Despite years of warnings from my mother, today I took some candy from a stranger.
I found myself in the mall, of all places, and as I was walking out an old mustachioed man whose job it is to replace the candy in those machines they have called out to me. "Hey buddy, can I borrow your hands for a second?" I walk over and he asks me to hold open a long plastic bag as he pours, from a box, multi-colored Smartie-esque candies that are the size of golf balls.
The box weighed about 5 pounds or so, so it takes about 30 seconds of careful pouring to get everything where it needs to be. As he's done he says thanks and I take a half a step away before he asks, "You want a couple?" I think to myself: "What am I, going to not take free candy?" I reach in and take out a pair as the old man tells me, "Thanks a lot. I don't care what they say, you're a good guy." This cracked me up to no end as I walked away and popped one of the balls in my mouth (that's what she said).
But before I left the mall, and before I scored candy and was told that all my detractors are wrong, I went into a store that sells board games, drinking games, chess sets, stickers, gags and magic, swords, and has a walk-in humidor. I don't know what it was called, but if anyone ever asks me, "Zac, I'm looking for the world's awesomest store because I'm running low on awesome. Do you know where I can find one?" I will tell that person, yes. It can be found on the bottom level of Newpark Mall, of all places.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Corollary to previous post
So I was planning on driving to my interview yesterday because I didn't want to mess with MUNI. Narges told me that, rather than trying to figure out the subway, I could get to AT&T Park (which is right next to where the job is) by just getting off BART at Powell and walking about a mile down 3rd Street. And since there was a huge protest in downtown to mark the fifth anniversary of the start of the Iraq war, I took her sage advice and opted to avoid traffic by taking BART.
While I was in San Francisco my car was parked at the San Leandro BART station, and for the fifth time since I've owned the car, it was broken into. Saturns, apparently, are legendarily easy to get into, so I've taken precautions after the last time to ensure that I don't lose anything important.
The valuable contents of my car, in descending order of value, is as follows:
1 (one) grey UCLA sweatshirt - $25
1 (one) Mag flashlight - aprox $20
1 (one) iPod charger - aprox $15
1 (one) pair of sunglasses I bought at Kirkwood when I went cross-country skiing - $14
1 (one) $10-off coupon for a lift ticket at Sierra - $10
2 (two) Pez dispensers, one each of Darth Vader and Yoda, sans candy - $3
5 (five) quarter-dollars - $1.25
1 (one) "November Rain" cassette single - $3 in 1994, back when one could buy cassette singles
The intruder rustled through my center console and tossed all the old gas receipts and directions to friends' houses on the passenger seat. Two empty sunglass cases in the driver-side door were examined and left on the driver side floor, and the napkins in the glovebox were all askew.
The perp made off with a buck-25 in quarters and that's it (there's a whole thing behind how I know how many quarters were there, I'm not that obsessive compulsive).
Now I'm not saying the B&E is Narges' fault, though interestingly enough it's directly because of her that my car was burgled. If not for her I would have driven to the city, parked my car (for more than $1.25) and driven home without incident.
Of course, if there wasn't a protest, I wouldn't have been warned about the traffic. If there was no war in Iraq, there wouldn't have been a protest. If George W Bush hadn't been elected president in 2000, not only would there be no global warming and more Internets, we wouldn't have gone to war and my car wouldn't have been burgled, leaving one clear source to this chain of events:
The state of Florida owes me five quarters.
It's also possible to say that Juan Ponce de León discovered Florida, and he followed Columbus, who was sent by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, so:
The Kingdom of Spain owes me $1.25. Or if they prefer, they can send me .75 euro.
While I was in San Francisco my car was parked at the San Leandro BART station, and for the fifth time since I've owned the car, it was broken into. Saturns, apparently, are legendarily easy to get into, so I've taken precautions after the last time to ensure that I don't lose anything important.
The valuable contents of my car, in descending order of value, is as follows:
1 (one) grey UCLA sweatshirt - $25
1 (one) Mag flashlight - aprox $20
1 (one) iPod charger - aprox $15
1 (one) pair of sunglasses I bought at Kirkwood when I went cross-country skiing - $14
1 (one) $10-off coupon for a lift ticket at Sierra - $10
2 (two) Pez dispensers, one each of Darth Vader and Yoda, sans candy - $3
5 (five) quarter-dollars - $1.25
1 (one) "November Rain" cassette single - $3 in 1994, back when one could buy cassette singles
The intruder rustled through my center console and tossed all the old gas receipts and directions to friends' houses on the passenger seat. Two empty sunglass cases in the driver-side door were examined and left on the driver side floor, and the napkins in the glovebox were all askew.
