Over the past few days, there's purportedly been a series of lizard spottings inside the normally lizard-free confines of my apartment. I have not seen one. But I have received more than one hysterical phone call on the matter.

From the way it has been described, this thing is between five to ten feet in length (the length increasing with each successive phone call), it has eyes that glow in the dark, jaws that can bite through metal, and a muscular tail that whips back and forth and likely has the potential to strangulate. Apparently, it travels along the floorboards at an incredible rate of speed, and can be heard 'munching' and 'scratching' throughout the day. And yet, all this behavior seems to cease at once when I walk through the door.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good lizard hunt as much as the next person. It's a very thrilling prospect. What I am not so thrilled about is living with a roommate teetering towards delirium. She's been sleeping with her shoes so 'it' can't get to her toes. I suppose I didn't help matters when I suggested her varying descriptions of the animal were not due to inconsistencies in her storytelling but rather that she had seen more than one lizard. This remark earned me an extra hour of lizard watch just last night.

Even though I have hereto now been unable to find even a shred of proof, I guess I sort of believe there could be a lizard in here. After all, if a library book was able to stay hidden for close to two years, then it's certainly possible a lizard could remain elusive for a week.

I'd like to set up a lizard trap of some sort, but what the fuck do you trap lizards with? And what on earth would you use as bait? Perhaps I could put down a decent-sized strip of fly paper, and wait for him to walk on it. I really don't know what else to do. Not that I really care. If there's a lizard in here, he'll leave eventually. I'm comfortable with waiting it out. But then again, I do sleep with my mouth open.

Are you under my bed?

I'm not a big fan of boxer briefs. But some were bought for me, and every once in a while I inadvertently put them on. I wore a pair today.

For some reason, whenever I wear these boxer briefs I generate an enormous amount of static electricity. No matter what I try to do while wearing them, I end up getting shocked, and shocked violently. For the entire day I find myself deathly afraid of aluminum foil and door handles. I can't explain why this is, how boxer briefs--how these particular boxer briefs--transform the area below my belt into a proton-charged superconductor. All I know is every time I get out of my car I nearly kill myself closing the door.

Nikola Tesla would have been very interested in this phenomenon.

I have a library book that is one year and 272 days overdue. And how this came to be is a story many years in the making.

I don't know why but ever since I moved here there's always been this sort of leering animosity towards me by members of the library staff, a hanging cloud of suspicion, a tinge of hostility. Please understand, I've never done anything to warrant this. I've always had the utmost respect for library policy. I've never talked on a cell phone. I've never forced DVDs down the book return. I've never cursed during chess club. It just doesn't make any sense.

For many years I've tried to figure it out. Perhaps it has something to do with the obnoxious habit I have of checking out thirty books at a time. They always shake their heads and gives me this look as if to say "Come on, kid. You don't expect me to believe you're going to read all these. It just isn't humanly possible.'

Come to think of it, this look differs very little from the penetrating glare I got from the overworked chef at the all-you-can-eat pizza buffet I visited earlier this week. But I can't help it, I like to load up my plate with as much knowledge and pepperoni as possible.

It’s also possible that a lot of the resentment I’ve received could have been alleviated if I shaved more often, and maybe brushed my hair from time-to-time. After all, any librarian worth his or her salt would be protective of the library and the materials within it. So I guess it's understandable if many of them have a reluctance to loan out materials to someone who, by all outward appearances, is a transient.

Anyway, now that you have a general idea of the atmosphere in which my library transactions take place, lets get down to the specifics.

Approximately six years ago, I checked out a video cassette tape of All Dogs Go To Heaven. I returned it two days later.

A month passes and I get an automated call from the library telling me the tape is overdue. At a dollar a day penalty, the library was already on the verge of charging me with a misdemeanor. Calmly, I went to the library, found the cassette tape on the shelf, and presented it along with an earnest explanation of the situation to the librarian on duty. Well, he looked at me as though I had just told the tallest tale ever concocted. Whether he accepted it as truth, or whether he found it punishment enough for me to publicly admit I checked out All Dogs Go To Heaven, the librarian cleared my record.

Two years later, I checked out a book entitled The Tao of Health, Sex, and Longevity. It was recommended to me by a friend. Anyway, again, I returned the material. And again, I got the phone call. But this time, because the book was on loan from the Central Library, it meant I had to go all the way downtown to settle the matter. Again, I found the material on the shelf. Again, I had to admit to checking it out. But this time, the librarian was rather pleasant and incredibly understanding. She couldn't have been easier to deal with. I can't remember if I was shaved that day.

