Blue Bonnet on it

This weekend, my companions and I happened upon some "model homes." I always like touring model homes because they're always set up to look as though someone lives there, so there are plenty of things like framed snapshots of people, fake baked goods on kitchen counters, fake breakfast trays on beds, and even fake notes on refrigerators and desks. I find it kind of creepy because I feel like I'm poking around in someone's home without permission, about to be discovered any minute. I also think it's amusing because the whole thing is just a big charade designed to manipulate people, and it's all so utterly lost on me.

We had to go through a main office kind of place first, though, and an older guy who worked there asked if he could help us. I realized I couldn't really say, "We're here to make a complete mockery out of everything," so I stammered something about wanting to look at the model homes.

"Are you looking for yourself or for your parents?"

"For...for us," I said.

"Oh, did you know that this is a 55-and-over community?"

One of my quick-thinking companions said something intelligent-sounding and the guy happily turned us loose into the homes, but I found it bizarre how easily I slid into junior-high-schooler-ditching-class mode, especially considering I'm nearly 80.

We had loads of laughs pretending to eat fake candy apples and pretending to trip while carrying breakfast trays fully laden with fake coffee and fake croissants.

Checkered Past Cabs

I'm going to LACMA to get a glimpse of some Klimts (Thanks for that one, Carlos!).

Kraft Singles

It's finally here! No more pencils or books, and no more dirty looks - not from teachers, anyway! That's right, school's out for summer (but not forever), and I'm going to make this the most exciting summer yet, starting now, with a liberal sprinkling of sentences ending in exclamation points!

My grades are already in, too, which surprises me. I guess all of my instructors were eager to dole out Bs to me. That's what I got, a B in each class. Is this impressive or disappointing? Do you expect better or worse from me? Actually, I think that's pretty good, considering how poor my attitude was this semester.

My girlish accomplice and I got a really nice chair last weekend however, which is already improving our lives immensely. I keep wanting to write about it, but I haven't had a chance to take a picture and I figured what's the point. I found the picture below on the internet, and our chair is exactly like it, except in black. It's a knockoff of one of those Eames chairs , and it was made by the Plycraft company in the 60s or 70s.We found it in the lamest thrift store in the region, the Salvation Army on 6th and Pacific in San Pedro. I haven't bought anything there in years because there's never anything useful or good or even entertainingly bad in there. It's the most dismal, depressing, malodorous thrift store I've ever been in. It doesn't have that mildew-y smell that some thrift stores have. I kind of like that smell actually, and it doesn't really smell like dust either. Those smells actually appeal to me, and I welcome them as olfactory clues that there are bargains to be had. The Salvation Army on 6th and Pacific in San Pedro just smells like baby diapers and corpses.

That's why I was pretty surprised to see this chair in there. It had a $40 price tag on it, but I knew it was worth a bit more than that. I thought about trying to haggle with them about the price, but the tag indicated that the chair had only been there one day. As I brought the chair up to the front counter, I abandoned any ambition of haggling, because I actually hate haggling, but for some reason, the lady at the register decided to charge me $30. I guess I must've charmed her or something.

Anyway, we brought the chair home, and I scrubbed off all the diaper/corpse residue, and we moved some other furniture around to make room for it, which resulted in an amazingly harmonious arrangement that, almost magically, made our place seem much larger and more peaceful and much more fun.

So my advice to you is, "Buy that chair, you'll be glad you did."

A Bayonet is a Gun and a Knife

At practice last night, we agreed to have a "fake British accent jar." It's a lot like a "swearing jar," where people deposit money every time they swear, except, in our case, the offender has to put a nickel in every time he says something into the microphone in a phony British accent.

To be fair, I should mention that I'm the only one who ever does it, except for David, who occasionally does it in response to me doing it, but always in a gallant effort to make it seem less awkward that I'm the only one doing it.

We only just came up with the idea last night, so we didn't have an actual jar yet, but already the guys were trying to bust me for talking in what was clearly a bogus Australian accent.

If you want to play that game, that's a whole different jar.

This Could Be The Real Thing But Probably Not

There's this girl who works in the office at the day job, a very sweet girl actually, but she does this one thing that drives me absolutely bonkers.

