I love computers. I couldn’t practice my profession without them. I write on one seven days (and far too many nights) a week. My wife and I are able to see and talk with our kids and grandkids thousands of miles away thanks to computers. The phone in my pocket is an incredibly versatile computer. Computers are an integral part of so much of contemporary daily life, I would be the first person in the choir loft to sing the praises of programming and profess the miracle of microchips.
I’m just not sure I want to drive one.
I say this because – if you remember – early last summer my wife and I sold her lumbering, limping beast of an SUV and bought our first new, off-the-lot car in over ten years. We got something smaller, lighter, more nimble and fun to drive. We got something with a luxurious interior and seemingly every bell and whistle available. As such, we drove home what is essentially a computer with wheels. Driving has never been so frustrating.
For example, a week or so ago, we headed out for a date night at the movies in Pasadena. I decided to bring along a CD that we’d recently bought. I’ll spare you the embarrassing details, but from the time we backed out of our garage in La Crescenta, until we pulled into the garage at the Paseo in Old Towne, Pasadena (typically a 20-30 minute drive) these two technologically savvy adults could not figure out which buttons to push, which dials to turn, which digital deity to invoke in order to simply listen to a flippin’ CD in a car we’ve owned for six months! I swear, the instrument panels on a Space Shuttle have to be more intuitive and less complicated than the center console in our new car.
And that’s just the beginning of my frustrations. With all of the infrared and sonar-based sensors embedded in the body of our car, it beeps and buzzes and brrrrrrs and bongs and otherwise makes annoying noises at us if even so much as a leaf drifts in front of us as we’re backing out or pulling into a parking space. It sounds like the inside of a pinball machine if someone in the car doesn’t have their seatbelt buckled, if you get too close to the outside of whatever lane you’re in, if you’re fuel level is low, if you’re fuel consumption is excessive, if you’re driving distracted, if you have a bad attitude or even poor posture.
Okay, those last two might not be part of the car’s programing, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all.
Worse than that, our new car has a “safety” feature that automatically slams on the massive rotors on the antilock brakes if you’re driving under 20 mph, don’t have your foot on the brake pedal and the car senses an object in your path. I’m not kidding. The car actually stops itself – rather violently, in fact – without you, the driver doing a thing. Now, in theory this might be a good idea. But when the car’s array of forward-looking sensors determines that our still-retracting roll-up garage door is actually a person in danger of being run over and bring the car to a sudden and immediate stop while we’re still pulling into our garage, it’s not a fun experience. I’m just thankful that one of the many air bags embedded in God-only-knows-how-many-places throughout the leather-clad interior (with contrasting hand-stitching, don’tcha know!) of the car didn’t deploy to save us from certain bodily harm.
Don’t get me wrong, overall this new car of ours is a thrill to drive. And yet, I can’t help but long for the days when, to get fresh air for example, you simply pushed a lever toward a setting labeled “vent” and voila, outside air! With our new car, well, I’ll tell you about that next week.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
So far at least, 2014 seems to be my year for visiting new places around town (or rediscovering them, as I wrote last week about our trip downtown to Olvera St. and Philippe the Original restaurant).
This past weekend, my better half and I took our two young and shall we say, “high spirited” dogs to try out the relatively new Crescenta Valley Dog Park. The park officially opened a year ago last October. Why we hadn’t visited yet is beyond me. But time doesn’t just fly these days, it rockets by on afterburners.
To sum up our dog park experience; we all loved it. The pups ran themselves into a panting, slobbering frenzy up one side of the chain-link-fenced enclosure and back down the other. They had a great time “meeting” the dozens of other dogs of all sizes that were there during our visit. Surprisingly, all the dogs were very well behaved (even their owners!), too.
The CV Dog Park is actually two parks that parallel each other; one side for larger breeds and the other side for smaller dogs – each with more than enough room for any rover to run over, chase balls, sniff out the competition and all the other doggy stuff they do so well. The one slight negative for me was how warm it is with all the exposed dirt. Even though there is plentiful natural shade provided by the resident oak trees, it felt warm and stifling. That said, there are well-working drinking fountains with cool water for people and pooches near the entrance to either side of the park, so it’s easy for both two- and four-legged guests to stay hydrated.
Watching our dogs play at the park reminded me of the many times we took our own kids to various “playlands” inside fast food restaurants. These often sketchy facilities typically have large, brightly colored plastic tubes connected to big bubbles with lookout portals and junctions into other tubes, and slides that empty into massive pits filled with an ocean of plastic balls. If they pay attention at all, parents typically stand just outside the play area and watch helplessly as their kids tried to keep from being trampled by the more aggressive kids.
My wife always called these play areas “Petri dishes” due to the myriad of bodily fluids left on the well-worn surfaces. With the passageways of these kid-sized habitrails too small and narrow for any adult to crawl through armed with spray bottles of disinfectant, one can only imagine (and believe me, we’ve imagined!) how many germs and viruses our young ones were exposed to for a half-hour of fun and distraction. Even so, that half-hour of relative calm while our kids crawled inside the Petri dish was sometimes all that kept us on the rails of sanity, if you know what I mean.
