Romantic Comedies


Holy mother of effs, I’m getting old(er).

The family — I refuse to use the currently popular and obnoxious term “fam” — was out decorating for Christmas Saturday night, mostly concentrating on the positioning of our new laser light display.

We’ve been looking at them for some time now and found them on sale at OSH so we caved. And for $20 I have to admit they are pretty spectacular.

The colors, man! The colors! Plus we’re feeling exceptionally lazy this year so we’re only putting this up with a few strings of lights. Humbug!

While all of this was going on, our beloved neighbor* was in his frontyard listening to some music through his Bluetooth speaker. I didn’t really notice it until Ann said something.

Ann: The jackass** is listening to that Sam Smith chick-flick crap that you’d hear in those romcoms.

A beat. I heard what she said loud and clear, but I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by the last word.

Me: What?

Ann: He’s listening to crap you’d hear in a romcom.

There it was again.

Me: (looking bewildered) Uh, say that again?

Ann: What, romcom?

At this point, if this were a phone conversation using a wired GTE Phone Mart landline, I would have tapped it several times on the nearest hard object to make sure I was hearing things correctly then continued.

Me: Yes.

Ann: A romcom? Romantic comedy?

Me: Is that what it means?

Ann: Yeah, I heard it on the radio the morning.

Keep in mind I don’t listen to morning radio — I’m a Spotify guy and hate blithering morning jocks trying to elicit a laugh at any cost. I’m not entirely surprised they’d use such a stupid term.

Me: Oh okay. Well, don’t ever say that around me again.

Ann: What, romcom?

Me: (shuddering) Yes.

Deal.

Here we are taking a break from the decorating in Season 24 of our own little romc…uh, romantic comedy. Hats off to the kid, now taller than Ann and almost eye level with me, for taking this picture.

You all decorated yet?

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Footnotes:

*Sarcasm **Absolute truth

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Composed on an iPhone 7 Plus app using the WordPress app because I’m feeling exceptionally lazy tonight.

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Manic Monday


Monday night was crazy.

Earlier in the day, Ann had sent me a picture of my wonderful neighbor — you already know I’m being fatuous — standing in the street next to his car. That is, his damaged car.

Turns out that another resident on our street came flying around the corner at their usual high rate of speed, lost control, and wiped out my neighbor’s car. They flipped their car twice after impact which shows you how ridiculously fast they were going, with a child in the back seat. All are fine and I’m sorry that kid has a mother that doesn’t take his safety into consideration when she gets behind the wheel. They are known for speeding on our street all the time.

Ann told me the sound of the accident was horrible as they usually are but being close to the scene made it sound worse. She was a bit shaken up by it all and I can’t say I blame her. Accidents are truly scary to hear, scarier to see, and even more scary to be in.

That’s when I enter the picture, about 7 miles away.

I was making my way home as usual, taking the same streets as I always do. Just another ho-hum ride home for me.

Then it happened.

Just as I passed an intersection, a car made a right turn into my lane on their red light. Contact was made and the impact threw my scooter out of control. Yes, I was on my scooter.

I went sideways for a moment before finally losing control and falling to the ground, rolling in the street maybe about four times at around 35 MPH. My helmet made contact with the asphalt and got scraped up pretty bad. The impact on the asphalt jammed my scooter’s center stand into the body and it is no longer usable. All of this happened within seconds.

And all I was thinking while I was rolling was “Hang on…hang on…just hang on…don’t let go.” The adrenaline was pumping anyhow and that’s probably what kept me going. The worst thing I could have done was panicked — and I didn’t. Macho man.

Once I stopped rolling and dusted myself off, then having a few choice words with the driver who hit me, I texted Ann the following: “I got hit. I’m fine. Exchanging information.” But with all the chaos happening outside our own house, she left her phone in the kitchen and didn’t get the message until much later.

Daylight was quickly fading into night.

In the midst of all of this, between police questioning and fire trucks and ambulances, I finally got a call from her to make sure I was okay. I assured her I was. Then I got one from Anthony and it was something I never want to hear again. He was absolutely hysterical but again, I was fine and I calmed him down.

My bodily damage? Minimal. I have a few spots of road rash on my left leg (DON’T EVER Google that if you’re not ready for it) and not much else. Thankfully, nothing is broken and I didn’t suffer a concussion with my head hitting the ground. The police made their report, the paramedics checked me out, and I refused to go to the hospital as I felt good enough to ride home, which is exactly what I did.

There are more details but that’s all I’m divulging. I don’t pay my insurance for nothing.

