So many people in the neighborhood

I don't know if they're very good people.

A couple nights ago, I went for an evening walk around the block only to be halted by police tape and the news that someone was shot in the face outside our local convenience store. All the hipsters came down from their lofts to gawk. What happened? Can anyone see anything? Are you still guest DJing at the bike shop tonight? Last I heard, it was gang related. I don't know if I should find comfort in that. I imagine gangbangers (white-kid language for people who have those long shorts/short pants) don't shoot so well, holding their gats like they do. I often find myself uncomfortably close to stray bullets.

Like the first time I hung out in Echo Park. I was FEET away from a drive-by. Again, another gang shooting. The guy got shot in the ass, and the victim did a good job of moaning, and writhing, and taking off his pants to gain a moderate following. What happened? Did anyone see who did it? Is that bullet in his ass? Who's the guest DJ tonight?

So only two bullet stories and they both take place less than a mile from each other and very close to our new home. Fortunately, we live on the top of a hill--just steep enough for only the most determined can collectors to find aluminum/plastic gold in our bins. Surely, bullets can't make it THIS far. It's hard to shoot UP, right? That's why tall people are never murdered. Never.

Spider's last stand

I feel like recently, the spider in my mailbox has taken over every part of my life--from this blog to my Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons. Rest assured, this will be the last spider entry. Why? Because that spider is DEAD. But not without a fight.

There's not much of a story here. Everything played out like I feared it would. K fetched the mail, brought it back to the patio, and held it while she talked to my parents who were visiting for the weekend. I hear my dad shout "Stop!" Dad swiped the mail and crushed the spider that had finally calculated her attack by attaching herself to a catalog for a community college.

Whew.

With any luck, that millipede I saw crawl into the house this morning wasn't best friends with that spider. Just in case, I'd better plug up my ears when I sleep...

Pain in the rump

I read today that in the last year, over 200,000 children were SPANKED in American public schools. Spanked by teachers! In other words, in lieu of detention or other less-violent torture, the PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM allows ADULT TEACHERS to SLAP the ASS of a CHILD! Am I the only Coastal liberal in America who thought we lived in an age of childhood due process? Checks and balances in the classroom? No red-butt retribution? Seriously, were any of you paddled in public school? By your teacher? Was it awkward? Look at all these question marks!

Call me oblivious or ignorant, but how does a paddling actually work? Let's take an example from, oh I don't know, when I was in 7th grade: while riding alone in a seat on the bus, I took a key from my pocket, jabbed it into the seat, and tore the whole cover off. Well, most of it, before the people who were sitting IN the seat stopped me. Anywho... I ended up in the principal's office, and he gave me three days of ISS ("in-school suspension" for the more namby-pamby teachers' pets out there). Are you telling me that instead of serving three days in solitary, I could have been spanked instead? Would Mr. Priest (don't forget to note the irony) have instructed me to drop trou' while he delivered mighty punishment upon my rear? Is he certified to do that? Would it happen in his office, or would he make some kind of 18th-Century French public display of me in the cafeteria? Is there a spanking permanent record? How many spanks are too many spanks for college recruiters? And how many is enough for seminary school? (hey-o!)

After the seat-cover incident, I never got in trouble again. I never had to be punished corporally. And frankly, I never even needed ISS. All I needed was for my parents to say they were very disappointed in me. Heaven forbid THEY spanked me. My dad has leathery, gnarled hands with pointy knuckles.

The caveat to this is, of course, that I don't have any children. And that reminds me of something the wise and sage-like comedian Louie C.K. says: when he sees a kid being scolded or manhandled in public by their parents, he doesn't step in. The kid probably DESERVES it. And why? Because kids are asses.

That doesn't mean teachers can slap those asses.

Give thanks, not spanks.

Spider update

The family of spiders must have had an argument over dinner last night, because Mama Spider made dinner out of her spider family.

Every day, she gets stronger...