Flash forward two more years, I check out a book entitled Sideways, the novel for which my favorite film of all-time is based. The novel is terrible. Virtually unreadable, which reinforces my belief that Alexander Payne is a genius. I returned it with disgust, and immediately checked out two plays by Shakespeare to cleanse my pallet.

A month later, you guessed it, I get the call. And again, I go down there. But this time, I don't find the book on the shelf. Still, I know I turned it in. I saw it tumble down the return shoot, along with the twenty other books I returned that day.

An argument takes places. Accusations fly back and forth. 'You people have put me through this before.' 'Bums shouldn't have library cards.' Eventually, they agree to freeze my fines until the completion of a 45-day inventory search. I am satisfied with this.

45 days pass, I get a letter in the mail. The book was not found. I must now pay $40 to replace the book. The book that I turned in. The fight continues. After a few more face-to-face confrontations, I turn to sending out my own letters, both to my library branch and to the highest ranking members of the Los Angeles Public Library Commission. This war of words goes on for the better part of a year, culminating my final response:

I know I turned this in. I know it with all my heart. It sickens me, what you've put me through. It sickens me, what you've taken from me. You will never know the depth of pain you've caused, the hours lost in torment. Books really are my true love. Nothing can replace their role in my life. And because of some clerical error they've been taken away. No apology will ever compensate me for my loss. No apology will ever heal my heart. I have been betrayed by my own library.

Pretty dramatic, I know. Especially since my roommate has a library card I’m able to use.

Fast forward to last Sunday. I'm cleaning out the deepest, darkest recess of my bedroom closet. And you guessed it, there was Sideways: a novel, complete with the date due receipt serving as a bookmark.

So I return to the library a defeated man, but still resolute not to pay the fine. After all, had the library not had such an extensive history of negligence I would have made a more concentrated effort to find the book. But since I could only assume the mistake was made on their end, well, that's what I did.

I wasn't happy about returning to the library like this, but I knew it had to be done. For closure.

I went up to the check-out counter. It was a new librarian. One I had never seen before. So I explained my story, in much the same way as I've done here. She seemed to already be acquainted with many of the details. Once I finished, there was little deliberation on her part. I was to pay the full amount. There would be no deal. I tired to haggle. Here I am, returning the book. Surely I don't have to pay the full price to replace it. How about $30 off, $20, $10? I got down to $5, an offer that was just as swiftly rejected as the rest. 'I don't understand, what's my incentive for returning the book?' Her response, 'Peace of mind. Knowing you've done the right thing.' "The right thing?' I flip the book over and show her the suggested retail price. 'This is a $15 dollar book. You want to charge forty dollars plus a ten dollar processing fee for a 15 dollar book.' 'You're not just paying for the book. You're paying for the time you had the book, the time you denied everyone else from being able to use it.'

Her argument made a lot of sense to me. But I wasn't about to back down. Not after all this. Not after everything. As I clutched the book in my hand and weighed my next course of action, I started to think about that lady last week in Arizona who returned who 50-year-old late library book. I began to think about how I read this news story on two different websites, and how I also heard it on television. It's one of those warm, human interest stories at the end of a newscast that just make people feel good about the world. They spend 29 minutes hearing about murders and war and pandemics and job losses and environmental disaster, and finally at the end they get a story that’s light, that’s fun, that helps people forget about all the impending doom in the world. And that woman from Arizona provided just that.

So I decided to leave the library with the book in my possession and the fine unpaid. I’ve decided to hold onto the book and return it in fifty years so I can be on the news.

In fifty years, I'll be a hero.

Earlier today, due to a compromised intestinal situation, I had to take a dump using this toilet. Disgusting, I know. Looking at this photo, most of you are probably wondering how I found the time to visit the slums of Mumbai. But this isn't Mumbai. This is Van Owen Boulevard.

This reminds me of something I've been meaning to get around to. I want to put together a blog/iPhone App called Los Angeles Toilet Finder. Stay with me on this, it will get brilliant. Look, in Los Angeles, you're likely to get stuck in traffic anywhere. But what happens if you get stuck in traffic and you suddenly need to go to the bathroom? Do you try to hold it until you get home, or do you take a chance on that grimy gas station at the next red light? With Los Angeles Toilet Finder, at your fingertips will be a database of restroom reviews. From restaurants, to office buildings, to city parks, if there's a lavatory available to you, you can bet your ass I've used it and have a strong opinion on it one way or another.

While I may be unfamiliar with fringe areas such as Van Owen Boulevard, I can assure you I've thoroughly explored every area of the city you need to be. And I've defecated in all these places.

