Offend it Like Beckham

I know, I'm stretching the limits of acceptable wordplay with that title. Anyway, recently, L.A. has seen the culmination of the much ballyhooed "arrival" of David Beckham, here to ignite U.S. soccer on fire, and his wife Posh. For I guess the last two months, we here in L.A. have been besieged by propaganda for this new royalty. Make no mistake, they qualify as A+ list celebs. But I am a sports fan, and I care INFINITELY more about that angle of the story.

I've never been a soccer fan. I enjoy the world cup for 1 month every 4 years. That is my threshold. For one month I can get behind the fiery passion that is the World Cup. I was riveted in '06 when Zidane made like Moe from the Three Stooges and cold head-butted that Italian flopper who'd insulted his sister. I see the occasional insane soccer highlight on ESPN, where I'm like, "Wow, that was great!" and my soccer itch is scratched. I have to say, as if I weren't leery enough at the prospect, when I heard an excited European sports reporter talk about, "Wellllll, he's not so much of a goal scorer. But he IS great with the crossing pass!" That's like saying, "this guy can't dunk, but he sets a great pick! We think he can make basketball popular in America."

But far be it from me not to give something a chance. So a few weeks ago, Bubba and I strap in, along with Eva, Katie, Jennifer Love, Will, Jada, etc. to see soccer's messiah against some European squad. And we waited...and waited...and waited....Seems the savior's ankle is a tad gimpy. So gimpy that he STILL hasn't played, and it's been three or four games now. Well, it's not like they're paying him $250 million dollars or anything. Oh wait. They are.

LT once played one of his best games ever with his left arm broken and limp. MJ dropped 38 in the NBA finals with a temperature of like 102. Ronnie Lott cut off the tip of his pinky mid-game, rather than miss any time. Becks gets a bunion, and he's gotta sit out one or four or five.

Sad thing is, I don't even dislike him. He seems like a well enough bloke. Amiable. Gracious. Still, my sensibilities are offended, hence the bad pun title. For two-fitty, you gots to make in on the field, homes.

(editor's note: I wrote this a week ago, thought I hit "publish," but hadn't, hence the semi-datedness of the subject matter. This week, all deficiencies will be redeemed, with the greatest Orville story ever told.)

Sky's the Limit

So, even though we've been here for what, 7-8 months now, Bubba and I have not painted the town red particularly thus far. Combination of the move, getting settled, and my overall squareness have kind of precluded it. On Sunday though, Bubba was feeling spontaneous. For my male, single friends, what that means is, when your wife is feeling "spontaneous," by definition, YOU are now feeling spontaneous and have to oblige said spontaneity.

We had a little Mexican food (one of the few cuisines where Cali seems to have an advantage over the east), and decided to put our glad rags on and hit the town. Problem was, it was Sunday night, so Hollywood was relatively dead. I called my boy Z from the road, seeing as how he is literally our resident expert. He suggested the Sky Bar, a swanky but hip watering hole on Sunset Blvd.

We valet park the car (an unavoidable reality) and make our way to the place. The Sky Bar is located within the Mondrian Hotel, smack dab in the middle of the strip. Like, I can't swear to it, but I'd say with confidence that the boys from "Entourage" cruise by it in the quick-cut opening credit sequence. We walk through the hotel lobby, out towards the back. Dressed up more than a usual lazy Sunday, but not quite to the nines, we were a TAD leery of getting velvet roped, but we mustered up the courage to forge ahead.

We finally, get to the bar, and I have to say, visually, it was spectacular. What you have is, essentially a really large deck, and glorious swimming pool. The pool was illuminated, and filled to the brim, but because the wind was still, it was pristenely flat. It looked like it was straight out of a Calvin Klein Obsession ad, and like it hadn't actually been swum in since its inception. Like, to swim in it would be beyond uncool. Surrounding the pool were upscale benches and chairs. Meanwhile, the bar itself was upstairs, but still essentially outdoors.

Then you have the view. Located about halfway up the hills, basically overlooking the whole of Los Angeles. For the unintiated, when you're in the hills, Los Angeles is COMPLETELY unobstructed. No skyscrapers blocking the view. No trees. No light pollution. So now we're there, under a cloudless blue sky that almost matched the pool water, a smattering of stars dotting the sky, and the city of angels twinkling below. Not too shabby.

As anticipated, it being a Sunday, the crowd was modest, which was fine by us. Still, within the population were more than enough observable characters to tickle my fancy. Bubba and I looked for a spot to set up base camp, only to see every table posting a "reserved" placard. We managed to flag down one of the waitresses scuttling by, and were able to gleen that we could sit anywhere we wanted to, with the proviso that should said reserved party actually show up, we'd promptly get the boot. Fair enough I guess. So we sat down at a bench in the middle of the pool.

