Horrific Handiwork

L's class in school has been making some ghoulishly great holiday artwork.

You Just Can't Imagine the Smell...

We've all heard the stories about how some beach community wakes up in the morning and goes out to find that a dozen whales or dolphins have mysteriously beached themselves overnight for no discernible reason. I think something very similar has happened in Harbor City.

I wandered out of my house on Saturday morning to find my concrete driveway littered with the washed up carcasses of dozens of mermaids. Some were pastel green. Others were pastel pink. Yet others were pastel green and pastel pink and pastel yellow stripped. Most looked to be beyond saving, but two of the washed-up mermaids did seem to have some life yet in them. I trust they will adapt quickly enough to their new life on solid ground. If they miss the water badly enough I'm sure I can arrange for them to turn on the hose and help dispose of the remains of their fallen brethren.

Of Painted Toe and Salmon Roe

Stacy got a special treat last weekend. One of her closest friends from college, and her Matron of Honor at our wedding, Jen McNeill came in town for a couple of days with her 9-year-old daughter E. The circumstances made things a little less of a treat for Jen, she was in town for her grandmother's funeral, but in spite of the somber source of the reunion, it was a refreshing time for the girls, and for L who quickly fell in with E and had a blast.



N and I wisely kept our distance from the girl-fest which included, at one point, an overindulgence in nail polish and all the feminine rituals there and unto pertaining. I was happy to hide in my office, emerging only to take the demanded photos and retreat again to my man-cave. N was somewhat more reluctant to forgo a good round of nail-painting, but he acquiesced to my wishes.

I was much more enthused with the idea of going out for sushi one night, though Stacy and Jen insisted on coupling the outing with a sentimental walk down memory lane, with a cold, cloudy beachfront acting as said lane. We parked on the bluffs overlooking south Redondo Beach. It was breezy and chilly and kind of gray and morose. We walked down the incline to the Strand, the biking/pedestrian path that runs dozens of miles up the coast. Since we were going to dinner shortly I authoritatively commanded the kids to keep to the path and out of the sand. My authority held firm for several seconds.

We walked along for a bit, L and N being general nuisances and occasionally specific targets of passing bikers. E didn't believe me when I told her the only reason we came to the beach was to get the fish for the evening's sushi. She refused to wade out and acquire us a tuna.



Eventually we got back to the car, desoiled the kids as best we could, and proceeded to the restaurant. Evidently Stacy and Jen were sushi fiends in college in Santa Barbara; I've always liked it, but we'd never braved it with the kids. Once again E refused to believe me when I told her were were going to have large servings of jellyfish and that not only was the fish raw, but in many cases still had its fins and a good number of delicious scales.

Kids are so jaded and cynical these days.

Sushi may be a few years in the coming for the kids. We were 0 for 3 on the California roll. E sampled and rolled her nose. (She was particularly grossed out by the crunchy salmon eggs sprinkled liberally on top.) L licked hers and gagged. N took a whole mouthful, chewed placidly for 15 or 20 seconds, then got this shocked and panicked look in his eyes and spewed it all back on his plate. So much for appreciation of world culture.

Maybe we'll try Bob's Spinach and Liver Hut tonight.

Truly Hair-Raising

Our neighbors have a set of six-year-old twins, Josh and Jess. Josh is a really cute kid and always has his hair cut short and styled spiky; we always comment on it, which gets a big grin out of him. A couple days ago Josh's personal stylist, his Aunt Ricky, came by our house with an offer to do the do for N. We were all game, so Aunt Ricky hunkered down and worked her magic (and I suspect, an awful lot of styling gel) on N's mop.

N was extremely proud of the results.



For me, however, only one comparison kept springing to mind...

It's Really the World that Hangs in the Balance

I was outside this morning working in the garage when L came running out all excited. "Daddy, come see what I did! It was very tricky!" I told her I would be right in and went about my business. A minute or two later she came out again, tugging at my shirt. "Daddy, come see!" I gave her something like an "All right all ready!" and started setting aside whatever it was I was working on. A minute or two later I headed into the living room to see what evidently couldn't wait.

And it couldn't.

"You're too late," Stacy said cooly. "L had assembled her balancing puzzle, and was all excited to show you, but N has already come in and knocked it down." A puffy-eyed L pouted in the corner. I think N had wisely retreated to his room.

