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The Loin, the Switch, and the Wardrobe.
Two very productive days, both entirely unrelated to the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ifmud reference above.
On Saturday, my cousin got married in Washington, D.C. I didn't go, but my mother and sister did, as a preface to a longer vacation in New York that's happening right now. With everyone gone, it was up to me to bear the burden of Fathers' Day with my Dad.
After work, I drove home. Dad was out on a sixteen-mile run. (My father ran the LA Marathon last year and is in training for the Long Beach Marathon in a few months.) While he was out, I watched the Spain v. Ireland game.
I had told him I'd take him out to see a movie. To make things easier, I was just going to stay awake. I didn't have to work last night, so I figured I could sacrifice. We decided to see Spider-man. My dad was a real comic book fan as a kid, but every time he's tried to see the movie, it's been sold out.
We decided on a one-thirty show. But we didn't get there as early as I normally would have hoped. This is because the game went into overtime. Then double overtime. Then penalty kicks. (Then Ireland LOST! #@*&$^#@*&$^!!!) So we didn't get to the theater until about ten minutes to the show time.
Of course, the show was sold out.
I debated with myself over whether to stay up for a later showing or to scan the paper again for another likely theater. My dad, mindful that I was staying awake, offered to rent a movie instead. "No way!" I said. I did not think that renting a movie constituted an acceptable Fathers' Day. "Unless," I added, "you want to pick out a DVD at Borders as a Fathers' Day gift."
I felt very adult. Remember all of the times that your parents took you to a store and said, "You can choose one thing." Suddenly that was me. And it felt good.
We drove down to Borders. While my Dad wandered around upstairs, I scanned the books. I picked up the latest entry in George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire and Volume 4 in the Collected Short Stories of Philip K. Dick. Of course, this particular volume has a new cover loudly trumpeting "The Minority Report" as the Steven Spielberg movie, but otherwise it's the same.
(In case you're wondering, I don't intend to read "The Minority Report" until after I've seen the movie. I feel I'm less likely to be disappointed by the movie that way.)
Eventually my father came downstairs with his selection. Originally he wanted Braveheart, then The French Connection. Ultimately, he decided on the brand spanking new version of The Usual Suspects. We drove home and popped it in. (We didn't watch it right away, though. First we had to spend fifteen minutes searching the house for the remote control that was hiding under a chair.)
The Usual Suspects is a damn fine movie.
When the movie was over, it was about four o'clock, and I was very tired. I gave my dad one last Fathers' Day hug and crawled into bed.
I woke up at 11:30 p.m., just in time to watch USA v. Mexico. I knew things were bad that by the time I had pulled myself out of bed and towards ESPN, the US team had already scored a goal. Salud, Mexico! We'll see thee again in 2006.
I went back and watched The Usual Suspects with commentary by Brian Singer and Christopher McQuarrie. It was a lot of fun. Near the end of that, Brazil played Belgium. I was switching back and forth, since the game was boring me. Fate was on my side, though, I saw both goals.
Once the sun was up, I drove my car down to my mechanic. The brakes have been squeaking a bit, and the "Check Engine Soon" light popped on just the other day. With my mother and sister in D.C., I knew I had a spare car or two to fall back on. The initial estimate looked to be about $300-400 dollars. A tidy sum, but nothing too bad.
I walked back from the mechanics. It was a short walk, and it was already getting a bit warm, but I enjoyed it. I've slacked off on walking, but it only takes a mile to make me remember why I like to do it so much. My feet are still tingly.
After I got back and had something to eat, I called my grandmother. I had to pick up the spare key to my uncle's house, which was in her care. My uncle is getting married in two weeks, and as a result is getting rid of much of his furniture. I plan to grab some of that furniture and stick it into a storage space until I can install it in my Swingin' Guest House of Tablesawdom. (Not Table Sodom!) He is also on vacation this week, so I'm going to drive by his house tonight to scope out what I want, how much room it will take and how many people it may take to lift.