In the half hour we sat between placing our order and waiting for its delivery, we made like Woody Allen and Mia Farrow in "Manhattan," and sized up each party of people, assigning them a life story. First, there was drunk girl. Sitting alone, she somehow managed to attempt to give herself a lapdance, if that makes sense. From there, seeing a more primo location open up, she stumbled across the deck and promptly tripped over a table. While she waited for her girlfriend who was awol in the bathroom, concerned persons helped her back up to her perch. While she should've been completely embarassed, she seemed oblivious, smiling while the entirety of the rest of the bar laughed at her, not with her.

Then there was my favorite. There was this fat walrus of a man, sitting in the corner with a couple of hangers on by his side. I haven't the foggiest idea who he actually was, but he had the air of some type of Hollywood big shot, on the prowl for the latest in a long string of patsies duped onto his casting couch with the faux promise of stardom. This guy was as alluring as Fat Bastard, but in this town, if you got the Motts, the girls can be gotten, no sweat. And believe me, the VAST majority of this crowd would fall into this vulnerable pool. All kinds of 20-something "starlets," bopping around in their summer hoochie wear. All of them trying to be seen, but trying not to look like they're trying to be seen at the same time. I'm also convinced that half the men in this town are genuine nobody's, but they try to LOOK like they're somebody. They lease high priced cars, get a bitchin' pair of shades, and speak of taking meetings with so and so next week.

So up 'til now, this was more entertaining for us observationally, rather than genuinely. But then, the "beds" opened up. I have to concede, this was dope. They had several really large flatbeds, covered in pillows, around the pool. Like, totally big enough for whomever the flavor of the month rapper is, AND his whole posse. They can ALL kick it on one of these. So Bubba and I got a spot, and the night got a whole lot better. Now, were sipping a cocktail, in full cushinoned sprawl, under that deep blue sky. I need one of these in my house. It was enough to make me forget that we were paying $14 for drinks.

A mix of r&b and hip-hop was playing all night long. Bubba started feeling the groove, and was fixing to dance. This not being a dance club per se, presented a slight obstacle. Undaunted, we decided to buck the system, and dance anyway, hoping to inspire the masses. The masses were not inspired, save for two other ladies close by. After a few futile songs, we bagged it and made small talk with the ladies. One was an actress. One was a producer. Surprise, surprise.

It being a school night and my being an overly responsible adult and all, we called it a night around 11 or so. A fine time for sure, but definitely not our scene. Still, as with everything as far as I'm concerned, it's yet another hilarious slice of life, and life in its entiretyIS my scene.

Glasnost in Lil' Minsk

Well, my commentary on my handy abilities did not turn out to be the hornets nest of controversy I'd anticipated, as the lack of comments would indicate. I thought my ability or non-ability with be a lightening rod, along the lines of Roe v.Wade, but I was wrong.

Anyway, to review, Bubba and I are stationed in West Hollywood. West Hollywood, for those that don't know, has a reputation for being exceptionally, er, "festive." (For a point of reference for "festive," see Chelsea, NYC). That said, we live in what you might call EAST West Hollywood, or "Little Minsk" as I call it. My buddy and I were discussing this just the other day actually, and we determined that from La Cienega west, is the line of demarcation between "festive" and "non." At the risk of completely reinforcing stereotypes, I'd say it's almost perfect that east West Hollywood where I live is an old Russian neighborhood, for few folks are as contrastingly non-festive as old-school Russians.

Truth be told, I find the Russian expatriates fascinating to observe. I've had not a lick of trouble with any of them, and they seem like pretty nice folks. There's a lot of little, Russian versions of Satriale's style shops in the neighborhood. Deli's, book stores, liquor stores, nail salons, etc., but all really small scale. No chain stores. No "McIvan's" or anything like that. Just real, authentic Russians, selling real, authentic Russian wares.

So a few weeks ago, we were out and about, and realized we were out of "slops" (our code word for snacks for Orville), and I saw out of the corner of my eye, some cherry tomatoes in a box on the sidewalk at the Russian Deli on our corner. I go inside, and there's all this hard looking produce and whatnot. Like, at the Whole Foods, you'd see, I don't know, pomegrantates and kiwis. Here, you see like only root vegetables. Beets, Cabbage. Carrots. But beyond that, there were these insane looking Russian candies. Then there were all kinds of starchy, prepared dishes in the fridge. Then there were all kinds of fatty meats and cheeses for sale. Just like, everything in there was stuff you get when you're gearing up for that long Siberian winter or something.

Anyway, I get my lil' bag of 'matoes for the Big-O, as well as a head of cabbage, and I make my way towards the counter. When I'd first moved here, I'd noted the phenomenon of laid back "California Time." This, as opposed to say, "New York Time," "CPT," and a few others I've observed over the years. Well, now I can add "Russian Immigrant Californian Time." This was a new level of slow. Like, this was born out of a lifetime of people living genuinely hard existances who decided long ago, "You know what, take your sweet time because I'm in ZERO hurry to get back to my dreary life. In fact, I'd appreciate it if you slowed down even." Even here and now on the sunny shores of California, it's a hard habit to break.