On Los Angeles Toilet Finder, restrooms reviews will be based on the following five criteria:
-accessibility (if you can just walk in off the street, or if you'll need to slip past a security guard, pretend to be an office temp, or enter through a loading dock/jump a fence).
-lighting
-cleanliness
-general ambiance
-serenity level

What happened to me today could have been prevented. At Los Angeles Toilet Finder, we promise to work day and I night to make sure it won't happen to you.

Coming into last night, my bowling team was ranked 4th out of 24. This is our first year in the league and it's safe to say we've made quite an impression among the other teams.

Each team has four players. Yesterday's opponent featured three very attractive females, and one pale, string bean-framed, vitamin deficient, posture-challenged male. Put a pair of glasses on him and it could have been me. I could have been me on that team. And for much of the night, I imagined I was. You should have seen the way they celebrated every pin they knocked down. These women were jubilant beyond compare, jumping up and down, dancing, performing Olympic floor routines. And this guy, this me, was right in the middle of it.

No doubt it was his idea to start the bowling team. After spending months, perhaps years, trying to come up with interesting things to say to them in the break room and office hallways; after months of pining over them in secret, writing poems and undelivered love letters; after months of lacking the courage to ask any of them out, he finally figured out a way to ask them all out. And now he was reaping the rewards! Reaping them right in front of me.

Anyway, the match was very competitive. Back and forth we went. With only two weeks to go before the playoffs, each team had to give it everything they had. Obviously, with the top 16 teams qualifying for the playoffs and my team being in 4th, you might think we didn't have much on the line. But I did. For I had to look good in front of Brian and his breathtaking women.

Strike, spare, strike, spare. You wouldn't believe the game I was putting together. Pins were falling in ways not consistent with any law of physics. I was literally at the mercy of the bowling gods, gods who were apparently willing to facilitate my wish to impress.

My team was giving me high fives after every roll (something they had openly refused to do for much of the year). And slowly, the other team began to join in also. One bowler in particular seemed to always find her way over. And her high fives were the best. They weren't your typical open-handed slap. Oh, no, when she gave a high-five, she would sort of grab my hand and hold it for the briefest moment, and then let go. By the end of the night, I was so accustomed to the feel of her hand I could have given her a palm reading with my eyes closed (if I had known anything about reading palms).

As fate would have it, near the end of the first game I started to get a little worn down. I had spent most of the day moving boxes and large panels for work (the one time a year I have to do actual manual labor). So thirty minutes into bowling my right arm and shoulder began to feel as though they might fall off. I wasn't too concerned about this as I was performing at the will of the bowling gods anyway. Still, in the middle of the seventh frame, I felt the need to tell the high-fiving femme fetale, 'Man, my arm's really sore.'

Without hesitation and wearing a grin that could have only had the sliest of intentions, she replied: 'My arm would be sore too if I was rolling so many strikes.'

That was all it took. Instantly, I turned to mush. I found myself unable to follow-up her words with any sort of coherent utterance (See any blog post where I try to communicate with a female). For the rest of the night, I think I managed to knock down 37 pins. Fatigue was not to blame.

Before I knew it, the night was over and my team had lost all three games. A team that was now none-too-happy with my collapse. Scorn me how they may, I left last night with my head in the clouds. For I got to share a few moments with an angel, moments as pure and authentic as any I have ever experienced.

And yet, I can't help but now realize that her team came into the night with an 11-13 record and on the verge of not making the playoffs. Desperate for a win, could part of her gameplan have been to lure my mind away from bowling? Could it have all been an act, a carefully orchestrated performance designed to sabotage instead of serenade? Did she not really want to high-five me?

Suddenly, all this doubt is mucking up what was once a beautiful experience. And on top of that, Brian got to drive her home.

A Plea To Save A Young Boy's Self-Image

I'm worried about a kid in my neighborhood. This is his mother:


She seems nice enough, and I'm sure she makes for an excellent dinner guest, but trust me when I say this, she's completely insane.

This woman's name is Meher, and she writes a column in the neighborhood newspaper about how to live green. As far as I'm concerned, she's truly a godsend. After all, who can't benefit from a few pointers on how to reduce waste and take better care of the environment? Well, every month Meher does just that. Did you know you can make jewelry out of acorns? And turn an aluminum can into a vase?

Tomorrow is Halloween, and Meher has decided take arms against this undeniably wasteful holiday. Candy wrappers, misused pumpkins, and recklessly cast spells have long been known to make Mother Earth shudder. But at the top of Meher's eco-no-no list, and this is where her son comes in, are new costumes that are purchased and then only worn once.