But when I think about our visit to the dog park last weekend and compare it to most “play lands” for kids of the human persuasion, I’m actually quite impressed at the relative cleanliness of the dog park. There were more than enough shovels and bag-lined trash cans stationed throughout each of the two sides of the dog park and nary a canine land-mine in site. I’m sure peer pressure has something to do with how quickly dog owners remove any doggy deposits from the ground. I only wish parents of kids at fast food playlands would be as responsive in cleaning up after their progeny.
I have no doubt we’ll be taking our canine kids to the CV Dog Park on a regular basis. It’s not only a great place to wear the pads off the pups, but it’s a fun place to watch a wide and wonderful variety of shapes, sizes, personalities, temperaments, attitudes, quirkiness, styles, and grooming habits.
And the dogs are fun to watch, too! I’ll see you ‘round town.
Since he moved to Missoula to attend the University of Montana a few years ago, we have been able to lure, cajole, beg, trick, bribe and otherwise entice our son to come back “home” to Southern California only once a year at most. Suffice it to say, he took to the outdoor wonders and wilds of the Treasure State with complete abandon, being a fisherman/hunter/outdoorsman/adventurer at heart.
This past week, said son made his annual compulsory return home with his fiancé, a young lady who was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. She has been to the Southern California only once before. Although her hometown is close to the metropolis of Seattle, it doesn’t begin to compare with the size, density and geographic variety of Los Angeles County. While there wasn’t time to do much sightseeing on her first visit to the southland a year ago, this time we were able to do some sightseeing and, frankly, wound up feeling like tourists in our own hometown.
On Sunday, for example, we joined the throngs of folks visiting the California Science Center near USC to see the space shuttle Endeavour. As one of only three so-called ‘space planes’ that are viewable to the public (not to get uber-nerdy on readers, but a fourth shuttle, the Enterprise, never actually flew in space. So there.) the Endeavour is an inexpensive experience that shouldn’t be missed by residents or visitors. Personally, I’ll never forget the excitement of watching (along with tens of thousands of our southland neighbors) the Endeavour fly over the Crescenta Valley (the suburb of Los Angeles where I live) on its final flight that sweltering September day in 2012. Being able to see it up close closes the loop, so to speak.
Another “touristy” spot our houseguests had wanted to see during their time under the So Cal sun (the temperature back home in Missoula was near zero and snow had been falling for days) was Olvera Street, perhaps the most historic of all Los Angeles destinations. So after our necks were sore from looking up and gaping at the space shuttle, we headed north on the Harbor Freeway towards the heart of downtown.
Having worked up an appetite, however, we decided to first make a refueling stop at another not-to-be-missed L.A historical hot spot, the home of the French dip sandwich, Philippe, the Original, located on Alameda, just north of Olvera Street. There were already dozens of hungry customers ahead of us at the counter even though it was almost three in the afternoon, but any time spent waiting would have been worth it to indulge in a classic hot beef sandwich dripping with au jus. Oh, my.
Once sufficiently sated, we waddled south to Olvera Street, a landmark I last visited with my Cub Scout pack sometime shortly after dinosaurs roamed the earth. I distinctly remember using every nickel of my saved-up allowance money to buy a leather bull whip. (The leather shop is still there!) Even though the legendary Indiana Jones bullwhip scene was decades away, I treasured that souvenir of my childhood visit to Olvera Street long after it had gotten me into a world of trouble both at home and elementary school. But that’s a story for another time.
Olvera Street is a uniquely kitschy and touristy collection of crowded stores and restaurants all selling pretty much identical wares, but I had forgotten how fun it is to go and experience a culture endemic to Los Angeles.
Without moving our car, we could have also taken our guests on a walking tour of nearby Chinatown or viewed the incredible art deco architecture of Union Station, but frankly, by then we were walked out and more than ready to head home.
What a day it was. Then again, what a place we locals are fortunate enough to live in. Who knew there was so much to see and do around here?
I’ll see you ‘round town.
It’s that most wonderful time of the year when I get myself into trouble with some readers simply by pointing out a handful of the staggering number of new laws that have been foisted on Americans in general and Californians in particular as the New Year begins.
How many laws, you ask? Buckle up because there are more than 40,000 new restrictions, regulations and statutes that became law at midnight on Wednesday, January 1, 2014. So much for the so-called gridlock in Washington, DC and other seats of government. (And we know which body part sits in a seat, am I right?)
On the national front, some of the new laws (including some that were passed years ago but did not become law until this year) include one that makes it illegal to produce 40-watt and 60-watt incandescent light bulbs for sale in the USA. This comes after the banning of less frequently used 75- and 100-watt bulbs beginning in 2012. Thank you, control-freak government zealots for keeping us in the dark when it comes to choice.