Since I started riding, I’ve always worn a video camera of some kind on my helmet. Not because I was doing stupid tricks to share on YouTube but for the one time I may need it. Plus it keeps my own self honest. And after two years of riding, I thought I was about as safe as they get: lane-splitting only at red lights, avoiding any kind of trouble, etc. I’d never had an accident; just a few close calls that were wiped clean from the memory card of my GoPro. Of course, I keep the clips of interesting things I’ve witnessed on the road.

The camera itself was an investment and a form of insurance provided anything ever happened. And so far I was certain that I’d never need any footage recorded with it.

That was until Monday night. The point of impact, me rolling several times in the street, my feet flying up in the air, my brand new Vans shoes being ruined.  It’s all on there and…well, remember what I said earlier about being in an accident? Try having yours recorded. It really makes you sit back and think.

But perhaps the most gut-wrenching feeling I had was when Anthony called me, crying like never before. There I was with flashing lights all around me trying to reassure him that everything was going to be okay. Easy for me to say.

But I’d heard that cry in the past, and it was from me in 1976 when Mom got the call that Dad had passed away at the hospital. It absolutely tore me up.

And that was it. That ride home on my scooter would be my last.

I took Tuesday off so that I could take care of business. First, I submitted my insurance claim to see if it would cover any damage to my scooter. As of this post, the other guy has yet to contact their insurance or make a claim. I get the feeling they won’t, but that’s when the GoPro footage will come in handy. My company already has a copy of it and all they have to do is send it over to the other insurance company.

Second, I cancelled the insurance on the motorcycle and it’s going to sit in the garage until I can find a buyer. Yes, I’m getting rid of it. I do, however, plan to keep the scooter only because I’m so deep into it with the credit card that was used to pay for it. I won’t get much for it anyhow, and even less now that it’s been in an accident. I don’t know the extent of any damage to the body of my scooter so I’ll have to have it checked.

Third, I went out and got myself a car. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was done riding. It’s a 2015 Nissan Versa Note and I have to admit that since Nissan pays me (although I don’t work for them directly), there’s a sense of pride being behind the wheel of their product. I already know everything about it and I just got it.

Granted the payments aren’t exactly what we negotiated but it’s a small price to pay for my own safety. There’s no doubt I’ll miss riding and all that goes with it, but when I got the scooter it was meant to be a temporary fix until we could find another solution. And it worked, until Monday night.

And I’m willing to hang it up and put all of it behind me.


Because I’m not putting my family through this kind of misery ever again.

Composed with the WordPress iOS app

40


Top: Dad with my brother at Knott’s Berry Farm, 1968. I was still in the oven.

Bottom: me at Knott’s Berry Farm in 2016 with these same ladies.

Today is the 40th anniversary of Dad’s passing. There’s only so many words that can be said, only so many photos that can be posted. But there never seems to be an end to the number of tears I can shed.

I had a hard time dealing with it this year, probably because it was such a monumental anniversary and in two more years, Dad will have been gone exactly the same time he was here: 42 years.

And every year on this date I go through a range of mixed emotions.

It’s not fair. It never was. But that’s okay. No, it really isn’t. I’m being selfish. Time to let it go and move on. So I will. But I won’t.

I hardly spoke a word at the office today and just threw myself into that endless pile of Excel files that need to be edited, cross-referenced for content, etc.  It made the day go faster and kept my mind off of things.

I goofed around with my kid outside for a little bit before the mosquitos started to bite us. Anything to keep my mind going.

And now, aside from blogging, I’m watching the Dodger game. When that’s done I’ll throw myself into something else, maybe play some Xbox one or study one of the languages I’m trying to learn.

Or maybe I’ll just go to bed.

But in any case, I’ll most likely find myself shedding at least one more tear for the man who was loved by all who knew him.

Thank you and goodnight, Dad. I miss you.

Well, This Sucks


I’ve been listening to a lot of Japanese music lately at work courtesy of J1 Radio, in particular their Gold channel which plays some really, really good oldies. No translation needed; the music alone is fantastic.

Although I have to admit that a lot of words are becoming more familiar to me, like “toki doki” (sometimes), “watashi” (I), and “kawaii” (cute). Anyway…

When I hear a song I really like, I’ve gotten into the habit of copying-and-pasting the artist and song title into an email draft and at the end of the day (or couple of days, depending on how well I can manage the list), sending it to my personal address.

From there, I’ll look them up on the YouTube and add them to a playlist. But therein lies the problem.