She frequently snacks on edamame, but she eats them in the most ghastly possible way. Most people gently squeeze the sides of the pods as if they were damp, fuzzy coin purses, causing them to easily open, and then they gingerly pluck the glistening beans from within. This girl holds the end of the pod with her fingertips and then inserts the rest of it into her mouth where she begins to suck and gnaw and slurp on it, frequently removing it from her mouth to inspect her handiwork and gesture with it while speaking. I've only ever seen one person eat edamame like this before, and it was equally disgusting. I figured out that they most likely do it this way in a desperate attempt to savor every molecule of salt from the shell.

Also she says, "EdamaNE," with an "n." That's two things, I guess.

The other day she was standing next to me , waving one of her frayed soybean carcasses at me and I said to her, "You know, I can suggest an alternate method of eating edamaME that doesn't require quite so much sucking and gnawing..."

If you think that was harsh, I have this to say to you: Sir or Madam, this is the way in which I prefer to roll.

Not Going for the Gold

Hi!

I haven't been writing much, I know. Finals.

I have my final Final Exam tonight, though. It's not my FINAL final Final, school's just out for summer. I've still got a bit more schooling until I graduate.

Anyway, I'm very much looking forward to being done with this semester. "Look out," is all I'm saying.

Look out for me.

The Gold State will be playing some shows, and we'll be doing some recording as well.

So, do look out for me, and us, and that.

Ding Dang

My special female significant and I were with some friends a couple of weeks ago, when the guy broke out a bootleg DVD of a special that Mr. T made in the 80s called "Be Somebody...Or Be Somebody's Fool." There were lots of amazing moments, but by far, the stand-out segment is one where Mr T raps in a musical number called "Treat Your Mother Right." It blew our minds, which aren't easily blown. My friend promised to burn me a copy of the DVD.

Today, to my extreme delight, and totally by coincidence, I stumbled across the video for "Treat Your Mother Right," which some sick bastard posted to YouTube. It was linked to on Neatorama in honor of Mother's Day, which makes complete sense, you have to admit.

You have to watch this. It's the greatest thing ever, and it's going to alter the way you do everything from now on.

Link

Catch as Catch Can (Catch)

Happy Mothers' Day, everyone!

So I spent Mothers' Day with some mothers and it was fun and everything and there was lots of joy but I couldn't help thinking that it would be a nice gesture if we had a similar counterpart day for fathers.

Nothing against mothers, you understand. They deserve everything they get and then some. Mothers are awesome.

I'm hereby proposing that we set aside one day each year to day to celebrate fathers. How does that sound? I don't have any ideas for a name yet, though.

Anybody got anything?

Ship in a Bottleneck

I've got this awesome idea. Check it out.

OK, you know how all across the globe there are time zones, and each time zone has a difference of one hour? We all know that this is essentially just a dictation from the man though, because in reality, there are no physical zones. However, the world is turning, and it actually is later in Arizona than it is in Los Angeles, for example.

But, it's also later in Long Beach than it is in San Pedro, again, for example, although they're only a few miles apart. The sun definitely sets slightly sooner in Long Beach, our neighbor to the east.
So here's my idea: Split up each of the current time zones into 60 smaller zones so that the time difference between each one is one minute. I figure if there are 24 time zones on earth and it's working out pretty well, then 1440 time zones would have to be even better.

Wouldn't that be awesome?

Stitch Not in Time

Calling all haters: Brian, who plays drums for The Gold State, has a band called The Leeches, and they're playing tomorrow night (Friday) at Harold's in San Pedro. They do a crazy, crazy instrumental thing, and they're quite renowned, locally and otherwise, in case you're not aware.

I'm going. Go.

The Leeches

Friday, May 12, 2006 at Harold's
1908 S. PACIFIC AVE. (19TH & PACIFIC), SAN PEDRO, CA 90731
Cost: free

Times and bands are subject to change. 21 & Up / Full Bar
THE MEGAHURTS 9:00 PM THE MEDIKS (from Portland, Oregon) 9:45 PM (members of BERZERK) THE CHUCK DUKOWSKI SEXTET 10:30 PM THE LEECHES 11:30 + POSSIBLE SPECIAL GUEST(S)

Your Time to Shine

(I usually never talk about "music" here on The Gold State Remarks Page, but please bear with me. I'm doing some "research.")

