[sic]

To the person who left the still-cold, three-quarters-full, 40-ounce bottle of Cobra Malt Liquor that I found in the plastic bag on the walkway below our porch, I’m pretty sure — or at least hoping — that you probably knew our deceased tenant Joe and perhaps stopped by this morning or sometime during the night to mourn his loss and remember the good times when he was alive.

Since most other empty beer containers found are regularly left by inconsiderate public drinkers down by the curb or in the ivy or behind our mailbox, that’s pretty much the only reason I can come up with that you’d blatantly trespass onto our property with a large bottle of alcohol like it’s not our house, but yours — or Joe’s.

Point in fact, it’s not yours, nor Joe’s.

Putting aside the general creepiness of some stranger so out of it as to not even think twice about coming to our house to pour one out for the dearly departed and then leave the bottle and the remaining disgusting beverage for me to dispose of, I’ve tried hard to craft the following request while remaining aware of your loss and considerate of your feelings in such a time of sorrow:

KEEP THE FUCK OUT, PLEASE

At the end of March I wrote a post detailing a pair of stupid cyclists I encountered one morning on 4th Street. The first one was surly and despite being a slowpoke had no patience for the long red light at Wilton Place, and the second one was overdressed and jumped a four-way stop a few blocks later in front of a truck that I’d stopped for and had the right of way and almost hit him.

Guess which one I encountered this morning? That would be Stupid Cyclist No. 2. And guess what happened? Yeah he was still overdressed and this time almost ran into me because he was following me too close and not paying attention when I came to a stop for the northbound cross traffic at Rossmore. He missed me by inches with a breathless “Whoa!” and then instead of stopping continued on across the intersection despite the passing vehicles, forcing the nearest car to slam on its brakes. What a dick!

After the intersection cleared I proceeded across and caught up with the retard a block further up. If you read my post about that first encounter you might recall last time I restricted expressing my distaste to firing a warning loogie across his bow. This time I decided to be a bit more vocal.

“Dude,” I yelled. “You’re a fucking menace.” He peeled the huge headphones he was wearing from his ears and said ” Eh? No unnerstan.”

I repeated my fact-based analysis of him and advised that since this was now the second time out of two that he’s proven to be a two-wheeled retard around me, should there be any unfortunate future opportunities for us to be on the road together, it would be in everyone’s best interest and especially his if he stayed as far the hell away from me as possible.

“Oh,” he said. “OK.”

“OK? Yeah well, just so we’re clear: stay the fuck away from me,” I called to him a couple arm lengths away. Indicating the distance between us I said, “If you ever get as close to me as you are now, I’m gonna put you on the ground, comprende asshole?”

“Oooooh!” was all he said, but wide-eyed he immediately backed-off and stayed a good half-block behind me until he had no choice but to pass me stopped at La Brea to make a right and go north.

This first commercial from Farmers Insurance posted below left the urban cyclist in me wanting to bike over to the company’s Wilshire Boulevard headquarters and egg the building. The next one from State Farm just makes me twitch:

But beneath the arrogant humiliation of cyclists and cycling that’s being promoted in those spots, there’s a bit of desperation to these campaigns. These companies derive a substantial portion of their revenue from the premiums people pay to protect the cars they own and drive, so it’s no surprise that they’ll employ such ludicrous tactics as more and more people start looking at ways to go about their lives without them.

Shame on them.

No photos or videos to illustrate this morning’s tardish behavior, sorry. Just words, and I’ll try to keep those to a minimum, too (yeah, that’ll be the day).

So I’m biking in to work today as I’ve now done every consecutive workday since March 10 and 17 out of 19 total workdays this wonderful month of March because I’m a dyed-in-the-Lycra biking monster mofo (except without the Lycra) who’d be batting .1000 if it hadn’t been for bouts with the flu and a lost crown that turned into not one but two root canals. But let’s whoa about my woes and focus people, dammit!

