floorpie

For a guy who doesn’t work in construction or woodworking, I seem to do a lot of it. I don’t know if it has something to do with being mechanically inclined, or if it’s bred in my DNA somehow; but, one day I was a young kid reading comic books, and the next I turned around and was building a dresser.

It seems like every weekend for the past year or so I’ve also been working on someone’s house, primarily Andy’s. Most recently, it’s been completely ripping out, and completely installing a new kitchen, with all new cabinetry, and a huge 6’x4′ pass-thru into the living room. Before that, it was a cinder block retaining wall, a rejuvenation of the backyard awning, and the first kitchen remodel. Then, there was the other wall at Chris’, and the molding, toilet, dishwasher, and flooring at Raj’s.

Why do I know how to do all of this? I don’t know.

At any rate, because of all of this work, I have a fairly good idea of how long it should take to repair a small kitchen in a small apartment; and brother, the guys working on my place are taking way too long.

My friends keep asking me for updates, and I keep having to hem and haw, not really having anything significant to tell them. “Uh… they put one coat of primer on the living room this week.” What I don’t understand is why the management company isn’t pushing on the contracters harder. For the time I’ve been out, they haven’t been collecting rent, and, as near as I can tell, they don’t intend to do so while I’m in this loaner place, either. So, in effect, I’m tying up two prime spots in the heart of Marina del Rey… for free!

I’m sorely tempted to start going in my old place at night, and doing work like some kind of magical shoe-elf… only one who specializes in drywall.

I be illin’

(One) day when I was chillin' in Kentucky Fried Chicken
Just mindin' my business, eatin' food and finger lickin'
This dude walked in lookin' strange and kind of funny
Went up to the front with a menu and his money
He didn't walk straight, kind of side to side
He asked this old lady, "Yo, yo, um...is this Kentucky Fried?"
The lady said "Yeah", smiled and he smiled back
He gave a quarter and his order, small fries, Big Mac!

You be illin'

(To)day you won a ticket to see Doctor J
Front row seat (in free!) no pay
Radio in hand, snacks by feet
Game's about to start, you kickin' popcorn to the beat
You finally wake up, Doc's gone to town
Round his back, through the hoop, then you scream "Touchdown!"
You be illin'

The other day around the way I seen you illin' at a party
Drunk as skunk you illin' punk and in your left hand was Bacardi
You went up to this fly girl and said "Yo, yo, can I get this dance?"
She smelt your breath and then she left you standin' in your illin' stance
You be illin'

(For) dinner, you ate it, there is none left
It was salty, with butter and it was def
You proceeded to eat it cos you was in the mood
But holmes you did not read it was a can of dog food!
You be illin'

Pride is a mortal sin, or a deadly sin, or a whatever sin, right? A few seconds pass… Ah, the answer is yes.

Well, I have that. The problem, though, is that it’s not for anything good like thinking I’m extremely good looking, overabundantly intelligent, or amazingly skilled. (Some friends reading this are laughing out-loud as they probably think I’m an arrogant [yet lovable] jerk. If only you all knew of the crippling self-doubt under the thin fascia of confidence).

But I digress.

I am prideful over something lame: spelling.

I’ve always been a fairly competent speller. I never won (nor entered) any spelling contests or anything, but I was always a big fan of creative writing assignments, and English was my best subject (which is why I chose to become an engineer, see? Because there’s so much literature-related coursework in mechanical engineering). I don’t think I’ve ever purposefully flaunted my spelling as an asset, but I’ve always been quietly prideful over it.

Alas, as the years between school and real life widen, and as technology becomes ever more ubiquitous in my life, my ability to spell correctly has been steadily decreasing. I used to… well in fact still do… say that “spell-check” is really just a typing check, not a spelling one. Nine times out of ten, your fingers will flub and you’ll leave out aspace or put a “t” ont he wrong word. This has nothing to do with spelling… right?

Let’s be honest with ourselves, though (this is where I start talking to myself): you’re really not sure about a lot of the words you type anymore, are you? They’re still a part of your vocabulary, you haven’t lost their usage, but does “conciliatory” have one L or two? (note: as proof, I typed it with two, looked it up, and am now trying to pass it off like I spelled it right the first time).

