a failure? I'm not a failure. I'm living in my vision.
ME 1: You're not a success, isn't that right?
ME 2: Depends on your definition... But that doesn't mean I'm a failure. Jeez...
ME 1: Fine.
ME 2: Fine what?
ME 1: Fine, you are not a failure.
ME 2: Thank you.
ME 1: Yet.
ME 2: Oh, now what's that supposed to mean?
ME 1: It means you're too young to be a failure, and you haven't given up yet. But you will. And I will be there waiting to tell you I told you so.
ME 2: I will never give up. This is my dream. It's what I love. It's what I live for.
ME 1: Oh great. Stealing words from Ursula's mouth now. God you're pathetic.
ME 2: I am not pathetic.
ME 1:  Then how come it's almost 11am and you haven't done any work except this crap all day?
ME 2: Well, like I said, this is work. Kind of. And I have some time management issues.
ME 1: And that is why you fail.
ME 2: Thanks Yoda, speaking of stealing words... (pause) Fine.  I'll do real work right now.  Maybe. But it is not for you decide if this was a waste of time. It's for them to decide.
ME 1: Them who?
ME 2: Them....
ME 1: Oh... I should probably put on pants.

--

See what I mean? Very nasty indeed... But the thing we all have to realize is that the negative voice in your head loves you. It doesn't want to see you get hurt. That's why it wants you to give up on your dream; because if you quit then you don't fail, and if you don't fail then no one can laugh at you like they did in grade school when you said something stupid, or at that dinner party last week. As mean as a critic can be, it can also serve us by helping pinpoint what we're doing wrong. That's why I love mine. For instance, in the exchange above, I reminded myself that I have time management issues that I need to work on... And on that note, let's all go our separate ways and get back to work now, shall we?

Side note: I actually have dozens upon dozens of these conversations recorded, and would be happy to publish more if so called for by public demand...

ME 1: Call for it! Call for it!
ME 2: Shut up you idiot... It's over. It ended with the pants line.
ME 1: Oh yeah. That was a much better ending. Damn.

 

A Quick Read Before You Light Candles and Stuff Your Face!

The problem with having a blog is that there are entirely too many things to blog about. Especially this week, what with Chanukah, Thanksgiving, Thanksgivingnuka (and all the actual mash up names that I don't care to google), my wife's birthday yesterday, not to mention this one died, this one had a baby, Sriracha factory gets shut down but Iran can keep making nuclear weapons… it's all too much for me right now. So instead I’ll make it easier on myself (and you, too, perhaps) by sharing a poem that I wrote the other night. It may or may not have something to do with how I'm feeling, or blogs, or life in general, or nothing at all…

Poem From the Other Night

I'm pretty sure 

that by the time

I finish this 

sentence, there

will be a

catastrophic earthquake 

and everything 

that can topple 

in my apartment 

will do just that

and everything 

breakable 

will surely shatter; 

whatever can be saved

shall be considered gained,

every book and knickknack

will flee from its shelf,

every cabinet 

will betray its contents 

like all too eager 

floodgates offering

my wares to the 

world, saying, "Here! this

is what he has to offer!

all that was once kept safe

inside is now scattered about

for you to do with what 

you will, nothing 

has been spared,

everything has been set free,

ready to be sifted through,

trashed or possibly cherished,

so thank you, world, for always 

shaking things up

when we need it most

and expect it least,

but please, spare

us from the flood

that is sure to follow.”

Thanks for coming back, folks! Until next week’s postella, please remember to drive - and chew - carefully over the holiday. Happy Thanksgivukkah! (yes, I caved)

My First Blog Post!* (*This is my second blog post, which is about my first blog post, posted last week)

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single stepella"

When I started writing last week's post, I truly didn't know what I was doing. I didn't even know if I was going to post what I had written - a bunch of weird questions - or if anyone was gong to read it. (I am leaving that "gong' typo in because it felt appropriate given the Lao-tzu quote above.) And yet thus far 140+ people have viewed my first blog post. That is astounding to me. Even if, say, 20 of those views were my own, and one was my mom's, that still means that 100+ people ventured to look at it. Of those 100, I'd like to believe that half read the whole thing, and of those, I'd like to believe that half actually enjoyed reading it.

So, while last Monday was like any other, whereby I sat at my desk and wrote stuff, as I always do, on that particular Monday I wrote stuff that maybe as many as 25 people enjoyed. That is an unusual feeling of validation and instant-ish gratification that, as a writer, I don't often feel - or should I say, I don't feel often enough. Is there a difference? I don't know. No time to think about it! Moving on... What you anonymous 25 have done has inspired me to write more blog stuff - for better or worse - so, thanks!

On the flip side, the 25 likers also created a bit of a dilemma for me. My first entry was a very spur of the moment thing - a true "ready, fire, aim" situation - and throughout the week afterward I was stricken with (stricken with? Sure why not...) one question: "What next?" Well, after nearly getting some form of blog-writer's-block, I am posting this - whatever this is, a soapbox rant of sorts - in order to move through that block. Now that this entry is all but done I am already feeling better, and eager to write my actual second post, which will actually be my third post... and kind of my first.

If you enjoyed reading this "postella" or the other one, or felt either was anything more than "meh," then I'd encourage you, kind reader, to please read the next one(s). I think I have enabled the ability for you to become a subscriber. My wife said I should only post one entry a week, so, until then... Ciao for now. I promise my next entry - and this blog for that matter - will be about something. Actually, no, no I do not. But please read it anyway?

First Post + Questions

Hello? Can anybody hear me? This is my first blog post. Feels like I am whispering into a dark cave, asking if the bear cub can come out and play. So... what now? Another metaphor, of course... I feel like I'm being drawn into a light, like the moth... or the opposite it of a moth, seduced by darkness...

Have you ever gone on a long walk with no real destination, but secretly hoped that walk would change your life forever? Have you ever ridden a bike in the rain, and later felt proud of the stains on your back from the dirty water spraying off your rear tire? Have you ever asked a stranger to dance, and been surprised by how quickly they said yes? Have you eaten breakfast yet? Are you health conscious? Is time wasted a concern of yours? Are you a cat person? A people person? A decent person? How do you know? Is asking questions a good way to start a blog? Can we change the word "blog" to something else now? Something more classic and elegant sounding, like... "postella?" What's more disgraceful, hating what you do, or hating what you dream? If you are a reasonable person, what would someone with your exact experiences who is NOT reasonable be like? Or for that matter, someone more reasonable than yourself - with your exact experiences - would react to certain situations how?

Have you had enough yet? Will you ever read another postella post of mine? Will my grandchildren read this and wonder about me? Admire me? Mock me? Might it round out their minimal knowledge of their dear old grandad, now long gone, and give some insight into who he really was and what made him tick? Will they give a shit either way? Will they have flying cars, and what will they call road rage?

Kind and gentle reader, please feel free to answer any of these questions... or ask a few of your own in the provided comment section, whenever you may stumble upon it. Thanks for reading this. In closing, I'd like to concede that I used to not be a cat person - I was only a dog person - but now that I have had a cat for over a year, I am both a cat person and a dog person, though I do not currently have a dog. Until next time...