I must say, the Russians in my neighborhood LOVE Orville. Genuinely. A surprisingly large number of them have commented on how seeing Orville reminds them of the pig they had, or the farm they grew up on. I'm happy he can be such a catalyst for nostalgia, just so long as they're not looking at him like he's a ham steak.

(Editor's note: To the People Magazine faction of readers of mine, I had my first celebrity sighting in some time the other day: George Wendt, aka "Norm Peterson." Exciting for me, but not exactly Brangelina, hence the lack of coverage.)

The Handy Man Can

I've intended this blog to obstensibly be about my New York to L.A. transition. Today's offering only semi fits the bill, but it's something I'd like to address. Namely, the misconception regarding my "handiness," or lack thereof. This covers my whole life really, beginning with my family, and currently being the position held by my wife Bubba. I feel I can get away with this here because the move has entailed my taking on an abundance of "handywork."

While I'll never be mistaken for Bob Villa, in my estimation, I've been as handy as I've needed to be. Living pretty much either as a child or a tenant most of my life, not as a homeowner per se, my large scale opportunities have been limited. I've never owned a place that required my, say, putting in a deck or something. That said, more than ever in my new California digs, though still a tenant, there've been many opportunites to strut my handy stuff. And by my count, I'm batting 1.000.

Since I've been here, I've installed locks on our kitchen, (to lock in the Big-O), installed a lock on our Spanish window, installed a toilet seat, unclogged drains, fixed the stove, assembled a deceptively hard faux palm X-mas tree, assembled a deciptively involved oscilating fan, and a bunch of other little stuff requiring a power drill, screwdrivers, pliers, box-cutters, and plungers. This, of course, is on top of all of the unpacking, storing and setting up of shop for all our stuff.

On top of this, I am technically handy as well. I've set up the t.v., dvd, vcr, x-box, stereo, and computer. I've upgraded software. Not to mention, I very quickly became quite adept on my new digital 24-track recorder. I've been making pretty involved, "full-band" recordings, burning cd's, and sending electronic files around the country. Hell, I'm currently "recording" a song with my friend Dimitri back in New York. I recorded the music, and now he's doing the vocals. Learned all this by myself folks.

None of this is insanely difficult. Lots of it was not easy either. My point is, I've never understood where this perception came from. Never have I set out to build/assemble/create something only to have it implode or something. I've simply handled whatever tasks have come my way. I've always maintained that most things are designed to be able to be done by people a lot dimmer than me. My father may not have taught me the nuances of how to say, use a power sander, but he DID teach me how to follow instructions.

Hope this puts this myth to rest. I'll be accepting projects the next time I come back east.

The Notorious P.I.G.

One of my astute, esteemed colleagues, the "Felz" of felzball.blogspot.com, pointed out to me the irony of one of my recent posts. No sooner did I proclaim that I'm a one man opining machine, then I go on a two-week hiatus from posting. Life, and sore hands, get in the way of my bestowing my wisdom on the world sometimes. That said, I will do my best to get back on the beam.

Anyhoo, given that Bubba and I are the only ones I know of with a pot-bellied pig in their domicile, I offer today the latest update on our fine family addition. What have we learned after 5 months with Piggie Smalls? Well, first of all, despite popular opinion, they are remarkably clean creatures, all things considered. There is no discernable odor to them, save for after the occasional roll-around in the ol' litter box. He's odorless, if anything. Bubba would even go so far as to say he "smells like a rose," though that may be a stretch.

Then we have the snout. The snout to Orville, is like our opposable thumbs. It's everything to him. He roots with it. Burrows with it. And of course, smells with it. Remarkably though, it's amazingly ineffective as a scouting tool. We throw the occasional scrap, peanut, whatever, right in front of his face. Instantly, he starts zooming around like a Hoover vac, but to no avail. Only when he happens upon the morsel does he find it, completely independent of his nose.

We've also learned that pigs are quite timid. The Big-O is a flat out fraidy cat. Scared of everything. He's a loving creature, but just a big wuss. The cat laughs at him. When not eating, alls he wants to do is be ensconsed, like in a womb. He'll sit on your lap, bury his snout in any nook he can find, preferably on one's person. Get up to go to the bathroom and it's pig armageddon, for fear of losing that security. Worse yet, because he's got no claws or any other discernable weapons of defense, all he has is his squealing. Just a God-awful, high pitched squeal. It works though, I guess.

Lastly, we've learned that pigs, much like dogs, LOVE to be belly rubbed. He'll often stand at the foot of the catch, completely stoic, waiting for an invitation. Two rubs in just the right spot on his belly with my toes, and he falls like the Roman Empire. And then, my friends, we get to witness "pig bliss." He gets this bizarre look on his face, and you actually see a pig smile. He'll sit there contentedly for as long as you'll rub him.

Just like anyone, he's a genuine character. Full of great qualities, faults, annoyances, and love. The Big-O has made himself a part of our family.