The perp made off with a buck-25 in quarters and that's it (there's a whole thing behind how I know how many quarters were there, I'm not that obsessive compulsive).
Now I'm not saying the B&E is Narges' fault, though interestingly enough it's directly because of her that my car was burgled. If not for her I would have driven to the city, parked my car (for more than $1.25) and driven home without incident.
Of course, if there wasn't a protest, I wouldn't have been warned about the traffic. If there was no war in Iraq, there wouldn't have been a protest. If George W Bush hadn't been elected president in 2000, not only would there be no global warming and more Internets, we wouldn't have gone to war and my car wouldn't have been burgled, leaving one clear source to this chain of events:
The state of Florida owes me five quarters.
It's also possible to say that Juan Ponce de León discovered Florida, and he followed Columbus, who was sent by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, so:
The Kingdom of Spain owes me $1.25. Or if they prefer, they can send me .75 euro.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Indian math
I got a birthday card Monday from Cache Creek, my semi-local Indian casino. This card is more than a month early and it offers me double points when I use my player's card - something I had no plans of ever really using and only signed up for to get the initial free $20 of slot play.
Way to make me feel prematurely old, unwanted Native American birthday card.
Now my friend Sophie, who told me to write a post and recently had a big birthday herself, would tell me I'm being ridiculous because I'm only turning 25. But this birthday firmly places me in the mid twenties and lately, events are occurring that usually seem to happen to adults.
Between Jon fracturing his hip (75-year-old woman), my wanting to watch the John Adams miniseries (55-year-old white man), and my pulled ab muscle coupled with visits to the chiropractor (34-year-old former high school athlete who thinks he can still play like he's 18), there isn't much going on that makes me feel like a kid anymore.
I'm looking for a job, and just interviewed at a place yesterday that, I'm not going to lie, I really want to work for. Andy just got back from his travels around the world yesterday, which means I can't say I have friends out there still traveling, and I just took my grandma to the hospital to have her eye surgeried.
But there was one thing that happened at the end of the night Monday. I found a power ball (which you may refer to as a super ball or bouncy ball if you'd like) in the parking lot of the delightfully alliterative Porky's Pizza Palace. Nick and I bounced it off the floor and ceiling of his kitchen for about 15 minutes while eating pizza.
So clearly I'm not that old at all, am I, Native Americans?
Way to make me feel prematurely old, unwanted Native American birthday card.
Now my friend Sophie, who told me to write a post and recently had a big birthday herself, would tell me I'm being ridiculous because I'm only turning 25. But this birthday firmly places me in the mid twenties and lately, events are occurring that usually seem to happen to adults.
Between Jon fracturing his hip (75-year-old woman), my wanting to watch the John Adams miniseries (55-year-old white man), and my pulled ab muscle coupled with visits to the chiropractor (34-year-old former high school athlete who thinks he can still play like he's 18), there isn't much going on that makes me feel like a kid anymore.
I'm looking for a job, and just interviewed at a place yesterday that, I'm not going to lie, I really want to work for. Andy just got back from his travels around the world yesterday, which means I can't say I have friends out there still traveling, and I just took my grandma to the hospital to have her eye surgeried.
But there was one thing that happened at the end of the night Monday. I found a power ball (which you may refer to as a super ball or bouncy ball if you'd like) in the parking lot of the delightfully alliterative Porky's Pizza Palace. Nick and I bounced it off the floor and ceiling of his kitchen for about 15 minutes while eating pizza.
So clearly I'm not that old at all, am I, Native Americans?
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
"Hello Harley Burger?"
When I was in middle school, maybe high school, I would think to myself that when I came back to town from college, my first stop would be Harley's Burgers.
Located literally right around the corner from my parent's house, Harley's was a staple growing up. While working on the bathroom, redoing my room, or building the garage; we'd always head to Harley's for our quick food needs.
The old-fashioned-looking drive-up diner was owned and run by Harley and his wife, Kim, two wonderful old people who cooked up great burgers and delicious Chinese food. When you'd call to place an order Kim usually answered with the familiar refrain, "Hello Harley Burger?" After telling her what you'd like to order she'd half ask, half instruct you by saying, "OK, you come now."
When I'd walk up to get food she'd hand it to me and ask how my parents were. We'd chat briefly and as I walked away, back toward home, I'd always pop one of the crinkle-cut french fries in my mouth.
But I never went there on weekends home from college. About two years before I moved to L.A., Harley and Kim retired. They were going to spend some time with their daughter's family in Orange County and then drive around the country, visit China for a while and just generally enjoy having more than one day off a week (Sunday) for the first time in as long as I can remember.