Spider goes postal

If spiders have families, one exists in my mailbox. This puts me in an uncomfortable position because not only do I have a jittery case of arachnophobia, but I am also a Mail-o-phile. I really love mail. If there was a sliding scale to measure my adoration, I'd be up with the 80-year-old widows with Country Home Living subscriptions. I'm like a Labrador: when I think I hear the mailman, I will press my snout against the window. (HE should be the one who's embarrassed. At least I'm not wearing short shorts and long socks.) There's a little formula I've come up with, which unfortunately confirms that it's only going to get worse.

Spiders in mailbox = Time/Love of mail

Which means that the longer I wait, the more spiders there will be. And the more I let my love drop, the more spiders there will be. Granted, I think my units are all off (if anyone has a formula to convert spiders into time, lemme know), but spiders aren't good at math either so I think it's a wash.

As you can imagine, absolutely nothing can be done about this. The spiders are deep inside the box, so I can't just reach in and try to squish them. That's what they'd WANT me to do. I can't get a new mailbox because the guy with the short shorts and long socks will know that I'm weak and steal all my detergent samples because he'll know I crumble like a cookie.

Maybe I'll get some tongs.

What I know

• Monogamy (Some say TOO well)
  
• World War II (history and video games)
• Antarctica
• How to get around in Los Angeles, Seattle, DC, and Disneyland
• Most punctuation (Some say TOO well)
  
• Television field production
• Comedy writing (theoretically)
• How to get along with children, ages 18 months to 11 years
• They Might Be Giants lyrics, from self-titled to Factory Showroom
• How to annoy Karen/how to bring cats into any conversation
• Baseball cards (c. 1987-93) and their Beckett value (in 1993)
• Electricity
• Planets
• Simpsons & Star Wars quotes
• Fretting/guilt
• Multi-tasking
• Ant genocide
• Weightlifting
  
• Drinking/guilt drinking

Am I forgetting anything?

I'm gonna start going to night school.

Sometimes I don't work

This afternoon I made the most of my expensive DirecTV subscription by actually watching DirecTV. The yard, as many of you know, has taken the premiere spot on my list of entertaining things. I couldn't have picked a better time to put down the shears.


Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo was on Showtime. If you're not familiar with this groundbreaking film, it's because it's terrible and it should NOT be on television.

Headband-clad street kid: Hey, look who's here! It's Kelly!
13-year old girl with one glove: Special Kelly!
13-year old boy with the other glove on: Special K!
Glove girl: Hey, Special K, look what Ozone taught us.
(She does the worm.)
Disembodied voices: All right, Kelly's back! All right! Hey, that's fresh.
(Kelly turns to Ozone.)
Kelly: So, you're teaching class?
Ozone: Yeah, I'm teaching class now.

(Everyone breaks into a hip-hop dance sequence though "The Avenue" that lasts 8 minutes and ends with some mime tour guide.)

No one wears a bra in this movie, and it's disgusting. All the men wear mid-drifts. There's more dancing than dialog! Everything's so jiggly...

The most thought-provoking part of this film isn't the race-relations/dancing undertones. I only had to get through the opening credits to have my mind blown. Menahem Golan produced this movie. Take a look at his CV. He's essentially the man behind EVERY BAD MOVIE IN THE 1980s, including my favorite "The Apple." Oh I wish...I wish...I wish...

James Lipton: The year: 1988. A young, flexible martial artist was not yet an international icon. But Menahem Golan saw something in Jean-Claude Van Damme, and cast the fit Frenchman in a little movie called...Bloodsport.

(some spattering of applause; mostly by Chuck Norris and guest.)

Menahem: You know when you just see a cross-eyed guy headlining a karate expo at the Staples Center and you think, "That guy's gotta be in pictures?"

James Lipton: Genius.

Is it sad that I immediately recognized Menahem Golan's name? No sadder than the fact that I'm addicted to weed-pulling. That reminds me...