I'm not sure where we got it, but the kids have a little wooden 3-D clown puzzle; you stand up the brightly painted clown, which rocks back and forth, and then stack all these little wooden cylinders on his shoulders, each painted to look like a ball. It's pretty hard to get all the balls to stay balanced on the clown without falling off or the clown rolling over.

Knowing it best for N to maintain his low profile, I swept him up and took him with me to run a few errands. We got back a couple of hours later. Inspiration had struck again while we were gone and this time I managed to hogtie N until I got to see L's masterpiece of poise and balance. She was quite pleased with herself.

Good Phô What Ails Ya

Whenever I get sick and maudlin I want soup. And not just any soup - I want phô, a Vietnamese beef noodle soup that, if you spice it right, burns your eyebrows off. We had a favorite phô house not too far away, but it seems to have closed -- one too many vermin infestations, Stacy expects; it admittedly wasn't the sightliest of places. But I was bummed nonetheless, and I wasn't thrilled with the idea of recovering without my secret Asian mystery concoction. Phô-tunately for me, I remembered a second phô restaurant a couple blocks away that I'd seen before but never had the guts to check out.

I think there's something in the Los Angeles legal code that requires phô noodle houses to abide in only the scariest looking of strip malls. This particular place is wedged between a tacqueria and a liquor store that looks to have seen its fair share of drive-by shootings. I mentioned it to Stacy and she shuddered when she finally figured out what place I was talking about. She refused to go there to get me soup. I was on my own. Phô-tunately N was driving her nuts at the moment, so she agreed to let me take him into the hood with me.

Though the outside looked a little like an exterior from a Spike Lee film, the place actually looked pretty decent inside. The Vietnamese waitress at the register was all giggles and blushes over N, who instinctively saw the opportunity and started laying on the cute with a shovel. (Three-year-olds are incredible chick magnets that break down all racial, linguistic and socio-economic barriers!) We ordered our soup and N chit-chatted the waitress while we waited. It was a toss-up who had the better grammar. I simply sat back in my chair and let him entertain her, trying not to sneeze or let my nose run to demonstrably. Pretty soon another waitress had joined the first in cooing at my son. Eventually we got our order and headed out to the car. Now all the kitchen staff were in the doorway, blushing and giggling and blowing kisses to N.

Safe at home, we dug into our phô. We were quite happy with it. I guess you could say phô-tune had smiled on us. We'll have to go back, but clearly we'll always need to go with N for protection.

The Wizard of Ourz

It's fairly cliché to point out that the younger generation is much more techno-savvy that the preceding one, but the truism has come to settle on me with my son N. I was home from work sick today and Stacy was off taking L to school. N, my responsibility for the hour, came up to me as I was brooding in my office and asked if he could play "Little Einsteins," his favorite web-game. In my cold-medicine stooper I yeah-sure-whatevered him with a dismissive wave of my hand and went back to my really gratifying round of self-pity. A minute or two later my sinus-impacted brain finally let in enough info to come to the conclusion that I'd just agreed to let N have full run of my computer.

I staggered to the kitchen computer desk to find N blissfully playing his game. He had opened the browser, had found the web-site on the favorites pull-down menu, had set the volume, and was happily clicking away helping the Little Einstein crew solve some crisis involving Beethoven's 5th symphony. L is pretty good on a computer, but N smokes her. And he's only three, for crying out loud. I'm so proud of my little computer geek! I almost don't mind the strawberry jelly all over the keyboard.


Now back to my Sudafed^® and wallowing.

Fire and Water

Not another bomb from Fox studios,
but the station fire 30 miles away

We got back to Los Angeles just in time to see it burn up. Shortly after we arrived home a spate of wildfires broke out all around the city. (They always happen suspiciously in waves.) Most were fought and contained within a day or two, but one, the famed "Station Fire" in the Angeles National Forest just above L.A. quickly got the upper hand and swelled to enormous proportions. We live about 20 miles south of L.A. proper; another 20 miles beyond L.A. was where this fire was - right in the middle of the mountain range that separates us from Stacy's folks up in Agua Dulce off the Antelope Valley Freeway. We could easily see the smoke plumes from our house. We got to see them REALLY well when we drove up to see Stacy's folks. You might say we had front row seats.