Anyway, I’m on 4th Street at Wilton Place waiting at the interminable light there long enough for my fingernails to noticeably grow and to be joined by two fellow cyclists (which , coincidentally, at a total of three represents 74% of the cyclists on the streets in L.A. at any given moment, according to the MTA, the LADOT, and the OMF&G). A guy rolls to the crosswalk next to me on my left and another to my right hangs back around my five o’clock at the curb.

The guy to my left I’ve seen before — last week I think — and when I passed him then further along through Hancock Park I gave him a “good morning!” and he didn’t so much as give me a grunt in return. So from the “blow me off once because you’re a dick, shame on you” school I didn’t bother trying to be cordial twice — which was a good thing because before I would have had time to say anything for him to ignore he bolted on the red across the intersection, leaving me and the other fellow looking either law-abiding or chicken or both.

That’s happened before. The most recent was a couple weeks earlier at the much busier intersection of Venice and Hauser where a be-spandexed road geek ahead of me had pulled to a stop long enough for me to come to a stop near him. No sooner had I arrived when he charged ahead through the cross traffic against the red, I’m guessing because he was mortified that the standstill would drop his average pedal cadence below 90. Egad!

Certainly I can’t force my ethics on other riders, but that doesn’t mean I have to accept it when my personal commandment is if there’s any number of cyclists accumulated at any given red light — obey it. Together we stop, divided we suck.

But never mind what I abhor, the twist is that Lefty t’weren’t no speedster and by the time the light turned green he wasn’t more than a block and a half away from me, which means without much effort my law-abiding ass was passing him on the western side of Norton, three blocks hence where his slow-going self stayed in my rear view mirror the rest of our time together.

The other rider, heavier laden with an unnecessary winter-weight jacket and riding something of an off-the-rack-at-Target clunker was a bit of a surprise in that he was the stronger of the two. He wasn’t so much drafting as he was pacing me, staying a few bike lengths back and showing every sign of keeping up — not that I was particularly blazing at anything more then 15 mph — but it was enough to put Lefty far enough to the rear as we traveled a few blocks further west, which is where this second cyclist’s moment in the suck comes in.

Well amidst the manses and estates of Hancock Park I approached Windsor Avenue, and from the north a large pick-up truck pulled to the stop sign. In deference to his being the first to arrive at that intersection way ahead of me I came to a halt at the four-way stop so that he could proceed, where I remained clipped in to my pedals and balanced, figuring the rider shadowing me would either do the same or coast and at least slow, let the truck pass and we could both get a move on.

What an idiot I was to ASSume such a thing. The truck begins to go just as Clunker pulls abreast of me to my left and with no intention of obeying the posted stop sign or slowing down he just keeps on going even though the truck has begun entering the intersection and, needless to say, has the right of way. In response to Clunker’s epic failure to yield, I have to unclip and put a foot down as the truck hitches to a stop and then Clunker half-hitches like he’s going to stop and so the truck starts to go again but then Clunker cranks it across the intersection while the swarthy driver of the truck has to hit the brakes again and glares after him with fire in his eyes before turning that fire back to me and all I can offer is a motion for him to continue and a shrug which translated to “That guy’s an idiot but if you wait another 15 seconds you’ll meet another one, too!” He shrugged back which I read to mean “Fucking cyclists! Another time, maybe,” and moved across 4th to points south.

I caught up with Clunker at the next block and on approach I mulled over a variety of verbal options, among them being:

• “Wow, that bonehead maneuver certainly made things easier for everyone, didn’t it huh?”
• “Just to be clear I’m not your personal intersection blocker, but you are a dipshit!”
• You rode the little bus in elementary school, didn’t you?”
• “WTFOMG! Tard much!?”
• “What you did back there is why cyclists will always and forever suck. Thanks for perpetuating!”

But instead I just pulled beside him and opted out of speaking to instead opportunistically hawk up a loogy that I fired across his bow. Then I said “Pace this motherfucker” and gunned it, putting him far enough behind me to enjoy the rest of 4th Street to myself idiot- and incident-free all the way to La Brea.