On my way out the door, I get a call from the mechanic. They checked they error message from the "Check Engine Soon" light and found out that there's a problem with my transmission requiring a complete $1600 overhaul. Ouch! I believe that it's worth it. The car still runs great, and the overhaul comes with a warranty, but that's still a big chunk of change, added to the hundreds of dollars I already knew I was spending. Suddenly owning a car seems slightly less cool.
So I drove a not-mine car through Topanga Canyon to get to the Pacific Ocean. I listened to Apollo 18. I really ought to dedicate an entire entry to They Might Be Giants. Long story short, I wish I owned more of their albums. They music carried me out of the Valley beautifully. Once I was on the Pacific Coast Highway, I rolled down the windows and let the music bound out across the beaches. It was beautiful.
My grandmother was looking lovely, and so was my aunt with whom she lives. We talked for a little while, about the World Cup, about moving, about life in general, then I was off again. It was getting late after all, and I hadn't decided whether I was going to go shopping.
There are two bookstores in LA that I love. One is Dutton's in North Hollywood. (No, not Dutton's Brentwood. Brentwood is a fine store and is much trendier, but the Dutton's in NoHo is the original.) Dutton's is one of the few book shops in Los Angeles that is what a book shop should be. Cramped, confused, and crammed full of surprises, gems and wonders. There aren't any acoustic performances or readings because the tiny storefront is filled with so much LITERATURE, so much that it warps the topology of the place around it in ways I have yet to understand.
The other is Midnight Special on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. Midnight Special's specialty is political and social books, and they often have a browsable selection of books one would normally come across only with a college syllabus in hand. My schedule makes it difficult to get to this store as often as I'd like, so I thought I'd capitalize on my presence on the West Side by stopping in on my way home.
Of course, that was before a certain phone call from a certain mechanic about a certain car with a certain very expensive malady. Part of me wanted to crawl into bed and do nothing that would even come close to costing money.
But the other part of me was feeling really good at being awake and out and about on a beautiful day. That part of me said to the first part of me, "How about we just drive down Lincoln for a while and listen to music with the windows down? If we still feel like going home then, we can take the 10 to the 405 or the PCH, whichever you want." The first part of me thought that sounded very logical and rational. And so it was done.
The cd chosen was Naked Dutch Painter by Stew. Now, I've listened to this album a lot recently, and it's pretty good. But this album was designed to be played with the windows down on a cool, clear day in Venice while the smells from the beach and the business float through the car. That first part of me was gone within two tracks.
At Midnight Special, I began, as usual, scanning the obscure titles in search of an author, title or subject that would catch my eye. For a little while, I wished that I'd polled around for authors to look for, but I was shortly glad that I hadn't. Within twenty minutes, I had far too many books than I could justify purchasing, what with my car and all. Put back on the shelf were several books by Stanislaw Lem, Peace on Earth, The Futurological Congress and A Perfect Vacuum. They are hard to find, but not impossible. Also returned was How to Write Like a Woman by Joanna Russ. I was interested in it, but I'd really been hoping to find some of her fiction. I've also read a few of the essays in the collection already from research on "The Yellow Wallpaper" and general Science Fiction. What remained was Women, Science and Technology a book with a fascinating topic and an apparently wide range of interesting essays. Finally, I found a small, beautiful book propped up in a little corner of the store, a tiny thing, small than my hand stuck among the massive glossy Art books. Stairways by Virgina Comer just cried out to me, and I suspected that if I didn't snap it up today, I'd never see it again. For now, i'll keep it safe, but eventually, it will gain a place of prominent beauty on a bookcase or end table in my new place.
I drove back through the Canyon still listening to Stew. It wasn't as good as Venice and Santa Monica, though. As more geography separated me from the ocean, the temperature rose. I raised my windows and turned on the air conditioning. I stopped in at Blinkie's Donut, the best damn doughnut shop around, and picked up some yummy pastries. Pastries which I have eaten during the two hours it's taken to write this. I hope that some of you, gentle readers, have actually clicked on the links to unfold this saga, and I hope I didn't lose cohesion as my mind started to slip. Good night fair ones, and my your day be as alive and awake as my weekend thus far (but without the stupid car).
ifmud reference above.On Saturday, my cousin got married in Washington, D.C. I didn't go, but my mother and sister did, as a preface to a longer vacation in New York that's happening right now. With everyone gone, it was up to me to bear the burden of Fathers' Day with my Dad.