Stacy's Dad tried to call us earlier in the day to tell us not to come up since the smoke was so bad he couldn't see his back fence, but we were out and didn't get his call. By the time we got there, however, the winds had shifted and the smoke plume was towering over the house, but not swamping it.







As the fire made its way up the mountains we got some insight into what things must have looked like in Pompeii. It seemed a little odd swimming abreast of an inferno, but in California you are largely desensitized to the absurd.

Stacy, doing her best Nero impersonation.

Someone from over around Loyola Marymount took an amazing time-lapse video of the fire. Click here to see it.

Go Fish

I was expecting a little more "belly up" action. Sinking ignobly to the bottom of your bowl seems a little anticlimactic. It took us almost a day to convince L that Flounder had indeed floundered. L kept reminding us that fish do get awfully tired and can be expected to take rather long naps. We gave Flounder a night's benefit of L's doubt, but eventually even she was convinced.

The ceremony was brief and to the point, and thankfully emotion-free. Personlly, I'm hoping we can honor Flounder's memory by not rushing out to replace him/her/it any time soon.

It's always wise to double-check.

Days of Wine and Roadsters

Yesterday I swung by our mechanic to get my oil changed and wine jug topped off.

Yes. You read that right.

We have the world's best mechanic. We get fantastic service, can always get squeezed in, and now, we get samplings of the fruit of the vine. Our mechanic has been trying to revive some of his family heritage and has started making his own wine. He gave Stacy a bottle the last time we came in and told her to come by any time for a refill. I admit, I was suspicious when Stacy first told me, but on trying it I was reminded that we live in a world where things are not always as we would expect, and strange and wonderful things can still happen. This was no Pinot Greasy-o! It was full and flavorful and a really nice drinking wine.

I think I just have to file this under the "only in LA" category.

The Great Adventure - Day 15 - August 19, 2009

The test of a good vacation is how bitter you feel when it's over; you've got to strike the right middle ground. If the thought of returning to home and work still fills your heart with quasi-suicidal dread, then it clearly hasn't been long or relaxing enough. If all you can hope and wish for is to head for an airport to get back to the grind, then maybe you've overdone things a bit.

On closing eval, this vacation tested out well. As we woke up on Wednesday to pack our bags and prep for our drive back to Philly and our flight home, Stacy and I traded all the things we'd intended but didn't get to do - our little regrets and disappointments. We didn't spend enough time with the folks we got to see, and didn't spend any time with a number we wanted to. We knew we saw only a small fraction of all the cool things we could have done in the places we visited. (Yes, even single-stop sign Patten, we're sure, held undiscovered opportunities!) But my back was starting to ache for the familiar lumps and bumps of my own personal mattress, and the thought of making the daily 45 minute death-march up the San Diego Freeway to El Segundo didn't seem as ominous as usual. There were friends and church in California that already seemed a world and lifetime away, as though we already needed some catching-up.

Our flight out of Philly was at 2:00pm, so we needed to hit the road by 9:30 or 10:00. Feeling decadent in our waning hours, I sprung for the hot breakfast buffet at the hotel. While we were eating and Stacy was working herself into her usual pre-flight lather (she doesn't fly well), Jeff and his two older kids, J and G, came wandering over to our table -- they had come to see us off. With our pancakes polished and our scrambled eggs safely stowed, we packed the car and said our final good-byes to Jeff and the mini-vBs. We mounted up and found the freeway to Philadelphia.

There's not much to say about the rest of the day. We got to the airport without incident and with time to spare; our flight was punctual and generally bland. The kids again did astoundingly well on the plane. It was only during the final half hour of our "descent into the greater Los Angeles area" that N started to show the beginnings of unravelling. It was a happy break-up, involving lots of chatting and wiggling about and kicking the seat in front of him, so it could have been worse. There was a small kid a couple rows behind us who wailed inexorably, so that took a lot of the pressure off. Nevertheless I contemplated asking the air marshal if I could borrow his taser for a moment. We landed untased.

As we descended the escalator and flowed with the crowd through the double doors into the baggage claim we felt, smelt and heard our good old Los Angeles. There, across the mass of zig-zagging people stood our friend Pattie Mendez, waiting to shuttle us home. She was such a welcome sight I almost got teary. Coming home is always so much more palatable when you've got as good folks to come home to as the ones you've left behind.