Susan and I walked to and from the last day of the Lotus Festival at Echo Park Lake today, in part because we’d never been and even moreso because we volunteered to be a part of Team Metroblogging Los Angeles in the dragon boat races that run the north south length of the lake.
The good news is that while we won our head-to-head race, finishing at 8:17 a good 20 seconds ahead of our competition, the bad news is we came in second in our bracket — the media division. Why is that bad news? Because there were only two teams, and first place went to the KTLA team which about an hour after we crossed the finish line zoomed out and back during their race in 6:59.
Oh well, it’s not every day you get to climb into a boat that’s got a dragon head in the front and a tail off the bow and row around Echo Park, plus it was as much fun as it was a workout.
Afterward Susan and I took in the sights and sounds before heading on back home through the heat.
The Flickr photoset of the day is here. Susan’s is here.
I don’t fancy myself a sports reporter, and I certainly try not to kick a person when they’re down, but in regards to the game Susan and I walked to and from last night things were going relatively well for Dodger pitcher Mark Hendrickson and his team through the fifth inning (picture above) even though by the end of it they were down 2-1 to the Atlanta Braves. That was when manager Grady Little decided to yank his starter and bring to the mound some middle reliever named Brett Tomko to start the sixth. A third of that inning later Tomko got the hook having pitched as if he was getting a little $umthin’ $umthin’ under-the-table from the Braves: the first three batters he faced got hits. And before Tomko’s mess could be cleaned up the Braves ended up adding a couple more runs, ultimately winning by a score of 5-2. The Dodgers did manage to bring some life back to the party by putting two men on and the tying run at the plate in the form of pinch hitter Olmedo Saenz with two out in the bottom of the ninth, but Saenz struck out. Game over. Feh. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
Pretty much everything else that afternoon went according to plan — with the exception of the bars that we found closed during our walk. My friend Stephen had called with advanced warning that Barragan’s was taking the day off, so we were prepared for no margaritas. But arriving outside the Silver Lake Lounge we had no clue that place was shuttered as well. What the hell’s up with that!? You’d think this was a holiday or something!
Fortunately our timing was such that the No. 4 bus was approaching while we were shaking our heads in front of the Silver Lake Lounge so we decided to decrease our output by boarding it to Echo Park where we were relieved to find the Gold Room open for business like true patriots and stepped inside its dark confines where a couple regulars kindly slid down a stool so Susan and I could sit and enjoy our $3 Newcastle drafts and soak up a bit of the local flavor of the cool cave as Mexico and Venezuala battled for soccer supremacy on the flatscreen TV off my left shoulder.
Adjourning the Gold Room we headed east on Sunset passing Barragan’s with disdain then crossed Douglas before making our way to Sunset’s north side where we escaped the heat by entering the Shortstop bar nondescript except fora sidewalk placard out front touting its Dodger home game-special $1.50 Pabst Blue Ribbon drafts. Inside with pints in tow we learned of free barbeque for the taking outside the back door.
With a tasty beer in one hand and an equally tasty burger fresh off the grill in the other, for a fleeting moment — actually several of them — I thought about not leaving My New Favorite Bar’s uncrowded corner in the pool table room. But like the 56,000 others in attendance and the (632 who didn’t drive) we had a game to get to and so undaunted and duly fortified we proceeded up the hilliest section of the trek, past all the cars piled up at the gate with occupants waiting to pay their $15 until we were at last standing sheened in sweat in the shade above Section 10 of the Top Deck, just in time for “God Bless America” and the National Anthem followed by a flyover from a massive and loud C-17 transport:
Afterward, we stayed put in our seats for the fireworks that were a far cry better than our last July 4 at Dodger Stadium. That pyrotechnical display in 2005 was shut down early on and unceremoniously after two small fires erupted in foliage near the launching site. Thankfully no nearby brush was harmed in the making of this year’s extravaganza and the finale was delightful — and the walk home was a special treat if you like strolling through smoke-filled streets of a simulated warzone of firecrackers, bottle rockets, the occasional M80 and regular series of sky-high starbursts and booms that rivaled the scope and sound of some we’d seen at the stadium.