After work, I drove home. Dad was out on a sixteen-mile run. (My father ran the LA Marathon last year and is in training for the Long Beach Marathon in a few months.) While he was out, I watched the Spain v. Ireland game.
I had told him I'd take him out to see a movie. To make things easier, I was just going to stay awake. I didn't have to work last night, so I figured I could sacrifice. We decided to see Spider-man. My dad was a real comic book fan as a kid, but every time he's tried to see the movie, it's been sold out.
We decided on a one-thirty show. But we didn't get there as early as I normally would have hoped. This is because the game went into overtime. Then double overtime. Then penalty kicks. (Then Ireland LOST! #@*&$^#@*&$^!!!) So we didn't get to the theater until about ten minutes to the show time.
Of course, the show was sold out.
I debated with myself over whether to stay up for a later showing or to scan the paper again for another likely theater. My dad, mindful that I was staying awake, offered to rent a movie instead. "No way!" I said. I did not think that renting a movie constituted an acceptable Fathers' Day. "Unless," I added, "you want to pick out a DVD at Borders as a Fathers' Day gift."
I felt very adult. Remember all of the times that your parents took you to a store and said, "You can choose one thing." Suddenly that was me. And it felt good.
We drove down to Borders. While my Dad wandered around upstairs, I scanned the books. I picked up the latest entry in George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire and Volume 4 in the Collected Short Stories of Philip K. Dick. Of course, this particular volume has a new cover loudly trumpeting "The Minority Report" as the Steven Spielberg movie, but otherwise it's the same.
(In case you're wondering, I don't intend to read "The Minority Report" until after I've seen the movie. I feel I'm less likely to be disappointed by the movie that way.)
Eventually my father came downstairs with his selection. Originally he wanted Braveheart, then The French Connection. Ultimately, he decided on the brand spanking new version of The Usual Suspects. We drove home and popped it in. (We didn't watch it right away, though. First we had to spend fifteen minutes searching the house for the remote control that was hiding under a chair.)
The Usual Suspects is a damn fine movie.
When the movie was over, it was about four o'clock, and I was very tired. I gave my dad one last Fathers' Day hug and crawled into bed.
I woke up at 11:30 p.m., just in time to watch USA v. Mexico. I knew things were bad that by the time I had pulled myself out of bed and towards ESPN, the US team had already scored a goal. Salud, Mexico! We'll see thee again in 2006.
I went back and watched The Usual Suspects with commentary by Brian Singer and Christopher McQuarrie. It was a lot of fun. Near the end of that, Brazil played Belgium. I was switching back and forth, since the game was boring me. Fate was on my side, though, I saw both goals.
Once the sun was up, I drove my car down to my mechanic. The brakes have been squeaking a bit, and the "Check Engine Soon" light popped on just the other day. With my mother and sister in D.C., I knew I had a spare car or two to fall back on. The initial estimate looked to be about $300-400 dollars. A tidy sum, but nothing too bad.
I walked back from the mechanics. It was a short walk, and it was already getting a bit warm, but I enjoyed it. I've slacked off on walking, but it only takes a mile to make me remember why I like to do it so much. My feet are still tingly.
After I got back and had something to eat, I called my grandmother. I had to pick up the spare key to my uncle's house, which was in her care. My uncle is getting married in two weeks, and as a result is getting rid of much of his furniture. I plan to grab some of that furniture and stick it into a storage space until I can install it in my Swingin' Guest House of Tablesawdom. (Not Table Sodom!) He is also on vacation this week, so I'm going to drive by his house tonight to scope out what I want, how much room it will take and how many people it may take to lift.