Attention, self-centered musician-types: Does anybody know what kind of acoustic guitar pickup is good these days? By "good" I mean one that sounds "warm" and/or "nice" and/or everything.

For example, I used to hate those transducer pickups because they sounded like "crap." Have they made any great technological advancements in the last few years? I also thought that regular magnetic pickups distorted too much, too, but are there better ones now?

Sure, I could "research" this on the internet, but I wanted to know if any of you discerning "musicians" have made any recent discoveries.

I'll never ask you for anything ever again, I promise.

Heres and Theres

I have no idea if I'll be able to convey this, but here goes:

I'm walking through the lobby of my day job's building, toward the elevator. As I round the corner, I can see that there is a lady standing at the rear of one of the elevators, waiting for the doors to close. As I walk, I'm trying to debate whether I have time to get aboard that one or not.

I've pretty much decided that I'm just going to wait for the next elevator when I notice that the lady is looking right at me, with a strange, smug facial expression. Suddenly, before the doors even begin moving, from her stationary position, she lets out a completely unnecessary and inappropriately loud shout-y type of noise, which was intended to convey to me, "Oh, I so want to help you get on this elevator, but, alas, it is too late! I have only just noticed you, and it's impossible for me to reach the 'Hold door' button in time! God save you, good sir!"

Of course, at this point, I'm thinking it would be kind of funny if I were to end up riding the elevator with this lady. I take these elevators every day, so I'm aware of how much time passes before the doors close, and I estimate that if I take two giant strides, I'll make it, and I do. However, the doors just begin to close, and I break the electric eye beam, causing them to lurch open, momentarily, before finally shutting.

"I'm OK, I've got it," I say cheerily, with mock gratitude.

This is how I roll.

Stinkin' Badges

At OfficerStore.com you can build and order your own real-looking badges, which is sort of creepy and scary but what makes me giddy with delight is that you can preview them online.



I dare you not to do at least one. (Via Neatorama)

Sick and/or Tired

I've been doing lots of "home-work" and studying because the school semester is almost over, which is one of the reasons I haven't been writing much here.

I was in one of my classes last night, and the professor came over to me and asked if I'd seen the Société Anonyme show at the UCLA Hammer Museum, and I told him that, no, I hadn't seen it yet, although I'd like to. (In case you're not an art dork, the Société Anonyme was an art organization founded in 1920 by Katherine Dreier, Man Ray and Marcel Duchamp.)

He had brought up the Société Anonyme show because way back on the first day of the semester, he had asked me what my major was, and I told him it was art. When he asked me who my favorite artists were, I told him Duchamp and Man Ray.

So, naturally, I was flattered because the guy remembered this detail about me all these months later.

But then, a short while later, he passed out the instructor evaluation forms. Occasionally at the end of a semester, instructors are required to have students fill out these forms so that the school can determine whether the instructors suck or not. I realized the guy was trying to suck up to me so I'd give him a good evaluation. The nerve.

So, naturally, I wrote a glowing evaluation because I truly am that shallow.

Wick of the Moment

I have this funny story, and the friends and family members I've told it to in person have laughed heartily at it, but I know the story is very dependent on vocal inflections and physical gestures of incredulity, so I know I'm gonna blow it by writing it here, and if I see you soon and you've already read it here, it'll have ruined the whole thing for you, but check this out.

I took a date to an Indian restaurant based solely on the recommendation of a co-worker whose judgment I'm seriously beginning to question. The first sign something was amiss was that there were only 2 other tables that had people seated at them in the whole place, and it was a Friday night. We were seated by a hyper-gracious Indian man who brought us very delicious, but mouth-searingly spicy papadam.

The waitress came to our table right as we sat down and asked, "Who had the Iced tea?" We told her that we hadn't ordered anything yet, and she stood there with a totally inappropriate amount of befuddlement for way too long, and then muttered something like, "Oh...it must have been one of the other people at..." and then she very slowly wandered off. There were only two other parties in the whole place!

At this point, I should mention that, although the people who ran the restaurant were clearly Indian-born, the waitress was most definitely from here, so there wasn't a, "Language barrier," as each listener has suggested to me so far. Good suggestion, though.