It was almost enough to make me want to grab Susan and dive into the Shortstop for cover (and more beer) as we passed it on the walk back home, but not quite.
A Flickr photoset of pix from the walk, the bus, the bars, the booze, and the game can be viewed here.
Odd as it might be to some that deciding how I’m getting to an event would help me figure out what I was going to do once I got there, that’s how things worked out for last night’s inaugural L.A. Bloggers Live at Tangier in Los Feliz Village.
Neil from Citizen of the Month
In the throes of a potent cocktail a couple weeks ago I said why not and signed up to participate, hell yeah! Woot! But in the far more sober and less enthusiastic aftermath I kicked myself up one side and wondered down the other what in gawdz name was I going to actually read. With a proposed five-minute limit that ruled out the vast majority of my deathless posts and so up until a couple days ago I was at a total loss… until I decided to bike there and it hit me that I should do a post about biking. After all, I had an editorial in the L.A. Times on the subject recently and it’s an activity near and dear and hell, in my travels around the way me and my bright orange bike are even starting to get the occasional glances of recognition from people I pass. Certainly I’ve got years and a long way to go before I become the two-wheeled equivalent of the iconic Silver Lake Walking Dude, but more and more people are equating me and The Phoenix as fixtures around the neighborhood and the greater L.A. cycling world, too.
So the topic was settled and in short order the selection was made: my “The Butt Stops Here” post from March 13 in parts because it was within the suggested time constraints (I timed it), and had some confrontation and payback entertainment value.
After locking up The Phoenix outside the club and trying to cooldown a bit before entering, Blogging.la co-captain David Markland arrived and we went inside where he was kind enough to buy me a Newcastle which I used to help calm the nerves that are unavoidable whenever I’m set to stand up in front of a mic and bunch of people. New B.la contributor Julia arrived and just after things got underway with introductions from the happening’s organizer Leah folowed by Joe from Artlung, shortly thereafter Cybele arrived and things moved pretty quick down the list of readers:
My turn was between Abigail and Peter and when I downloaded the pix I snapped from last night strangely I found one of me that was physically impossible for me to take (I expect it was snapped by Cybele):
I think it went well enough. By that I humbly submit that I managed my nerves and I didn’t fall down going to or from the mic, my tongue only tripped me up the requisite thousand half-dozen times, there was some polite laughter at the appropriate moments and no impolite laughter at inappropriate moments. All in all I was glad to be one of the pioneers of what has the potential to become a regularly scheduled showcase. And as a bonus I had the pleasure of meeting Clifford of Asymptotia who was in attendance and introduced himself afterwards.
So there’s a Blogging.la get together at the buzz-inducing new Seven Grand bar downtown and on Thursday I’m scheduled to be one of the readers at the L.A. Bloggers Live gathering in Los Feliz Village… the latter being something I oh-what-the-hell’d and signed on to go from spectator to participant in the throes of a particularly inhibition-reducing beverage of the rum persuasion.
Despite occasionally mulling over the matter and subsequently wondering what the hell I’d been thinking in making such decisions while intoxicated I had not so much as a clue how or with what I was going to fill my five-minutes (or less) time slot. Then this afternoon, I decided to bike to both events — and in doing so a light bulb went off and illuminated the path leading to a decision: the selection must be pedal-powered.
And I’ve found just the one. What a relief, except for the fact that now I have to read it in front of a bunch of people most of whom probably don’t know me or my blog.
P.S. After Ranger stepped on a piece of broken glass in the backyard during a fetch break (she’s OK) I went crazy with the rake intent on de-glassing the backyard (it’s like a minefield out there and I don’t really know why it became so littered). Of course I didn’t come even close, but I did locate a few dozen shards and such. And oh yeah, I found an old Zippo lighter, a hook, a fragment of an old ceramic knicknack, another Batchelder tile. a cople bones, a braided wire thing, an old pull-top, couple screws, a small metal plate and some buttons: (click to enlarge):
So I went a little bid crazy Sunday after biking to the benefit for Trader Joe’s employee Adam Authier who needs money to help combat the mounting medical bills for his recovery from the massive injuries he sustained from a hit-and-run accident while he was cycling home from work near the end of February.