They sold the restaurant to a young Asian couple and we gave them a shot. Within a month it was too different. The burgers were round now, not square; the chow mein less noodley somehow; and worst of all, the fries were straight cut.
We stopped going.
But lately I've been wondering. Is it still that bad? After all, the window still has the "Best Burgers in Town" paint displayed blatantly without any source or evidence (I would bet that Best Burgers about a mile away would take particular issue with that declaration). So I called up today for lunch. It was too rainy outside for me to make the sandwich I had been planning on and I've been wanting a quarter-pound hamburger with cheese no mayo no onion and a small fry which is what I told the old woman who answered the phone.
I walked up about four minutes later, said hello to a new old Asian woman and saw no sign of the young couple who shook my world years ago. After paying less than five dollars for my food I walked away holding a white paper bag, reached inside, and pulled out a crinkle-cut fry.
Located literally right around the corner from my parent's house, Harley's was a staple growing up. While working on the bathroom, redoing my room, or building the garage; we'd always head to Harley's for our quick food needs.
The old-fashioned-looking drive-up diner was owned and run by Harley and his wife, Kim, two wonderful old people who cooked up great burgers and delicious Chinese food. When you'd call to place an order Kim usually answered with the familiar refrain, "Hello Harley Burger?" After telling her what you'd like to order she'd half ask, half instruct you by saying, "OK, you come now."
When I'd walk up to get food she'd hand it to me and ask how my parents were. We'd chat briefly and as I walked away, back toward home, I'd always pop one of the crinkle-cut french fries in my mouth.
But I never went there on weekends home from college. About two years before I moved to L.A., Harley and Kim retired. They were going to spend some time with their daughter's family in Orange County and then drive around the country, visit China for a while and just generally enjoy having more than one day off a week (Sunday) for the first time in as long as I can remember.
They sold the restaurant to a young Asian couple and we gave them a shot. Within a month it was too different. The burgers were round now, not square; the chow mein less noodley somehow; and worst of all, the fries were straight cut.
We stopped going.
But lately I've been wondering. Is it still that bad? After all, the window still has the "Best Burgers in Town" paint displayed blatantly without any source or evidence (I would bet that Best Burgers about a mile away would take particular issue with that declaration). So I called up today for lunch. It was too rainy outside for me to make the sandwich I had been planning on and I've been wanting a quarter-pound hamburger with cheese no mayo no onion and a small fry which is what I told the old woman who answered the phone.
I walked up about four minutes later, said hello to a new old Asian woman and saw no sign of the young couple who shook my world years ago. After paying less than five dollars for my food I walked away holding a white paper bag, reached inside, and pulled out a crinkle-cut fry.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
"Did you see where I put that other butterfly?"
There are some things that you can only expect to hear in a flower shop.
After three-and-a-half years I have completed the boomerang that started with my move home and am once again delivering flowers professionally. This is, after all, the busiest time of the year for them, and when my old shop calls for help I am there to help. Assuming I'm in the area and not busy.
So today I cut and cleaned flowers, changed the water, arranged roses in vases, ran arrangements out on delivery and answered phones just like old times. I even went by the grave site of L Young for his wife and dropped off a little arrangement for the vase. I have given this man flowers more often than I have given flowers to any living woman, including my mom (and I used to, and once again, work in a flower shop).
People may think that working in a flower shop is dainty work. To those people I say, think about it. Five gallons of water, plus 4 dozen roses still in bunches weighs about 50 pounds (20 kilos for the international readers). That's a lot of weight to heft around, up and down. Especially when you're dealing with dozens of dozens of roses and other flowers and their fillers including baby's breath and various greens.
Come on guys, go with something original. Don't just get roses.
For now, my hands smell like myrtle and eucalyptus and I get to go back in tomorrow at 6:30.
Happy Valentine's Day. Or, to quote the oft-quoted in my house episode of "30 Rock," "HAPPY VALEN-TIMES!"
After three-and-a-half years I have completed the boomerang that started with my move home and am once again delivering flowers professionally. This is, after all, the busiest time of the year for them, and when my old shop calls for help I am there to help. Assuming I'm in the area and not busy.
So today I cut and cleaned flowers, changed the water, arranged roses in vases, ran arrangements out on delivery and answered phones just like old times. I even went by the grave site of L Young for his wife and dropped off a little arrangement for the vase. I have given this man flowers more often than I have given flowers to any living woman, including my mom (and I used to, and once again, work in a flower shop).
People may think that working in a flower shop is dainty work. To those people I say, think about it. Five gallons of water, plus 4 dozen roses still in bunches weighs about 50 pounds (20 kilos for the international readers). That's a lot of weight to heft around, up and down. Especially when you're dealing with dozens of dozens of roses and other flowers and their fillers including baby's breath and various greens.