The issue I was having is that the songs were presented on J1 in Romaji, or the Romanization of the Japanese syllabary.

Example: searching for Mayuzumi Jun “Tenshi no Yuwaku” — my current song obsession — might only yield a few results because most users would have uploaded the video in its traditional Japanese using the combination of Hiragana, Katakana, and Kanji.

In short, this: 使の誘惑 黛ジュン

Here’s the song and oh, it’s a good one. It’s been stuck in my head for a while and the video is so freaking retro it kills me.

But here, finally, was the problem. Many searches returned absolutely nothing when using Romaji and being I’m not fluent in Japanese nor would have any clue on how to translate the title properly, there was no hope for some of the songs I wanted to find and add to my ever-expanding “Japanese Classics” playlist.

What a bummer.

But today at work I accidentally found the solution to my problem. The site has a page where you can request a song and of course with that, you’d have to know the artist and/or title. What I discovered was that they maintain an A-Z database of artists they play on the station. So if I were to request the song above, I’d look up the singer’s name under the M category. All of her songs J1 plays would be listed under her name.

So I did just that. I found her along with her name and the song title in proper Japanese characters. But being I already had it on my playlist, I opted to search for one that I couldn’t find on the YouTube using Romaji.

I picked one I know I couldn’t find with Romaji, copied the Japanese title, and searched for it on the YouTube.

BINGO. Found. Then I tried another. BOOM. Score.

This was becoming all too easy and I was happy. I added those few I had found to my playlist and couldn’t wait to go home when until I finally had some quiet time in the evening to finish up my search.

With the kid to bed at 9pm, it was time to look at those emails and apply my new-found method of searching so that I could a) finally add them and b) have a good ol’ time doing it.

I had just started to read one of the emails and began seaching, adding whichever version of the song(s) I preferred to my playlist since I was now getting multiple results for each song. I would have been there all night doing it if it were my choice.

And it was all going so well…before the site went down for maintenance and, as of this post, is still down.

(UPDATE 5/7/16: it was back this morning. Yay!)

Grrrrr. So just when things were falling into place, I get shot down. Hopefully it goes back online real soon so I can continue my searching.

At least this little unexpected outage gave me time to write and less time on Facebook which I’m trying to avoid again. Less time on Facebook has also given me time in the evening to workout and study Spanish so it’s definitely working out.

And if I keep up all this working out, I’ll have to expand my Workout Playlist. After all, who wouldn’t want to workout to “Sexual Violet No. 1”?

I know I would!

 

The Great Escape


I had originally intended to write about an incident I witnessed last night involving the neighbors that live on either side of me. Long story short, I’ve grown tired of repeatedly reporting this idiot neighbor to Animal Control for having his dog off-leash and seeing it go after other neighborhood dogs — and their owners on occasion. I figure for as big a nuisance as that dog is, if those involved in the fracases don’t bother to report this jackwipe* and his wild animal then I shouldn’t really give a damn, either.

Not my circus, not my monkeys. Deal with it or don’t. It’s no longer any of my business.

Now onto my life.

We have two cats: Monte and Steve. And they are extreme opposites.

At 15 pounds, Monte is one great big lump of orange-tabby love. He’s the friendliest and calmest cat you’ll probably ever meet or as Ann and I like to say, “He’s a lover, not a fighter.” He really is.

Steve, on the other hand, is much different. He’s very skittish and will often wildly jump in the air if he’s walking by me and I happen to twitch my foot. We think he drank too much coffee when he was a kitten.

And Monte will talk to you in little gurgly bursts while Steve will just meow and meow and meeeeeoooooooooooowww at the slightest mention of his name.

We sometimes let Monte roam the backyard because a) we know any plans of an escape are practically impossible considering his girth and b) he likes to roll around in the dirt. Steve? We’ve tried but given his uh…skittishness, the outdoor life is just not for him. Sometimes even the indoor life is scary for him.

Take, for example, the day we brought him home. Tommy, the name he was given at the shelter, was running all over the place trying to find a place to hide. Eventually he did but he was so well hidden that we came to the conclusion that he had escaped. Ann and Anthony walked up and down the street calling for The Cat Formerly Known as Tommy but didn’t get a response nor did they see him.

We eventually found him hidden not only underneath the couch but inside the bottom of it. Steve is funny that way.

In the past, Steve has made a few runs for the door and 99% of the time, we catch him. Given his personality, who knows how he would handle himself if he ever escaped into the wild.

Well, Monday night we sort of found out.