Upon arrival I readily threw the suggested donation into the pot and then hung out for a bit snacking on the fine spread of snackables, listening to musical and acting performances and chatting and perusing the items in the silent auction. In doing the latter I figured what the hell and I bid on several items, a “Design your own 24 t-shirts,” a handmade book and a wonderful ink, pencil and watercolor of the Shakespeare Bridge in the Franklin Hills donated by Martini Republic’s Joseph Mailander:
The call came yesterday from Adam’s coworker and auction organizer Sonia with the congratulations that I was the winner of the shirts and the sketch, but not the book — and thank goodness for that small favor. I mean it’s not like my disposable income is at an all-time high… and while I didn’t delay in biking over to Silver Lake TJ’s to settle up last night in hindsight I wish I’d been a bit less enthusiastic at the auction tables.
But what the hell, it’s going to someone who needs the money much more than I do right now, and to show for it I’ve got a nice piece of original art and the fun of figuring out what I want to do with the design of those two dozen shirts.
Agh. Fact is I was psyched out before I even left the house to bike over to the Fargo Street Hill Climb. I was breathing hard and adrenalating right here by my desk. Sure, there were a lot of reasons why I should succeed: I was lighter and in better condition than when I attempted and failed it last year, and I was more confident my road bike would be better for the job than my knobby-tired full-suspension mountain bike. But still the hill had already beaten me and I hadn’t even gotten on a bike yet.
I suppose I can take some reassurance in at least making the attempt — however futile — but I can’t take any for failing to go along with my game plan, which was:
get there
get signed up
get busy climbing
Even though I knew full well that the less time spent staring up at the top of the obstacle from the bottom the better, what did I do when after the first and second steps were completed? Yeah, I sat at the bottom and stared up at the hill and wondered how the hell I even thought I had the technical skills and strength required to pedal the the 560-odd feet up the 30% grade to the summit.
Not only that, but I was under the added pressure of aa time constraint. I had a funeral at noon that I was expected to be at — a funeral I was speaking at. So did I get a move on? Hell no. Sure I did a half-baked practice climb up half the neighboring steep Baxter Street to the north of Fargo and that went pretty well, and I readjusted the handlebars lower to give me a more forward-leaning position (the better to keep the front wheel from lifting) but it was some 50 minutes after getting there and signing in before I made my first attempt.
The greatest part about it, it was going really well. Yes, I had to rise up out of the saddle and pedal standing a lot earlier than I’d hoped to achieve maximum thrust, but I was feeling strong and making good progress. I actually thought I stood a good chance of making it to the top… right up until the baddest part of it, which occured about halfway up in the form of another entrant ahead of me who bailed out of his attempt but then made no attempt to get the hell off the course and instead for reasons known only to him stayed perfectly still and perpindicular to the curb, ultimately and egregiously blocking me from accessing several feet of the street that I could have used — and would have used had he had a better sense of awareness and consideration, which is clearly evident in this brief clip below of my meeting up with him.
Wow, did I get through all that without calling the guy a fucking asshole? Cool!
Seeing as I was forced to cut back quicker to get by him, the breaking of my already unsteady rhythm plus the distraction of his obtrusive presence proved fatal to that try. As such, I gave the hill a second go. This time without any human obstractions I can only blame myself for failing and on the video I captured of that (which I will not be showing) I can clearly be heard breaking down and crying briefly in abject and absolute frustration. Then I manned up, walked to the top, vowed to come back and try again next year and biked my way home because I had little more than an hour to get cleaned up for the impending funeral of my friend Mark Burton’s father at Mt. Sinai Cemetery.
As a very pleasant surprise bonus Susan changed her mind and decided to accompany me and we got to the sevices right on time.
Though the circumstances were unfortunate, it was a pleasure to see Mark’s sister Heather and his mom Harriet as well Mark — all for the first time in a very long time. It was also nice to reconnect with another high school buddy Craig Pines as well as Kendall Parks who both attended. I even spied Richard Jastrow after the services but never got a chance to say hello as he didn’t attend the reception at Harriet’s home afterwards.
