I Crack Myself Up

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50,000 Milloinaire Hippies Can't (always) be Wrong

Ah Monterey.... Probably my favorite place in the world. This picture doesn't begin to do it justice. Any beautiful place you've been to you can forget about. Seen the Rockies? -frozen rocks. Been to the beaches of Florida? -muggy sandbox. Fall in New England? -dead leaves. There are beautiful places and then there is the central coast. Meg Ryan is a pretty woman but stand her next to Heidi Klum and she might as well be Roseanne Arnold.

My hotel was called Butterfly Grove because it is the largest butterfly sanctuary in America. A couple mornings I had to shoo away a deer from my car. There are otters and seals playing in the water below you and whales in the distance if you pay attention. The most beautiful golf courses in the world are there and the world's most exclusive auto show in the world is held ON a fairway. Are you getting my point? I could go on but I'm sure It's getting tedious.

Every night I soaked in my jacuzzi tub watching the fireplace listening to the waves crash and thought, "Who do I have to kill to live here?" If you made the list you'll know soon. I spent a lot of my spare time climbing around on the rocks looking in tide pools. Not something you can do in Arizona. On a drive south towards Big Sur I saw a sign that read "Coastal Access" that led to a footpath as it turned out. I have since written a letter to the Coastal Commission of California explaining that in the interest of public safety it should read "Coastal Access (not you fat boy)" During the parts when I was sliding down the hill on my ass I should have been thinking of how exactly I was going to climb out in loafers but I didn't let something as petty as survival instinct get in my way.

After my little brush with natural selection I stopped at Rocky Point Grill which is where I took the picture above. That has to be the most enjoyable beer I've ever had. I was overlooking the most famous spot on the PCH, glad to be alive (and picking gravel out of my elbows) and watching whales work their way north. You can't actually see the whales just their puffs as the cruise by in the distance. What was neat about that was watching the infrequent big puffs interspersed with the more frequent little puffs as the mothers guided their calves up the coast. Sigh.....

I've done the math and if I sell my condo and my car, sell my plasma weekly and adapt to a diet of ramen and Totino's pizzas I can afford to live in a converted port-o-john in Carmel. After a couple years I could sell and use the equity to move into a tool shed in Pacific Grove. If I keep it up by the time I'm 80 I can sell my condo and buy South Dakota. Plan B: Practice until I can do origami with my tongue and cruise the bingo parlors looking for a "sponsor". Don't judge me people - Anna Nicole Smith's husband looked like a turkey neck in a wheelchair.

Orange Diego

Today's entry is a combination of Orange County and San Diego. Are they the same place? - No. Are they close enough and am I so lazy that I'm not going to write individual posts - Yes. Come on, I'm not the first guy to squish similar places together - worked in Yugoslavia right? For a while anyway.

Let's start with a basic premise: L.A. sucks. What it lacks in hospitality it makes up for with pollution, traffic, expense and crime. Everyone in L.A. has some grand scheme that isn't working out somehow. And you, having stumbled into their lives through some cruel twist of fate, are dirtying their ambiance with your presence - or so their look tells you. "I said no foam Trevor - remember, great art comes from suffering so suffer your way over to the latte machine and try again. And here's a tip, take out the eyeball piercing before your next job interview."

That being said Orange County is not L.A. It does have some of the faults - Traffic can be rough and it is expensive. But traffic isn't that bad and it's not too insanely expensive. I spent a good chunk of my week at the Newport Pier. There's a great little bar/grill at the end of it. Primary difference between O.C. and L.A. is the people and that's what matters most wherever you go. I had so many good conversations there. And you feel legitimately welcome there. The J Crew model bartenders even invited me to go wounded bunny hunting Valentine's night. I've never been one for victimizing emotionally vulnerable women but it was nice to be invited.

San Diego is a beautiful city and holds a lot of fond memories. As a kid growing up in Phoenix San Diego was the obvious escape from the summer blast furnace. My first pro baseball game with my dad was in S.D., my first swim in the ocean was in S.D., my first visit to a restaurant more fun than Village Inn was in S.D. - I could go on. Stone brewery, bistro and gardens was awesome! San Diego zoo was a kick. Ocean Beach was a lovely collection of head shops and mostly naked girls strolling by. Killer mexican food everywhere. In short I could be very happy in S.D. - if somebody paid my rent.

When I find myself getting frustrated with California traffic I put on the shades, roll down the windows and roll back the sunroof to let the 75 degree salt breeze blow through and crank up the stereo. I'm gonna get sick of California if they keep sending me there...but not yet.

Vegas baby!

First let me apologize as I have taken procrastination to new heights in not writing for 2 months. No excuse. I finally turned my procrastination against itself and convinced myself that if I don't write I have to do something responsible.....like my taxes. Blog it is.

