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Chilled bones, duck boots high fashion
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12.20.2008
12.12.2008
Christmas in July
I remember this family vacation way back when...we were at the Federal Reserve in DC I think, but I could be wrong about that. Anyway, they had a million-dollar bill on display in a glass case and my father inquired about when they might be giving these denominations away. The guide or whatever he was replied "next time it snows in July". I don't know what real pertinence this has to this particular entry, but I have had a hard time getting used to seeing holiday decorations when it's 70 degrees and sunny.
Our neighbors have a red bow on their doors and a fully decorated Christmas tree right in their front window. The novelty of the constant comfortable weather out here has not worn off yet, so I still step out of the apartment every morning and feel a sense of disorientation due to the climate. I look at my watch to remind myself that it is indeed the middle of fucking December, and then I shake my head and kind of roll my eyes. It's become my customary reaction. Coupling this disorientation associated with the weather and the festiveness of the neighborhood sometimes sends me into some kind of confused-yet-elated tailspin.
I was driving over to Santa Monica the other day and I passed a Christmas tree lot in a parking lot. Ok, that's fine. Then I saw some dude hoisting a tree up onto his Jeep, in shorts and a tee. I just can't get used to that type of shit, man. For me, it doesn't seem right and all I can think of are those Corona commercials that come out around this time of year. You know the ones with the palm tree all lit up? I think it even says 'Feliz Navidad', which I think loosely translates to "Felix Navy Dad". I know that all of this confusion over what's really a holiday season and why in the sam hell I am still wearing my flip-flops in December is merely a consequence of living in New England for the last 28.5 years. Sadly, I won't realize the tepidness of an LA Christmas, since I will rerouted back to Boston for the next few weeks. I guess I'll have to wait until next year to be one-hundred percent positive that it won't be a white Christmas.
Our neighbors have a red bow on their doors and a fully decorated Christmas tree right in their front window. The novelty of the constant comfortable weather out here has not worn off yet, so I still step out of the apartment every morning and feel a sense of disorientation due to the climate. I look at my watch to remind myself that it is indeed the middle of fucking December, and then I shake my head and kind of roll my eyes. It's become my customary reaction. Coupling this disorientation associated with the weather and the festiveness of the neighborhood sometimes sends me into some kind of confused-yet-elated tailspin.
I was driving over to Santa Monica the other day and I passed a Christmas tree lot in a parking lot. Ok, that's fine. Then I saw some dude hoisting a tree up onto his Jeep, in shorts and a tee. I just can't get used to that type of shit, man. For me, it doesn't seem right and all I can think of are those Corona commercials that come out around this time of year. You know the ones with the palm tree all lit up? I think it even says 'Feliz Navidad', which I think loosely translates to "Felix Navy Dad". I know that all of this confusion over what's really a holiday season and why in the sam hell I am still wearing my flip-flops in December is merely a consequence of living in New England for the last 28.5 years. Sadly, I won't realize the tepidness of an LA Christmas, since I will rerouted back to Boston for the next few weeks. I guess I'll have to wait until next year to be one-hundred percent positive that it won't be a white Christmas.
12.10.2008
Life With Colin
I've once again relocated...this time within the state of California, down the road apiece from the formerness of the Palisades. My attempt with this particular blog is to keep the reader (you) abreast of my daily life as opposed to my cranial malfunctions as discussed in It's All French
To Me. Don't get me wrong, I've certainly been having my share of maladies and criminal thoughts alike but my capacity for getting in down on paper has been falling short.
So here I sit within the expanse of Los Angeles, specifically in the Venice Beach locale. I'm 1.5 miles from the boardwalk of Venice and all of its mischievious offerings...gay rollerbladers, roided musclemen and sidewalk performers with a penchant for the peculiar.