The patio screen door has a hole in it but it was a little warm that day so we left the sliding glass door open so get some air flowing through the house. We covered the hole with a piece of Anthony’s child safety gate that we normally put in front of the couch at night to keep Arliss off of it.

Monday night as I was nodding off, I heard a noise at the back door that woke me up. By the time I realized what was going on, Monte had slipped his chubby body between the gate and the screen door, and squeezed his way outside. Seeing this, I jumped into action and brought him back in the house.

After a minute of scolding him, it dawned on me: I need to see if Steve had gotten out.

No chance, I figured. He likes sleeping in the closet at night. Or on our bed, in the kitchen window, etc. He’s got his spots.

But I checked all of them and Steve wasn’t in any of them. I started to panic and woke up Ann.

We then grabbed flashlights and began to search the backyard — every corner of the backyard. We called for him and he never responded, something unusual for Steve. With that in mind, we went back in the house to check again.

Still not in any of his hangouts; still not speaking up.

Then we really started to panic. Remember, this skittish Steve. He doesn’t even like when any of us P-pop in his face (as when using a word such as pepperoni or anything else with more than one P in it. He’ll run away because it annoys him so much.

That’s why we were worried. If Steve can’t even handle something like a P-pop, there’s no way he would do well in the wild — especially considering the coyote population in our area. Yes, in southern California, even in a city with the word “beach” in its name, we have a coyote problem. They do and have eaten neighborhood cats.

Total panic mode. Ann even woke up Anthony to help us join the hunt. They went to search the backyard again while I got in the car to drive around the neighborhood and look for him.

None of us had any luck. At this point, after exhausting pretty much all we could do by 2:30 am and knowing that work/school alarm would be going off at 6 am, the only thing I could do was sob and think of what a great cat Steve was.

Even though he was tweaky, he was still our kitty. He loved having his belly scratched and batting LEGO pieces around the floor. Oh, and chewing on Anthony’s Nerf darts. Temptations cat treats were his favorite and at the sound of the crinkling bag, he’d come running. That didn’t happen Monday night.

We were nearly certain Steve was gone and there was nothing we could do. The thought of coyotes just gave me chills and I would have lost it if I had heard him put up a fight while…ugh. Just never mind. I was a mess enough as it was.

We decided to go to bed around 3 am and we were all upset. Then I saw Monte sitting at the patio door, looking outside as if he was expecting Steve to come back any minute.

I sat down next to him and pet him, quietly sobbing and looking out the door with him. My heart hurt. I got to bed at about 3:30 am.

The six o’clock alarm went off. I hadn’t gotten much sleep between then and 3:30, as if running on 2.5 hours of sleep would be healthy to begin with. As usual, Ann was up first. This was our first day without our tweaky Steve.

I was still in bed, obviously tired. I started to compose a Facebook post regarding Steve’s escape along with a picture of him curled up with Monte. It was almost a goodbye to him, considering his demeanor and lack of outdoor experience.

I then started to compose a flyer in my head that we would post around the neighborhood, then thought about when we should start looking at the shelter for him. Even though he’s chipped, I’m certain the phone numbers are not current.

But as I started to compose the somber Facebook post, I heard Ann calling me from the den quietly then progressively louder.

“Dave! It’s STEVE! IT’S STEVE! I found Steve! OMIGOD, he’s on the patio!”

I dropped everything and ran to the patio. Yes, it was Steve in Ann’s loving embrace, the hug that only he allows her to give. Anthony was excited. Ann cried. I was relieved.

Then I grabbed him and gave him a big hug as I cried. It was chilly that night but Steve was warm. The only thing we could figure was that he had gotten inside the shed in the backyard and found a nice little nook to sleep in. That, or he hopped the wall and curled up on our neighbor’s patio furniture. Steve’s good at curling up. Monte? Not so much.

But wherever Steve was hiding that night, it kept him safe from harm and that was a relief to all of us. For as little sleep we got that night, we were all so happy and excited to have good ol’ Steve back in our lives — even if he was only gone for a matter of hours.

Steve and Monte

Here’s Monte (background) keeping an eye on his brother from another mother the day of his return. Steve seems a little more reserved now, as if being in the wild sort of humbled him a bit.

Regardless, I’d rather have him back and meoooooooowwwwwing around the house than worrying if he is going to end up as coyote chow.

Welcome home, Steve. Now don’t ever do that again.

*Jackwipe: a phrase coined by a friend of ours, combining the words “jackass” and “ass-wipe.