A few weeks ago I was sent to "work" in Las Vegas. Just to clarify: I was paid to go to Vegas on the company dime. Forgive my uncontrolled giggling. For the record I did do my job. Stayed at the Flamingo - can't beat it for the money. The view from my window were the Caesars fountains. The Bellagio fountains were a little to the left. Every morning my breakfast of a diet coke and croissant was eaten outdoors in the flamingo gardens 20 feet from the exotic bird collection and waterfalls. Sigh...... Though I do have one major complaint for the Flamingo: If one of the cheeses in your "Four cheese pizza" is blue cheese that is VITAL information that should be on the menu. If I am selling you daycare and I say we have four staff members to keep an eye on your kids I would tell you if one was Michael Jackson.

The unusual becomes commonplace in Vegas. You have to pay attention not to take it for granted. One night I was wandering looking for dinner in the Caesars mall and came across Wolfgang Puck's asian restaurant. I say "Asian" because there was a full sushi bar and full chinese menu too. I was one of 3 customers there. Probed the staff for local knowledge and recommendations. Nice conversation with the bartender and a waitress so sexy that 20 or so IQ points were instantly sucked from my head every time we made eye contact. Once I scared her away I was given the remotes to the plasmas and left to my stir fry - the best stir fry I've ever had. That is a normal Sunday night in Vegas.

Part of what I love about Vegas is that everybody is there to have a good time. I don't mean tetanus shot and bail money good time - just enjoy themselves. You meet lots of fun people. Though a downside is that every extroverted mouthbreathing dolt you sit nearby seems to think that being in Vegas means you want to talk to them. During the entire week not once did the phrases "So what do you do" or "Have you been winning" escape my lips. They didn't even cross my mind. And yet I can go into detailed explanation as to the progressively tragic vocational paths and gambling habits of about 5 people I ran into there. This is where iPods come in handy. I often leave my earphones in even if it's not on. Even that doesn't stop everybody.


So I had never seen a cabaret. Isn't that a reason in and of itself? I thought so. An hour and a half, $50 (not counting 2 $8 bud lights) later I had seen a cabaret...and wanted my money back. If you are nauseatingly wealthy and your wife keeps you under 24 hr surveillance yet seems to think a cabaret is somehow different than a strip club than I can see the appeal - maybe. Watching girls try to turn stripping into a performance piece was painful. The good news was that $50 is much less than the $130 it would take to watch a good show so in my mind I now had $80 to try something else. Plan B: Hypnotist comedian! Saw Anthony Cools' show at the Paris. THAT was funny. Unfortunately it was 'you had to be there' funny. Somehow watching someone audition for a porno under the impression that a chair is a beautiful woman is humor that gets lost in translation. And it was only $60. See - I saved $20! If you subtract the $20 from my gambling losses I was only down $80 for the whole week. This is the logic that keeps the lights on in Las Vegas casinos.

My dog is cuter than your dog

I've received many well-wishing condolences since my post about Rug dying - more specifically, the joy of getting to kill your own dog. I appreciate them very much but thought that I should throw in a post about "Big Boo" so it doesn't seem like I am crying myself to sleep at night on my huge pillow (we'll see how many people get that reference).

Maggie is am 18 month old Olde English Bulldogge.

No, she isn't an English Bulldog and yes I can spell. Basically she is a taller healthier version of the English Bulldog. As for the title of the entry let's cut the crap - you know it's true. As I type this she is sleeping next to me suckling in her sleep. A 65 lb bulldogge suckling in it's sleep is just below bunnies sneezing and above baby deer on the list of the world's cutest things. Don't be too jealous, I said cuter not better. She is afraid of her own shadow and frequently mistakes my loft for a fire hydrant. Her taste in chew toys ranges from designer clothes to remote controls to walls. But she is my dog and I wouldn't prefer any other.

She is named Maggie after Margaret Thatcher but I soon realized that Maggie is the most common name of dog. Didn't see that one coming. So Bulldogge was gradually shortened to Boo. Not too macho, I know, but I didn't get my dog to look tough.

Strange animal in many respects. Having a face that looks like she was hit with a shovel makes her sound like an 80 year old man during his afternoon nap much of the time. Flatulence is something else she borrows from 80 yr old men. She rarely makes a sound (besides snoring), in fact I've never heard her yelp. I've seen her fall from the couch and crack her head on the coffee table yet not a squeak. Once hiking with me I noticed that she wasn't at my heels which was unusual. I turned to see her hanging from a 10 foot drop by her front legs. But she patiently clung waiting for me to come get her - not one sound. You can walk her up to a chicken coop or herd of kittens and she shows no interest. During a car ride she just sleeps on the floor.