Come on guys, go with something original. Don't just get roses.
For now, my hands smell like myrtle and eucalyptus and I get to go back in tomorrow at 6:30.
Happy Valentine's Day. Or, to quote the oft-quoted in my house episode of "30 Rock," "HAPPY VALEN-TIMES!"
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
One art please
Three guys stole four paintings that someone, somewhere would have paid $163 million for. The job was pulled in Zurich, which is actually not the capital of Switzerland, in a fantastically low-tech fashion consisting of literally grabbing them off the wall and throwing them in a white van. Thanks, NY Times.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The return of the travel sponge
How much do I love staying with Jared and CJ? Quite a bit, actually.
Having never lived with guys before it's a nice preview of what life would be like finally doing so. Nine-foot TV for watching Lost? Check. Saturday morning spent sleeping, playing Guitar Hero on same nine-foot TV and online poker? Check. A little more filth than I'd like? Check.
Getting off the 405 on Wilshire was incredibly familiar. I knew everything there was to see in LA, knew where I needed to go to get where I was going without thinking and knew it would take me a long time because it was 5 pm.
And while it's no secret that I'm a fan of jackets, not using the AC and enjoying scarf weather, it is nice to be back in my traditional uniform of flip flops, t-shirt and jeans. It's been warm and sunny, almost unbearably so given that it's February.
LA is also great for making me feel like I'm super popular. Trying to see everyone you know in three or four days gives the impression that you know a lot of people. And the people are some of my favorite people, and I'm glad to visit them often.
Hot Hot Heat
I have now seen Hot Hot Heat three times and "Talk to Me Dance With Me" will never not be a great song. Part of the reason I came down this weekend vs another was because that band was playing with Louis XIV (one of my favorites) and The Editors (one that I now know is a great live act) for about the cost of a half a tank of gas. I couldn't really think of anyone at home who would want to see them as much as I would but apparently, I know quite a few people that would want to go in LA.
The amazing show got out at midnight and I was astonished that we found parking a few miles away in Hollywood at 12:45 am on a Saturday. After getting hit on twice by two different guys in the span of 10 seconds (when I bought it three years ago, Kirsten did say that the jacket wasn't "that gay") and a drink we walked over to the 101 Cafe located in the Best Western Hollywood Hills.
The syrup smelled better than the pancakes tasted at 2 in the morning, but what are you going to do? It was still deliciously awesome and quintessentially LA somehow. Everyone in their button up shirts and blazers and designer jeans or else wearing short skirts and other club wear. Me in my Dave Matthews t-shirt, Christmas present jeans and worn out hemp Rainbows. Ah, LA, it was nice to be back.
Having never lived with guys before it's a nice preview of what life would be like finally doing so. Nine-foot TV for watching Lost? Check. Saturday morning spent sleeping, playing Guitar Hero on same nine-foot TV and online poker? Check. A little more filth than I'd like? Check.
Getting off the 405 on Wilshire was incredibly familiar. I knew everything there was to see in LA, knew where I needed to go to get where I was going without thinking and knew it would take me a long time because it was 5 pm.
And while it's no secret that I'm a fan of jackets, not using the AC and enjoying scarf weather, it is nice to be back in my traditional uniform of flip flops, t-shirt and jeans. It's been warm and sunny, almost unbearably so given that it's February.
LA is also great for making me feel like I'm super popular. Trying to see everyone you know in three or four days gives the impression that you know a lot of people. And the people are some of my favorite people, and I'm glad to visit them often.
Hot Hot Heat
I have now seen Hot Hot Heat three times and "Talk to Me Dance With Me" will never not be a great song. Part of the reason I came down this weekend vs another was because that band was playing with Louis XIV (one of my favorites) and The Editors (one that I now know is a great live act) for about the cost of a half a tank of gas. I couldn't really think of anyone at home who would want to see them as much as I would but apparently, I know quite a few people that would want to go in LA.
The amazing show got out at midnight and I was astonished that we found parking a few miles away in Hollywood at 12:45 am on a Saturday. After getting hit on twice by two different guys in the span of 10 seconds (when I bought it three years ago, Kirsten did say that the jacket wasn't "that gay") and a drink we walked over to the 101 Cafe located in the Best Western Hollywood Hills.
The syrup smelled better than the pancakes tasted at 2 in the morning, but what are you going to do? It was still deliciously awesome and quintessentially LA somehow. Everyone in their button up shirts and blazers and designer jeans or else wearing short skirts and other club wear. Me in my Dave Matthews t-shirt, Christmas present jeans and worn out hemp Rainbows. Ah, LA, it was nice to be back.
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