For far too many Saturdays mornings the gardeners for the people next door to us have been excessive (to say the least) in their illegal (LAMC Sections 112.04 & 112.05) use of gas-powered leafblowers. This particular morning it started shortly after 9 a.m. and with a couple brief breaks (I assume because the machines ran out of gas) it continues now as we approach the hour of 11.

Marshaling my diplomatic tendencies while simultaneously quelling my urge to go on a rampage with a baseball bat, I sat down and took the first expletive-free documentational step, as follows, toward resolving this. If this doen’t work I start complaining to the proper authorities.

February 9, 2009

Dear Neighbor,

As your next door neighbors we submit this request with the utmost respect, but the situation with your groundskeepers has gotten to an untenable point that requires your immediate attention and intervention.

At some not-too-distant point, your gardening crew began doing its work on Saturday mornings. I can only assume that this unfortunate switch is the result of scheduling conflicts that prevent them from doing their work during the week.

I call it unfortunate primarily because of their extensive use of gas-powered leafblowers in violation of the Los Angeles Municipal Code Sections 112.04 and 112.05 which state:

112.04: “No gas powered blower shall be used within 500 feet of a residence at anytime. Both the user of such a blower as well as the individual who contracted for the services of the user, if any, shall be subject to the requirements of and penalty provisions for this ordinance. Violation of the provisions of this subsection shall be punishable as an infraction in an amount not to exceed One Hundred Dollars ($100.00), notwithstanding the graduated fines set forth in L.A.M.C. Section 11.00(m). ”

112.05 “Between the hours of 7:00 a.m. and 10:00 p.m., in any residential zone of the City or within 500 feet thereof, no person shall operate or cause to be operated any powered equipment or powered hand tool that produces a maximum noise level exceeding the following noise limits at a distance of 50 feet therefrom.”

This morning specifically one of your gardeners (pictured at right) began blowing leaves with a gas-powered “backpack” blower shortly after 9 a.m. and it continued unabated for more than an hour. It then stopped at 10:15 a.m. only to recommence at 10:30. It continues as I write this.

Not only is this illegal from a mechanical perspective but it is also a severe and prolonged disruption of the peace.

To be fair and honest, last Saturday when our gardeners showed up uninvited (a day after missing their regularly scheduled visit) we quickly discovered that they too use a gas-powered blower. We put a stop to it immediately and have contacted their supervisor to insist any further work be done without such offensive equipment – and never on Saturday.

Again we submit this with the utmost appreciation for the good neighbors you are and in the hope your quick action will put an end to this illegal activity. If you have any questions or wish to discuss this further please do not hesitate to contact us.

Regards,

Will & Susan Campbell

Caution: sports post ahead.

The last few Mondays have been weird in that I am no longer found on the couch in front of the TV watching the duration of Monday Night Football. That may seem like no big deal, but I’m talking about a show that’s easily been on of my favorite never-miss television programs for most of my adult life. At least it was until ABC moved the landmark program to ESPN, which is now in its second season of ruining it.

The last time I watched a full broadcast was the Cowboys/Bills game when Dallas managed to somehow pull a 25-24 victory out at the last minute. Exciting stuff. But since then I’ve tuned in only to tune out shortly thereafter, put off by the forgetable booth announcing team as a whole almost as much as I am by ESPN icons Stuart Scott and Chris Berman who’ve both become stock parodies of themselves.

How did my love wane so quickly? Well for one, the show simply lost a lot of its tradition and cachet when it left the network for cable. ESPN may be a sports powerhouse, but “Monday Night Football on ESPN” just doesn’t pack the same historical punch as “Monday Night Football on ABC,” which I began watching as a kid with Frank Gifford, Howard Cosell and Dandy Don Meredith.

Second, it didn’t bring the booth team of Al Michaels and John Madden with it. That duo lateraled to NBC where they steere that ship’s  “Sunday Night Football in America,” which coincidentally  is rapidly becoming the new Monday Night Football.