On my way out the door, I get a call from the mechanic. They checked they error message from the "Check Engine Soon" light and found out that there's a problem with my transmission requiring a complete $1600 overhaul. Ouch! I believe that it's worth it. The car still runs great, and the overhaul comes with a warranty, but that's still a big chunk of change, added to the hundreds of dollars I already knew I was spending. Suddenly owning a car seems slightly less cool.
So I drove a not-mine car through Topanga Canyon to get to the Pacific Ocean. I listened to Apollo 18. I really ought to dedicate an entire entry to They Might Be Giants. Long story short, I wish I owned more of their albums. They music carried me out of the Valley beautifully. Once I was on the Pacific Coast Highway, I rolled down the windows and let the music bound out across the beaches. It was beautiful.
My grandmother was looking lovely, and so was my aunt with whom she lives. We talked for a little while, about the World Cup, about moving, about life in general, then I was off again. It was getting late after all, and I hadn't decided whether I was going to go shopping.
There are two bookstores in LA that I love. One is Dutton's in North Hollywood. (No, not Dutton's Brentwood. Brentwood is a fine store and is much trendier, but the Dutton's in NoHo is the original.) Dutton's is one of the few book shops in Los Angeles that is what a book shop should be. Cramped, confused, and crammed full of surprises, gems and wonders. There aren't any acoustic performances or readings because the tiny storefront is filled with so much LITERATURE, so much that it warps the topology of the place around it in ways I have yet to understand.
The other is Midnight Special on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. Midnight Special's specialty is political and social books, and they often have a browsable selection of books one would normally come across only with a college syllabus in hand. My schedule makes it difficult to get to this store as often as I'd like, so I thought I'd capitalize on my presence on the West Side by stopping in on my way home.
Of course, that was before a certain phone call from a certain mechanic about a certain car with a certain very expensive malady. Part of me wanted to crawl into bed and do nothing that would even come close to costing money.
But the other part of me was feeling really good at being awake and out and about on a beautiful day. That part of me said to the first part of me, "How about we just drive down Lincoln for a while and listen to music with the windows down? If we still feel like going home then, we can take the 10 to the 405 or the PCH, whichever you want." The first part of me thought that sounded very logical and rational. And so it was done.
The cd chosen was Naked Dutch Painter by Stew. Now, I've listened to this album a lot recently, and it's pretty good. But this album was designed to be played with the windows down on a cool, clear day in Venice while the smells from the beach and the business float through the car. That first part of me was gone within two tracks.
At Midnight Special, I began, as usual, scanning the obscure titles in search of an author, title or subject that would catch my eye. For a little while, I wished that I'd polled around for authors to look for, but I was shortly glad that I hadn't. Within twenty minutes, I had far too many books than I could justify purchasing, what with my car and all. Put back on the shelf were several books by Stanislaw Lem, Peace on Earth, The Futurological Congress and A Perfect Vacuum. They are hard to find, but not impossible. Also returned was How to Write Like a Woman by Joanna Russ. I was interested in it, but I'd really been hoping to find some of her fiction. I've also read a few of the essays in the collection already from research on "The Yellow Wallpaper" and general Science Fiction. What remained was Women, Science and Technology a book with a fascinating topic and an apparently wide range of interesting essays. Finally, I found a small, beautiful book propped up in a little corner of the store, a tiny thing, small than my hand stuck among the massive glossy Art books. Stairways by Virgina Comer just cried out to me, and I suspected that if I didn't snap it up today, I'd never see it again. For now, i'll keep it safe, but eventually, it will gain a place of prominent beauty on a bookcase or end table in my new place.
I drove back through the Canyon still listening to Stew. It wasn't as good as Venice and Santa Monica, though. As more geography separated me from the ocean, the temperature rose. I raised my windows and turned on the air conditioning. I stopped in at Blinkie's Donut, the best damn doughnut shop around, and picked up some yummy pastries. Pastries which I have eaten during the two hours it's taken to write this. I hope that some of you, gentle readers, have actually clicked on the links to unfold this saga, and I hope I didn't lose cohesion as my mind started to slip. Good night fair ones, and my your day be as alive and awake as my weekend thus far (but without the stupid car).