I have a roommate...he's an interesting fellow to say the least. As the title mentions, his name is Colin and he wears scarves in 65 degree weather. If you've been keeping up avec moi, you know this already. Scattered about our humble pad are pieces of art contributed by his dad, Steve. Steve works with wax, thus he's a huge proponent of the Karate Kid, Part I. I happen to glean some sort of inspiration from this art because he employs lots of birds...crows most typically from what I've seen. In my opinion, the crow is inexcusably underappreciated by mankind. It caws, for fuck's sake. Hasn't anyone read the Deep Thought by Jack Handey that goes "the bird is calling my name, thought Caw."? Incredible work there. By the way, what is the difference between a crow and a raven? Is there any?
So Colin is from Southern California...San Diego specifically. He says things like "gotta check out the gnarly surf today, bro. I hear Huntington has totally glassy shit, clean as fuck. Gnarbucklers, bro. Rad shit." I come back with something like, "Yeah, sounds uh, sounds good, man. I gotta see if I can find a bar with the C's game, so you enjoy your gnar...gnarbingers or whatever." His colloquialisms might cause me to spiral into a rash of Bostonianisms such as wicked, or pissah. I fear this...I think we all do.
Vcnice is a cool place, though. I've been in and around some of the little neighborhoods here via my jogging feet and it seems to me that it's predominantly rentals. We live almost directly behind Venice High, which scares me when I jog by it. Something about a derelict gang of high schoolers on skateboards chiding and yelling things about my black tube socks...I'm sure they're all nice kids, though. I'm just sure of it.
Much more to come of the intricacies of living in this portion of Los Angeles...I am reminded daily of how fucking big this city is. I do miss the ability to trapse across the entire expanse of a city in less than 2 hours. Here, you're looking at a minimum of maybe 20 hours and chances are you're going to be murdered at some point along the way. Bad neighborhoods and all...they got those here too...lots of them.
A bientot, mes amis.
To Me. Don't get me wrong, I've certainly been having my share of maladies and criminal thoughts alike but my capacity for getting in down on paper has been falling short.
So here I sit within the expanse of Los Angeles, specifically in the Venice Beach locale. I'm 1.5 miles from the boardwalk of Venice and all of its mischievious offerings...gay rollerbladers, roided musclemen and sidewalk performers with a penchant for the peculiar.
I have a roommate...he's an interesting fellow to say the least. As the title mentions, his name is Colin and he wears scarves in 65 degree weather. If you've been keeping up avec moi, you know this already. Scattered about our humble pad are pieces of art contributed by his dad, Steve. Steve works with wax, thus he's a huge proponent of the Karate Kid, Part I. I happen to glean some sort of inspiration from this art because he employs lots of birds...crows most typically from what I've seen. In my opinion, the crow is inexcusably underappreciated by mankind. It caws, for fuck's sake. Hasn't anyone read the Deep Thought by Jack Handey that goes "the bird is calling my name, thought Caw."? Incredible work there. By the way, what is the difference between a crow and a raven? Is there any?
So Colin is from Southern California...San Diego specifically. He says things like "gotta check out the gnarly surf today, bro. I hear Huntington has totally glassy shit, clean as fuck. Gnarbucklers, bro. Rad shit." I come back with something like, "Yeah, sounds uh, sounds good, man. I gotta see if I can find a bar with the C's game, so you enjoy your gnar...gnarbingers or whatever." His colloquialisms might cause me to spiral into a rash of Bostonianisms such as wicked, or pissah. I fear this...I think we all do.
Vcnice is a cool place, though. I've been in and around some of the little neighborhoods here via my jogging feet and it seems to me that it's predominantly rentals. We live almost directly behind Venice High, which scares me when I jog by it. Something about a derelict gang of high schoolers on skateboards chiding and yelling things about my black tube socks...I'm sure they're all nice kids, though. I'm just sure of it.
Much more to come of the intricacies of living in this portion of Los Angeles...I am reminded daily of how fucking big this city is. I do miss the ability to trapse across the entire expanse of a city in less than 2 hours. Here, you're looking at a minimum of maybe 20 hours and chances are you're going to be murdered at some point along the way. Bad neighborhoods and all...they got those here too...lots of them.
A bientot, mes amis.
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