I did however get the chance to stand before everyone and express my thanks to David Burton, some 25 years overdue. I was very pleased that my words were so well-received. You can read what I said after the jump if you’d like:
Got two things cooking this weekend – both on Sunday actually — that are intense enough so that whenever I so much as glance at them mentally I’m rewarded with strong shots of adrenaline jetting into my system giving me that combination fight/flee excited/terrified feeling.
The first is the annual Fargo Street Hill Climb, one of the most unique cycling events in the entire world. I tried it for the first time a year ago and failed, then made a second attempt and failed at that, too. I was so intimidated and out-psyched by the sheer steepness of that street that just the simple thought of tackling it again a year later basically makes me break out in a cold sweat.
But that ain’t gonna stop me from trying, and succeeding.
I’ll have to get it done early in the morning because the second event is the funeral for my friend Mark Burton’s father at noon. Attending it isn’t the issue, it’s that Mark in knowing how much his father meant to me has given me the opportunity to say a few words.
It’s an offer I can’t and wouldn’t refuse, but adding a bit to the anxiety he’s said the rabbi presiding over the services has suggested keeping all eulogies within a three-minute window and at present draft, what I have to say runs five. I’ll be attempting to whittle it down tomorrow, but if I can’t slim it down enough to fit the proposed timeframe I’m hoping whatever overage will be indulged seeing as what I have to say is about 25 years overdue.
I try to be a firm believer in things happening for a reason — good or bad. Sometimes I’ll get into arguments with myself about that adage over the little things… like what could possibly be the purpose of that ding I got from some sunzabeech in my truck’s door in the parking lot where I work yesterday (answer: all the more reason to ride my bike!), but with the bigger-picture events I pretty much accept it without debate.
For example, take me reconnecting with my old friend Russell last week. After finding me via the internest a week earlier and exchanging emails, last Thursday I biked up from work to Mar Vista where I met his wife Jessica and then he took me out to dinner at this wonderful Japanese grill place called Sakura House on Washington Boulevard where we had a great time climbing over the 17-year wall that had built up between us. Afterward back at his house I did my best not to drool over the two tricked out Harleys he showed me in his garage.
In the course of the evening we talked about a bunch of stuff, including our mutual friend Mark Burton who Russell is still very much in-touch with and who I haven’t seen in about as long as it had been since I’d last seen Russell. Since only a few weeks before that I was participating in that downtown storytellers project at the Music Center in which the downtown story I attempted to share was the one involving Mark’s father, I asked about Mr. Burton and was surprised to learn from Russell that he was still alive considering he’s now well into his 70s and spent the last 21-years of his life in prison.
When I said goodnight to Russell later that night I asked him to pass my regards along to Mark in the hopes that the three of us could get together one day soon and throw back a nostaligic sixer of Mickey’s or Killian’s Red (our beers of choice back then) maybe in our old haunt that I called Crossroads Park (Now Will Rogers Park) in between the Beverly Hills Hotel and the intersections of several of that city’s residential streets.
Russell certainly made good on my request and the next morning I found an enthusiastic email from Mark which I answered. In a follow-up I asked about his mom and sister and (even though I figured it was a sensitive subject) his dad because I wanted him to know how much I appreciated the two of them coming to my rescue back when I was arrested in 1982 for being a stupid 18-year-old with a .22 rifle.
Several days went by and no response came from Mark. I chalked it up to what certainly was his busy work schedule, but by yesterday I finally broached the subject in a quick note to him in hopes that was indeed the case and that I hadn’t offended him.
I was relieved to get his email back saying yes he’d been busy and no there’d been no offense taken, and then I was heartbroken by his news that a large part of the reason he hadn’t been able to respond was that his father, who had been ill for quite some time, had taken a grave turn over the weekend and died early that Tuesday morning up in Vacaville. He told me he’d keep me informed of the funeral plans and when he let me know this morning that his father is to be buried this Sunday at noon I told him I’d be honored to attend.