She came back to take our order, and we told her that were were going to get the "Bombay Special" or the "New Delhi Special" or whatever it was called. It said on the menu that we could choose chicken or lamb for the main dishes, and we knew we were going to get chicken because
neither one of us ever eat lamb, ever. Never ever.

She said, "Ok, I just have a couple of questions for you. Would you like lamb biryani or chicken biryani?"

"Chicken biryani," I said. "Actually, we're going to get chicken everything. No lamb."

She scribbled on her waitress-pad. "OK...and would you like that mild, medium, or spicy?" We remembered the papadam and agreed on, "Medium," just to play it safe.

"OK...and would you like tandoori lamb or tandoori chicken?"

"Um, chicken. Tandoori chicken." My date and I were kind of chuckling uncomfortably and looking at each other, trying to figure out if the girl was trying to be funny, and trying to laugh with her if she was.

"Actually, to save you the trouble of asking all these questions, we're going to get everything chicken and everything medium. No lamb."

"OK...and would you like that mild, medium, or spicy?"

"Medium," my date and I said in a somewhat sing-song-y unison. I continued,"Heh, heh, gotta ask the questions, right? Medium, though. Seriously, everything chicken and everything medium."

"OK..." She jotted. "Now I just a have a couple more questions for you...would you like chicken curry or lamb curry?"

"???!!"

"Umm, chicken?" I said. "And medium on the chicken curry, too, please? Everything, um, chicken, and everything medium, too, just to make it... easy?"

Then she began to read the order back to us, "OK, you've got lamb biryani-"

"No," my date interrupted, bemusedly. "Chicken. No lamb. Everything chicken."

"Yes, chicken biryani," she said, as if that's what she had said the first time. She then rattled off the rest of the order correctly.

"Just to be clear," I added, "Everything chicken and everything medium. No lamb." She confirmed that she understood.

You have to think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not.

Of course, when the food came, everything was lamb, except the tandoori chicken, so we called her over. "Hi, I think there's been a mistake. This is lamb, but we ordered chicken. Remember? 'Chicken everything?'"

"No," she said, with a completely straight face, "You ordered lamb."

You should know that I'm not one of those people who's demanding of servers at all. I've had lots of friends who've worked in restaurants, so I know all the stuff they hate, and I go out of my way not to do these things. I always tip well, I never send food back, and I go out of my way to ask for all the stuff I need at the same time, so they don't have to keep running back and forth for me.

After many moments of stunned silence, she said, "It doesn't come with chicken. Only lamb."

We assured her that not only did the menu clearly say that it comes with lamb or chicken, we reminded her that she had also asked us which one we wanted, and that we told her chicken, no lamb, repeatedly.

"Let me check the menu," she said, and she walked away, leaving my date and I to shrug at each other. When she returned, she looked at the menu, and without showing it to us, triumphantly said, "Nope, see, it only comes with lamb!" My date said, "Can I see that," and began to tug at the menu, which eventually the waitress relinquished.

"No, see right here, it clearly says that the biryani comes with, 'Chicken or lamb.'"

Long pause.

"Well...it comes with lamb. Nobody ever gets chicken."

"Look, I said, it's no big deal, it's just a mistake. We ordered chicken. Can you just take it back, please, and get us the chicken?"

Long pause.

"It only comes with lamb."

"Well, OK, let's forget that for a minute," my date said, pretty annoyed by this point, but still being a really good sport. "This is lamb curry here, we specifically asked for chicken, and the menu is very clear about this. Look, it says,'Your choice of chicken or lamb curry. There's no way to misinterpret that.'"

After a pause, the waitress looked right at me and said, "It's chickenlamb."

CHICKENLAMB!!!

I'm not making this up. I have a witness.

My date said, incredulously, "Chickenlamb. It's, 'Chickenlamb?'"

"Yes. Chickenlamb."

Pause.

"You know," I said very calmly (and you have to be wondering why I didn't say this earlier) "We're...we're gonna leave."

Right then, the gracious guy from earlier ran over and vowed to fix everything, and we wanted to leave anyway, but we didn't, and then the chef came out and was overly apologetic and ashamed, but we told him it was no big deal, that it was just a mistake, and then we got our correct food, and it was quite good, and the waitress came over and apologized as if she had insulted us, which she had, and everything was really awkward, but I didn't even care, because I like this story.