Many people think she's retarded. It's not a bad theory. But she was the star pupil in her obedience class. She just doesn't care about chickens or cats or physical pain for that matter. She only cares about people. She enjoys the Discovery Channel - especially dog shows. Only one major allergy thankfully - the planet Earth. Every day is a battle against some rash or infection.

And again I wouldn't trade her for the world (although all reasonable offers will be considered). Here's a little wisdom for you: Never trust someone who doesn't like dogs. Think about it, a dog-hater is someone who finds no value in unconditional love and endless entertainment and instead sees only inconvenience and a cramp on their style. You have to have some wires crossed to think that way. Entering a relationship with someone who doesn't like dogs is knowing that it is more important that you provide convenience to the person than love as this is how they prioritize. They can fake it for a while but in the end their true self must come out. Maggie makes me laugh everyday. Put a price tag on that.

A Newfound Appreciation for Electricity

Phoenix has many things that people in other states do not realize. Running water, paved roads and cable Tv to name a few. One little gem I had not experienced is an ice storm. Educational I admit, but I could have died happy without ever having cracked open my car like an egg.

Last week was a joyous romp through the (God-forsaken, frigid) breadbasket of America. I'm not built for tundra having grown up in a sandbox as you might assume. Upon arriving in Oklahoma City Sunday I had the joy of chipping my rental car from a solid block of ice (picture above provided for illustration purposes only). Driving on ice reminded me of when I was 6 and I would get a running start and hit the kitchen linoleum wearing only socks to see how far I could slide. Unfortunately most of those memories end in tears - this one promised to end in higher insurance rates. I tobogganed my way down the highway until I was out of it and had a day and a half reprieve working south of the storm.

Tuesday I had to go north to Tulsa, or as I call it "The Heart of Darkness". The drive to Tulsa was just creepy. For those of you who haven't seen the after-effects of an ice storm I'll explain. Ice is much heavier than snow. Therefore many of the things it builds up on such as tress simply crumble under the strain. Entire groves of trees looked like a giant had stepped on them. Having confirmed that my hotel had electricity I picked my way past the convoys of service trucks heading into the city and made it to safety in one piece. As I stood on my balcony I wondered at what people without power were doing to stay warm. I thought perhaps the decent thing to do would be to offer to share my room with someone less fortunate - like the Oral Roberts cheerleading squad perhaps. How can they stay warm in those little skirts? My magnanimity was soon dashed and my heart lurched when I heard the tell-tale sounds of all electricity leaving the premises. Not good.

Sun going down and no place to sleep. Fortunately my hotel in Wichita did have electricity and was willing to let me come early. It was highway time. Driving in ice at night is not something I would recommend but at least when you can only see the highway in front of you you cannot see the frozen waste that surrounds you and it is oddly comforting. I drove like a 15 year old with a learners permit taking my first lesson with dad. At least for the first hour or so. I had already driven for several hours to get to Tulsa and my patience is not the stuff of legends. Eventually I was moving down the highway at a good clip. Not a lot to occupy your mind for hours on the highway with nothing to see but Jesus billboards. I couldn't help being struck by the fact that Jesus was the only Palestinian Jew I'd ever seen that looked like a Bee Gee. I think the point they were making was lost on me.

So 3 hours later I arrived in Wichita as the happiest (perhaps luckiest) man in the city. I honestly fought to keep the grin off my face. The girl checking me into the hotel eventually asked, "Ummm why are you smiling?"

"Because you have electricity and...and.....I'm just happy."

"We're glad you're happy sir (you creepy freak)"

Now in Wichita I found myself with 2 days to kill. Caught up on my beauty sleep and found myself bored so I left to explore. I made it two steps out the door of the hotel before finding myself in near splits for the first time in a loooonnnnggggg time. I was sort of impressed with myself actually. It's amazing how flexible you can be when you're trying to avoid breaking your ass on frozen concrete. The next 5 minutes was Ryan learning how one walks (strong term) on frozen concrete. It wouldn't have been so bad if not for some smart ass rabbit named Thumper mocking my lack of dexterity as he skated around me. "We'll see who's laughing when there's a fire asshole!" I made it down to a pond where I was accosted by 50 very hungry ducks. The guilt eventually got to me (I'm such a sucker) so I went to the store and learned that there is no duck food aisle. There are hot dog buns though. Advice for you would-be duck saviors out there - break the bread into crumbs BEFORE they know you have it. Especially if there are geese. If you don't feed them fast enough they will search for food in places that are uncomfortable to say the least.

Two bad movies and an oddly eclectic museum (ever seen a T-Rex skeleton and a Martina Navratilova autograph in the same place?) later I was on a plane home. A little bruised, a little smarter and a lot more appreciative of the little sand box I call home. I now posses the greatest gift a trip into the Midwest can give you: A little smile every time I write my mortgage check.