And while it may not be beers in the park as I’d wished, I want to make that clear that I will be honored to stand with my old friends at the ceremony for Mark’s father, a man who when I stood bitter and brooding at the threshold of a very dark path stepped up to my aid when no one else would or could and turned me from it with quiet kindness and understanding and a helping hand.
Twenty-four miles and a big old jet airliner… all before breakfast. Unfortunately as my digivideo cam is not equipped to wirelessly transfer its data into the ether I have no capability of uploading my footage of the awesome on-time landing of the Airbus A380 at LAX at 9:30 a.m. this morning… but that should be no big deal as I’m pretty sure a search of YouTube and or any of the newschannel videostreams should yield one or two thousand other captures of the historic landing.
So for now and the remainder of the day you’ll have to content yourself with someone else’s video(s) and my impression that it was fantastic and mind-blowing to behold such a behemoth on its inaugural L.A. touchdown.
And I certainly wasn’t alone. Lincoln Boulevard and Westchester Parkway were loaded with a couple thousand like-minded airplane geeks, one of which was Julia, a Blogging.la reader, who met up with me on the side of the road not too far from the Sepulveda Boulevard In-N-Out and not long after that the big bird came calling.
Afterward I biked the long way around the airport (Westchester Parkway to Pershing Drive to Imperial Highway) to get to work.
Well, a late-breaking and omni-frustrating relapse this morning of the residual post-marathon equilibrium/dizziness/temp issues this morning made me decide it was a wiser thing to stay home rather than to risk operating a motor vehicle through rush-hour traffic.
Note: It probably didn’t help that I had two gin/tonix and a beer on an empty stomach at last night’s Mediabistro.com-organized blogger gathering at Bar Lubitsch in West Hollywood. Plus there was all the screaming one had to do just to be heard over the ridiculously loud scene. More on that later maybe if the room/my head doesn’t start spinning.
At least some of the stiffness and soreness and outright pain is finally abating — that stuff I can deal with. But when I stand up and the room starts tilt-o-whirling and my temperture still is fluctuating… well, that’s beginning to concern me. Even on my two previously horrible experiences walking the marathon in 2003 and 2005 when I could barely muster the strength to cross the finish line, my recovery from those two outings was much smoother and quicker than this. It was all musculo-skeletal; nothing to do with my body’s thermoregulatory and balance capacities. I think I’ll chalk it up to the heat endured Sunday. Or at least hope that’s the mitigating factor.
But in the realm of everything happening for a reason, it turns out that my staying home today might not have been a bad idea seeing as Ranger apparently hunted, caught and killed an eight inch rat with an eight inch tail and at some point decided to bring it inside to play with in the living room. Fortunately I found it at Ranger’s feet laid out belly up quite nicely and with its structure thankfully pretty much intact and thus was able to remove and dispose of it.
I could only imagine what kind of gory scene Ranger might have produced while playing with his new toy and one that Susan would have come home to had I not been here to janitationalize.
And no, I didn’t take a picture of the corpse.
But in regards to last night’s blogger meet (where the proprietors of the bar insisted on continuing to crank up the music so it could be heard above the yell-level conversation din), I lucked the heck out and scored a parking space right in front and got to say hey to Ed Padgett and Scott Schmidt of the new L.A. Voice and Franklin Avenue’s Mike Schneider, Stephen Blackmoore of L.A. Noir, Ryan of Losanjealous and LAist’s Zach Behrens and Andy Sternberg — not to mention I finally was able to prove once and for all and to myself that the inimitable Tony Pierce is not the work of several networked supercomputers housed in a bunker somewhere and is actually a real live person whose hand I shook and was genuinely glad to meet. And on the glad to meet tip, I got to say hey to Totally Unauthorized’s Peggy Archer. Cruftbox’s Michael Pusateri was also there and I got to hang with a bunch of Blogging.la’ers including Sean and Caryn, David, Cybele, Jay, Spencer andHeathervescent (who’s rocking awesome purple hair like she was born with it that color).
I’d link everybody but I’m feeling a little woozy right now. Man do I hate that feeling.