The mother of all new federal laws, however, that will affect every man, woman and child (not to mention doctors, nurses, hospitals, clinics and medical device manufacturers, to name just a few of those afflicted) is the legislation that dropped on January 1st like the trap door on a gallows; “Obamacare”, officially known as the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. Sadly, with every passing day we’re seeing more incontrovertible evidence that this mind-numbing 10,000-plus-page swamp of legislation protects no one, is neither affordable, nor does it provide any improvements to care (quite the opposite) and everything promised to the American public in order to drum up slightest modicum of support was, indeed, just an act. “If you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor. Period. If you like your health insurance plan, you can keep your health insurance plan. Period.” Not hardly.
On the state level, there are far too many troubling new laws to begin to cover in this space. Just here in California, for example, the chuckleheads in Sacramento have gone well above and beyond their usual social engineering and legal bullying to inflict more than 800 new laws on citizens of the Golden State. These include the wildly dangerous mandate that students as young as kindergarten must be allowed to use whichever bathroom is consistent with their self-proclaimed gender identity on any given day regardless of what’s listed on their school records or birth certificate. This self-selecting choice also applies to participation in school sports. Think of the implications of such moronic foolishness. Got a daughter in high school? Or a son who wants to visit the girls’ locker rooms unhampered? You can thank Jerry Brown and his bullying band of boneheads for one more parental nightmare to keep you up at night.
Another new law that defies any sense of logic is one that allows the licensing of “qualified” lawyers regardless of their immigration status. In other words, in California you can theoretically practice law even though you are here illegally. Hello ... is this thing on?
Finally, and in a delicious irony of timing, given the recent reports of local pets being killed and dragged from their backyards by mountain lions, the dangerous beasts have even more legal protection against elimination or even relocation thanks to a new law restriction such actions by California Fish & Wildlife wardens. Drag a beloved family pet out of its own backyard to certain death? No problem. Tranquilize and remove a killer predator from the community? Not so fast, bucko.
I can only explain these and other such legal lunacies with the possibility that California’s legislators must have spent too much time in Colorado, where as of January 1st it is okie dokie to buy and consume up to an ounce of marijuana at a time. Rocky Mountain high, indeed.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
It’s popular this time of year to make profound personal pledges – more commonly known as resolutions – to self and significant others as a way to set a corrective course for the upcoming 12 months. Whatever. I’ve learned through first-hand from experience that the sad majority of these resolutions are all too often ignored, diluted, broken or otherwise abandoned by the time the Martin Luther King holiday rolls around in mid-January, if not sooner.
While I wouldn’t call what follows resolutions, per se, it still seemed like a good idea to start out the New Year with a few – well, let’s just call them “notes” to myself. For example:
Next year, I’ll take official power outage notices from Edison with a grain of salt. In the two weeks before Christmas, we were notified on at least four separate occasions (via robocalls, through the mail or with notices left on our door) that we would be without power on a specific upcoming day any time between 8 am and 7 pm. As someone who works from a home office bristling with computers, fax machines, scanners, printers, wireless routers and other technology, it takes a whole lot of planning and inconvenience to prepare to continue working without power or an internet connection. And so, four different days I made the many necessary, time-consuming arrangements, notified clients that I may be difficult to reach and have limited access to emails, etc. – only to have the entire day pass without even a flicker of our lights. Frustrating.
Speaking of lights, next year, I need to remind myself to shop for new Christmas lights and decorations in September. If I haven’t done it by Halloween, it’ll be too late.
Also, I really should play my guitars more. A lot more. And write songs. And sing. That said, this New Year I want the gift of music play a much, much bigger role in my everyday life. Hold me to that one, okay?
On the subject of music, singing and songwriting, next year I really need to write a song that becomes the soundtrack for every other TV commercial like “Home” by Phillip Phillips has been this year. So, yeah ... let’s make that happen.
Then again – I’d have more time for music if I didn’t watch the first hour of NBC’s Today show on weekday mornings. The morning yak-fest is worse for my blood pressure than an entire 12-cup pot of dark roast. I’d love to have a word with the NBC execs who think it’s hip to have a minimum of five or more people on camera at once with each one clamoring to talk louder than the other until no story can be enjoyed, much less understood. And can we please put an end to this silly fad of having the show’s talent stand next to a big touch screen monitor and swiping images during a story?
Looking ahead to next December, I’m going to try not to walk around singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” I recently paid attention to the actual lyrics and it seriously creeped me out. The writer, Frank Loesser, didn’t include a reference to roofies in any of the lyrics, but he could have. He did, in fact, list the male singer as “wolf” and the female part as “mouse” on the original sheet music for this 1944 ditty, thus raising the creep-factor even higher.
Over the next 12 months I will try my best to Tweet on at least a somewhat-regular basis. Because Lord knows I need to spend more of every day staring down at a glowing screen.
He also knows I need to get back to memorizing scripture – one verse a week – something I did religiously (sorry, just too easy) the first half of last year, but somehow stopped as life got busier.
And finally, I hope that – this year more than ever – I’ll see you ‘round town.