And this brings me to my PRIDE issue: If you have Firefox (and if you don’t, what, really, is wrong with you?) you are by now familiar with the little box on the right hand side that can be used for instant Google searches, ebay searches, and, in fact, dictionary searches. And, when I’m forced to look up a word I think I should know how to spell but then don’t (like conciliatory), I am so prideful that I then delete the word out of the search box, and switch it back to Google… just in case someone should come up behind me, see the word over my shoulder, and embarrass me horribly with, “You mean you don’t know how to spell ‘Thesaurus’? What are you, an idiot?!”

And yes, I still do that despite the fact that I am sitting alone in an empty temporary apartment, the address of which my friends don’t even know, yet.

I just… but… wha? How can… that’s terri… buh?

BEIJING (Reuters) – Migrant workers in south China are wearing adult diapers on packed trains heading home for the Lunar New Year holiday because they have no access to a toilet, state media said Tuesday.

I will never complain about crowded air travel again.

MVP! MVP! MVP!

I have been a Lakers fan for a long time, my friends. I’m not a fair-weather fan, and I didn’t jump on any bandwagons. I’ve been a fan from before there was a Staples Center, from before there was Great Western Forum, even. I am a veteran of the venerable Fabulous Forum of the Showtime Lakers from back in the day. Magic, Kareem, Rambis, Coop, and Worthy were all over my walls.

Having said that, nothing was like tonight’s game. Kobe Bryant scores 81 points, becoming the number two guy in history for most points in a game…surpassed only by Wilt Chamberlain who scored 100 points in a game some 40-odd years ago. A feat, by the way, that many attribute to the fact that he was a dominating 7’1″ in a league without any other seven footers. He could literally collect an incoming pass out of the reach of the oppossing players, and then just drop it in.

Last night Kobe was unstoppable. He was single covered, double-teamed, triple-teamed… it didn’t matter. And, the funny thing is, he wasn’t a ball-hog, a complaint I’ve made several times when he was obviously trying too hard to be the hero. Last night, though, it was just happenning for him, and it was beautiful.

Imagine, 18,000+ fans chanting “MVP! MVP MVP!” every time you touch the ball. 18,000+ people cheering for you… it must have been incredible.

And I was there.

[Editor's Note] Is it funny to me that the image above is blocked as "general pornography" by my work's server filters? Yes it is. For those of you that also can't see it, it's the view of the court from my amazing seats (thank you networking hook-ups)

Living with little more than a bed and a few clothes puts materialism in a unique persepctive. Actually, saying “little more than a bed…” is a bit of compositional allegory, there really is little more than a bed in here. In fact, I can list pretty much everything without having to think too hard:

Possessions
.: bed (and associated bedding)
.: an Eames rocker
.:half of my clothes
.: this laptop
.: 3 books, 2 magazines, and a stack of mail
.: a basketball
.: essential toiletries
.: essential bathroom stuff (shower curtain, soap, towels, and the like)
.: 6 plates, 12 glasses, one small frying pan

fin

And that’s what I’ve been using to keep up my identity for the last couple of weeks, with at least another two into the future before my original place is repaired.

People live daily with much less. I know this. It still feels like I’m surviving at least mild hardships, though. I’ve also learned, to my great surprise, that I don’t fall to pieces in the face of really just a lot of crap hitting a lot of fans. Good to know that I can keep my head, I suppose.

One thing about living at such a low capacity: everything feels like it’s on hold. Granted, I’m going out more often than I normally would… probably because I don’t have much at home to hold my attention, but the bigger things seem like they’re frozen in place until I get everything back to normal. I can’t go on any extended vacations, for instance (not that I was planning to).

>Also, the whole dance of seduction becomes that much more difficult. At least in a normal situation you can bring someone over with at least the pretense of watching a movie or something. Right now, guests are greeted with a dark cavern of a living room, our voices and steps echoing off the bare hardwood. You quickly transition to the only pool of light available, shining from my bedroom. Once there, you get to decide between standing awkwardly, sitting in an admittedly uncomfortable but beautiful chair, or crashing on the bed. It’s just a bit too on point, you know?

