Costco, Ikea, Death Warmed Over

Today, Jody and I did our bit to personally stimulate the economy.

To explain: We moved out here with very little in the way of furniture. This is partially because we hated our old furniture and partially because we had to move as cheaply as possible (due to Jody's modest relo package). In essence, we sold most of our stuff in NYC and came here with little more than kitchen supplies, a dining-room table, a hammock, and our clothes.

We bought some living room furniture weeks ago, but are waiting for it to arrive. We have also scavenged a ton of stuff off of craigslist, which seems to have much higher quality stuff in LA than in NYC (and of course we're not in a walkup, so it's easier to grab stuff on a whim). I scored 6 gorgeous dining room chairs for $50 (!), a liquor hutch/linen cabinet for FREE, a dented but useable black lateral file cabinet for FREE....and so on. So we have a few things, but we're far from settled.

One of the ways we've been getting by in the interim is to rent stuff. In fact, we have rented a sofa for the past several weeks, and a TV since June.

It doesn't cost a whole lot to rent a little TV, but it adds up after a while. We just wanted to wait for the holiday sales before we made a major purchase which we knew we'd live with for the next ten years.

Today we bit the bullet and finally picked one out, a beaut from Costco for a ridiculously low price compared to what we'd have paid even a month ago. And a vacuum cleaner, because the house is currently a cat hair dust bunny farm.

We'd never set foot in a Costco before. I found it really a bit insane. But I sure am glad to discover what everyone's been talking about for years.

And we didn't stop there. There are also no closets in this house, so no clothing storage, so a big mess. Presto! Off we went to Ikea in Burbank and bought Pax wardrobe frames, shelves, doors, etc., in an effort to create some kind of elegant clothing solution. I guess I miss building Ikea kitchens, so now I have to build Ikea closet-y things.

Satisfied we'd done our bit to put the country on the right track, we headed home (took two trips in our l'il Prius to haul it all) with Jody feeling more than a little queasy and light-headed. By the time we got here, she also had a headache and fever. And is now conked out for hopefully the next several hours while she fights this thing off.

Sigh. A very productive day from the standpoint of getting a little more settled here, but not without its toll.

Shaken, and Stirred

We had an earthquake here this morning.

I was in a conference room on the 41st floor of a modern office building in downtown LA, along with five other people.

It took a moment for us to realize exactly what was happening.

Then one woman dove under the very substantial conference table, and the rest of us followed. While the earth shook and the building rolled, I sent Zach a message from my BlackBerry.

Subject: Earthquake

Message: Am under a table right now.

By the time I hit "send," things had settled down, and I quickly sent a second message letting him know I was OK.

And that really should have been that. Most people around me had been in Southern California long enough that they were desensitized to the whole thing. To them it was more an annoyance than anything—like a car alarm or a fire drill, an interruption to be tolerated until they could get back to whatever they'd been doing a few moments before.

Once we'd gotten the all-clear announcement, I went to check on the two colleagues with whom I work most closely. Both of them were completely fine.

But I didn't know that for more than two hours.

As time passed, I became increasingly concerned about their safety. Although I kept hearing that there had been no reports of injuries, and other co-workers kept assuring me that they were fine, I was very much on edge. The later it got, the more worried I became, and the less I was able to convince myself that everything was OK.

It turned out that both had been outside the office, on their way to separate lunch appointments, when the earthquake hit. A BlackBerry accidentally left behind, phone lines down—these and other circumstances prevented me from reaching them.

The fact that they were both missing, coupled with how blasé everyone else seemed to be, is what really threw me. I was trying to stay calm but couldn't mask my concern, and the tension between those two states of mind over those two hours took an emotional toll.

It took a few more hours before I realized that some of this was September 11th blowback—that feeling of dread in the absence of information was palpably familiar.

I didn't know until today just how different it was to be in New York on that cataclysmic day, and how deep a mark it left in our collective unconscious. To be in a tower on a warm Tuesday morning, to seek refuge under a table from an unseen threat to one's safety, to wait with growing alarm for word that others have been found alive and well—these resonate in a visceral way for those of us who experienced 9/11 at close range.