Third, with the exception of the unexpected excitement of the above-mentioned Cowboys/Bills battle, the games have mostly been the suck. I mean, Patriots/Bengals? Yawn. Giants/Falcons? Feh. Ravens/Steelers? Pffft. Whose idea is it that these are marquee match-ups? And then this past Mondays 49ers/Seahawks dance? Please. It’s embarrassing to see a television franchise being put out to pasture so painfully.

It’s as if ABC and ESPN really don’t give a crap. That they’re taking some sort of perverse joy in felling a champion. I got home this past Monday night and turned on the San Francisco/Seattle game just as it went to halftime. After Berman’s “fastest three minutes” shtick and Stuart Scott showing how badass he is with his left brow cocked and loaded about a foot above his eye, then we’re treated to an endless interview with NASCAR teammates Jimmie Smith and Jeff Gordon speaking from some studio in cliches about how they’re competitors but friends too with the utmost in respect for one another and combined have one goal and that’s to do the best they can for the team irregardless of who crosses the finish line first and blahbity blah blah blahbity blah blahzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

NASCAR!? Seriously ESPN, you barely will give three minutes to an NFL weekend wrap-up but you’ll let these two perpetual left-turners blab on and on and on and on about themselves and the cars they drive? You’re trying to make me turn it off, aren’t you!?
And in answer, with Gordon in mid-drone about needing to put together a good race in order to top his bestest buddy Jimmie I switched off to the infinitely enjoyable HGTV.  Never to return? I wouldn’t be surprised.

I left home in my truck this morning at 8:03 a.m. All was going as smoothly as could be expected, with me getting down to Commonwealth and Wilshire in six minutes and passing Crenshaw and Jefferson about 20 minutes after that. If all went well from there I would’ve been to work in another 15 minutes. Tops.

It didn’t go well.

Traffic up to La Cienega was backed-up halfway to La Brea. Once across that seven-minute bottleneck it was easy going until I crossed Overland at 8:45 am. I should’ve been parking three minutes later, but instead check it: those remaining 1.6 fucking miles between Overland and Jefferson to Sepulveda and Centinela took 36 minutes to traverse (with the only visual clue as to the jam’s cause seen on Sepulveda as I finally turned left off of it near work: a brightly colored “Road Work Ahead” sign).

I could’ve parked near Overland and walked to work quicker.

And by bike!? That’s the freakin’ point: five sweet minutes — if that! — spent slicing through the gridlock  like a knife through butter. You don’t think I was kicking myself? In the head, dammit!

So here’s the deal — the ULTIMATUM, if you will: four wheels become the adamant last resort, instead of the begrudged first resort. No more 60/40 split between bike and truck. From now on 100% bike. Anything needs to be trucked to — Vons, Costco, et cetera, can be done on the weekend.

Sure, this massive traffic attack may have been the after-effect of of an isolated — and yes, tragic –  incident and that things will be back to normal (whatever that is) tomorrow.  While I’m certainly sorry the trucker died, the good news is I can prevent it from negatively impacting me the next time.

So enough of this whiny “oh but I’m not back to full lung capacity after my bronchial episode” or “but I need to get home early for Halloween.” Tomorrow and until further notice: two wheels are the primary mode. The GOTO.

And if/when I end up having no other choice but to resort to my vehicle because of weather or health issues, it’s gonna cost me my normally “lazy” mornings. Instead of rolling out at 8 a.m., I’m gonna be hitting the road at 7:30 and have expectations of a 90-minute commute preloaded rather than dumped on me while trapped in the middle of one.

Grrrrr.

It escaped many, but not me… no matter how minor it may be. See typically and for as long as I can remember Daylight Saving Time has ended the weekend of or before Halloween. That’s right, whoever those state or federal powers might be decreed that in the year 2007, the DST period would not only be increased on the front end but the back end as well. Thus we have an additional week of the dying of the light with which to contend.

This bothers me for a couple reasons. With clocks falling back the weekend before October 31 we were ensured of an earlier nighfall.  It was like something of an “on you mark, get ready” to trick-or-treaters (or those of us who are still trick-or-treaters at heart) that brought the cloak of darkness so much sooner.