I’m making it work, though.

It’s funny. I get periodic search reports for my website detailing what, if anything, people have searched for on my site. This is the same way that I know that people are still coming looking for Japan, see-thru skirts (welcome, new searchers!). That is so (and literally) three years ago!

At any rate, every now and again I get searches from people from high school. I know that they’re from high school for one simple reason. They search for Kate Bartells.

Kate, for me, was The One. She was (and is from the last recent picture she sent me) a stunningly beautiful girl, wicked smart, funny, engaging, etc. Everything I ever wanted in a woman but couldn’t have… or at least couldn’t figure out how to have. She was a cheerleader that was also in the band, and in the honor’s classes, and in student government. She was the Homecoming Queen (I think?). She dated the quarterback. She was that girl and everyone loved her. Those who didn’t were truly just jealous, because a sweeter person did not exist.

Anyway, she was apparently all of this to other people as well, as I only can assume that these searchers found my site through Googling Kate, and then searching through me.

And they’re always guys.

How do I know that you wonder? Because after searching for Kate, they always search for themselves… and no, buddy, I didn’t write about you.

I wonder if blind people are as vain about the way they smell as sighted people are about the way they look.

Tony Pierce is an old man. 108, 109, something in that neighborhood; I forget and it’s impolite to ask. Even at his advanced age, though, he gets the young ladeez. And why is that, you ask? Is it his fat wallet? His stunning good looks? His power in politics? His love affair with the silver screen?

It is none of these things.

Instead, it’s that he’s 108, 109, and learned a few things along the way.

Ladies and gentlemen, I ain’t no Tony Pierce. I am, however, Dave Kleeman, 106 years old if I’m a day, and I’ve apparently learned a few things as well; because lately 21 year olds have been dropping from the sky. No small trick when you’re temporarily holed up in a loaner apartment with just a bed and no refrigerator until your burned-out, fire-bombed, overcooked, real place is being un-destroyed.

Some may say that would leave you with the essentials, but they’re just trying to be coy. Anyone who thinks you don’t need a refrigerator is clearly on crack. Where else do you put your leftover pizza for breakfast?

Being as old as I am, having 21 year old blond-haired, blue-eyed, kids call you is obviously an affront to several religions. Churches don’t agree on a lot of things amongst themselves, but they would probably agree with that. Especially when they’re the type of young girl that casually suggest we go to Chocolat on Melrose without batting an eye… and then ask if “Leon” is there when we do.

sigh

Oh, and before I forget, because we’re all star f’ers here in Hollywood, at the table to my right was Greg Proops of Whose Line is it Anyway fame. He was holding court and getting the big laughs. I took a moment to wonder if his friends thought he was really funny, or if they were supposed to think he was really funny. I have not, however, ever laughed as consistently hardwatching TV as I have watching Whose Line (especially the British version). Trust me, that son of a b is funny.

And she didn’t even know who he was. Because she was so young, you see. And from Europe. Too cute.

Saturday I went to The Avalon, which is easily my favorite LA hotel based on the decor alone. As J would and has said, “It’s very ‘Dave’.” It also, however, has a few of my least favorite LA attributes: pretension and cost. Pretension in the form of disallowing any non-hotel guests from entering the bar/pool area after 11PM, and cost in the form of $10 drinks.

>$10 drinks!

But they did have complimentary valet parking, see, which somehow takes the sting out of it… wait, no it doesn’t.

At any rate, we were giving a bon voyage party to Mar, who is sadly (for me) moving to London for 6 8 months. I’m not sure how she expects me to sweep her off her feet with passion and romance if she’s moving away, but whatever. It was fun, but I was definitely feeling the effects of 2 and a half hours of sleep by the time last call arrived… which, by the way, is also at 11PM(?!) Something about the hotel being located within a residential area and They not wanting things to get too out of hand into the wee hours. This was met with angry protests by impeccably dressed 30-somethings with accents, and 6-figure production deals.

Because it’s Bev-Hills, you see.

And on Sunday, he rested.