She writes:

For my son’s costume this year, we will either visit the local thrift store,...or I’ll rise to the challenge and build him a Bumblebee Transformer costume out of a black shirt, yellow pants, painted toilet roll tubes, tissue and cereal boxes.

Please, Mrs. McArthur, on behalf of your son, do not rise to the challenge.

In case you need reminding, this is Bumblebee:

Yellow pants and painted toilet paper tubes to create this??? What you are proposing is a disaster, one from which your son's social standing may never fully recover. I strongly urge you to reconsider.

Buy him the costume. And next month, you can write an article teaching us what we can make out of once-used costumes (perhaps a bird feeder or wishing well?).

Today, it was quite windy here is Los Angeles. Unbelievably windy. It's hard to put into words how windy it really was without comparing it to the conditions present in a category 5 hurricane. I won't go over those conditions here, but you can imagine. Just think of the most destructive wind force on earth. Now imagine that going up and down Wilshire Boulevard during rush hour traffic. I know it sounds like I must be exaggerating. But rest assured, I am not. You should have seen the devastation. Palm trees were being torn out by the root, construction sites became projectile zones, pedestrians were flying through the air like frisbees. It was a total mess.

On the other hand, it was excellent cape weather.

Tarantulas of Santa Barbara County

The following pictures were taken last weekend on my brand new phone! On Sunday, I saw seven tarantulas (six living), touched two (one living), and dropped my brand new phone (out of fear) once. Unfortunately, a lot of the shots I took ended up being quite blurry (apparently there is a learning curve to my new phone) or poorly framed (tarantulas tend to ignore instruction). Here is all I could salvage. These furry eight-legged models reside along Tepusquet and Foxen Canyon Road.






There's plenty more out there!!!

Tarantula Free Photos

Yesterday, my live-in lover requested I stop at Food 4 Less on my way home from work because they were having a sale on toilet paper. Not Ralphs or Vons or even Albertsons. Oh, no, it had to be Food 4 Less.

I never go to Food 4 Less. It's dingy. It's poorly lit. They never have enough registers open. Most of the employees speak a spotty form of English I have yet to decipher. Oh, and it's not exactly in the best neighborhood either. But they had toilet paper on sale.

Anyway, as I left the store clutching 12 rolls of double-ply abundance, I watched as upwards of forty police cars swarmed into the parking lot, forming a perimeter around my car among others, and setting the stage for a tense, gun-drawn stand-off that would have little effect on my toilet paper, but was certainly a cause of concern for the 1% milk I had bought on impulse.



'Get back!'

Arrests!!!

Part 2

Past the Neverland gates.

Los Angeles. I've had a love affair with her since the moment we met, a romance that's coming up on seven years now. And while my love for her will never diminish, there's no denying the passion isn't what it once was. It might not be very gentlemanly of me to admit, but her flaws are really starting to bother me. Smog, noise pollution, road rage, officer-involved shootings on my front doorstep, the list goes on and on. In the end, I try to overlook these faults because I love her.

The Santa Ynez Valley is my mistress. I cheat on Los Angeles with her. She doesn't have the flaws that Los Angeles does. She spoils me with her endless blue skies and clear open roads. She pampers me with her soothing silence and lack of police brutality. The Santa Ynez Valley is quite possibly my favorite place on earth. More and more I find myself wondering what my life would be like living with her instead.

But I can not leave LA. That wouldn't be practical. We have too much history together. Besides, what if I left her only to find out Santa Ynez and I really have nothing in common? And what would happen when I started to notice her flaws?

Ah, she couldn't possibly have any flaws.








Yikes!!! My mistress is dangerous!

Why I Was Late For Work This Morning

Last night, I was so happy to get the parking space directly across from my apartment. I never get the parking space across from my apartment. I never get to park anywhere near my apartment. Usually, I end up at or near the top of a sizable hill. A hill which is pleasant to walk down at night. But in the morning, tends to be a rather arduous climb. But last night, I was able to sleep soundly knowing I wouldn't have to make that climb.

In the morning, I woke to the sound of twenty or so helicopters buzzing about, rattling the apartment walls and generally disrupting my existence. There hadn't been this much racket in the skies above since Griffith Park went up in flames a few years back.

Then I walked outside to find my car blocked in by a mobile command sub-station and a shitload of police tape.




Had I parked in my usual location, all would have been avoided.

--

Here's a better picture of the shitload of police tape:

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2009/09/los-angeles-police-shoot-and-wound-a-woman-in-los-feliz-area.html