On the flipside, getting that hour back meant morning was gratefully resurrected. Instead of it being barely dawn at 6:30- 7 a.m. — making it that much more diffficult to rise and shine — all of a sudden goodness was restored and one could get out of bed and see what was going on.

Instead now we’ll be contending with this feeble simpering dusk for another few afternoons (including Halloween, which is sacrilege) while still groping around in the dawn’s lingering dim trying not to trip over the cats and dogs. Somehow I don’t think this is what Ben Franklin had in mind when he decided to start goofing with the timetables to save some candlewax.

A few weeks ago, in response to my posting on YouTube a somewhat painstakingly and successfully achieved timelapse of a nocturnal cactus flower blooming, I got the following comment from a viewer whose username is 74mr in response to what he deemed my mistake in identifying the plant as a San Pedro cactus:

That cactus is not an Echinopsis or Trichocereus species, it is a Cereus specie. Tricho means hairy and cereus means candle, all Trichocereus flowers have hairy flower stalks, that is a way to ID them. That plant cannot be San Pedro.

Today, as part of Blogging.la’s collective effort in presenting the “Top 25 Greatest Dead Angelenos” an extensive post on one of my favorite of all-time film stars, Buster Keaton, went live after some pretty extensive effort on my part. Not long after I got the following comment from a fine fellow named Don (who came with me for the first 17 miles of my walk across Sunset Boulevard last February) who correctly noted I had incorrectly listed Keaton’s age as 69 when he died:

Umm, if Buster Keaton was born in 1895 and died in 1966, that makes him 70 when he died (well, 70 and a half if you want to get picky), not 69. Unless he did some relativistic travel sometime in the 1940s courtesy of Navy experiments with electromagnetism.

While I disputed 74mr’s robotic assertion of a mistake on my part, I had no such qualms about the factual gaff Don cheekily pointed out and repaired it immediately, explaining its source (”PBS: American Master,” no less) and thanking him for letting me know.

But how I interacted with the critics is not the point. The point is the reaction I’m having to both of them ignoring the overall result of my work and going straight to rather petty points of order. With my timelapse I captured a remarkable sight and did so somewhat by the seat of my proverbial pants not having done much previously in the way of extended timelapse capture. With the Keaton post I provided what I think is a pretty decent overview of his life and career, replete with rare photos, a video montage and a personal angle. Hell, I even snooped around and found an event tie-in at a local theater next month that will feature Buster Keaton’s first film appearance! But none of that mattered to these two. In both cases neither of these commenters could even be bothered to give me even the briefest benefit of an attaboy before zooming in for the neener.

Please don’t mistake this as whimpering that I’m not getting the credit I think I deserve. Pffft. I’m not hungering for validation. But what I am hungering for is insight into what is it that’s allowing this type of nerdish tactlessness toseemingly be more acceptable? What’s happened where it’s more and more OK to be so narrow and unaware? Is it the internut? Absentee fathers? Nutrasweet? Duh-bya?

These two examples certainly do not a trend make, but if by chance the days of “Good job, but…” are going going gone I’ll try to get over it, but it’s gonna take awhile and in the meantime I’ll still be an active proprietor of politeness and encouragement. But I can’t guarantee I won’t be triply tactless in response to any future incidents of inconsideration.

Like most bullshit automobile adornment trends — the pissing Calvin, “Baby On Board” signage, bumper stickers that petulantly demand I accept that Jesus Is God while simultaneously commanding that I Read The Bible — I don’t know where and when they start. All I know is that they can never fade away fast enough to suit me.

The example of this type of stickering pictured below is certainly nothing new, but it’s one I don’t get on two WTF levels:

First off, dude: Duh. You’re driving a beatdown Toyota truck, what the hell else is it going to be powered by? Second off, dude: Nah. I’m pretty sure I didn’t miss the press release crowing about how Toyota’s engines deliver 1,200 horsepower.

And bonus WTF, dude. Hic? Were ya drinkin’ much while applying that lameness to your truck’s ass or is that uneven, off-center warped effect on purpose? Nice!

Powered by idiots.