It's just different here. "Welcome to LA" is what many people said to me this afternoon, most in a cheerful, offhand way.

Here, when the city shudders, it's business as usual.

In New York, the people shudder, too.

The Car Thing, Part I: Driving

It's not an understatement to say that you can spend more than a third of any given day in LA just getting from one place to another. As has often been said, people here really do live in their cars, to some degree. They choose their peronal islands carefully—probably more carefully than anywhere else—because one's vehicle is such an extension of oneself here.

Most aparment/house rental ads mention on- or off-street parking way up top—even though parking is not an issue in most LA neighborhoods—because having your own personal spot is another status thing, like having a balcony in New York. A protected spot is especially important, despite the lack of snow (and therefore the lack of salt which might rust a car out...the most the weather here can hurt your car is to rain on it for a few hours). And people wash their cars all the time. Obsessively. Like, weekly. In fact, as my friend Alan pointed out to me a couple of months ago (hi, Alan!), Sheryl Crow's breakout song All I Wanna Do Is Have Some Fun contained a set of lyrics about this phenomenon:

We are drinking beer at noon on Tuesday
In a bar that faces a giant car wash
The good people of the world are washing their cars
On their lunch break, hosing and scrubbing
As best they can in skirts in suits
They drive their shiny Datsuns and Buicks
Back to the phone company, the record store too...

So, yeah, LA people are into their cars.

You might think that such an auto-centric culture would be a nightmare to actually drive in.

You'd be mistaken.

Don't get me wrong: driving here can really suck sometimes, and traffic is always a hot topic in the news.

But for a group of people who spend so much time in their cars, LA drivers are surprisingly courteous. Perhaps it's because they spend so much time in their cars. They don't want the hassle. There's no hurry. They know that on one day getting from point A to point B can take 10 minutes, and the following day at the exact same time, it can take 25. And they are resigned to that. In fact, because they're in (on?) their own personal island, they might even embrace the extra time a little sometimes.

So unlike NYC, where it's all urgent, and driving is like a big video game in which the goal is to shoot the gap between those two taxis a block ahead of you while ignoring anything as ridiculous as lane markings, LA has a California-mellow vibe to it.

Things Angelino drivers regularly do and don't do:

• They don't block the box at congested intersections


• If you're trying to make a left turn across a backed-up row of idling traffic, they leave a space for you to do so. In fact, even if no one is waiting to do so, idlers in a line of cars will often leave a space in front of strip mall/supermarket driveways In case someone comes along who might want to make that turn. In some areas, the words "Keep Clear" are painted on the street to encourage this. Drivers actually heed the words


• If you're trying to leave a driveway to make a right turn, and traffic is whizzing by and you've kind of got an obstructed view, and you're afraid to pull out for fear of getting mashed, approaching LA drivers who see you will actually brake suddenly, stop, and wave you in to take a place in front of them. I'm not kidding; this happens to me practically every day


• If someone is parallel parking and blocking traffic from getting further down the street, no one honks; they'll patiently wait for the person to finish, even if that person is a bad parker and takes five minutes of pulling in and out and repositioning to complete the job


• Merging onto a busy highway? Most Angelinos will slow down and let you get into the flow of traffic in front of them


• If someone is not turning right on red, despite the fact that they're allowed to, no one honks at them to urge them to do so; they just wait


• At 4-way STOP intersections, there's generally a contest to see who can go last. Everyone waves everyone else through. Usually there are a lot of smiles and gracious nods of heads in these situations.


• No honking if you spaced out for a moment and didn't notice the light had changed. It'll be a good ten seconds before someone taps their horn briefly. In the words of a comedienne (I forget who, maybe Ellen DeGeneres?) whom I heard years ago, it's the horn equivalent of saying "Ahem" instead of "WAKE UP YOU STUPID JACKASS!". When in New York, I sometimes beep my horn in the latter way. Out here, I've become a throat-clearer.

There are surely more examples, but you get my point.

The one exception to the whole "mellow driving" thing is Sundays. I guess maybe Sunday is "go see your relatives in Whittier day" or something, because starting about 10:30am, every major road in town is clogged with big cars full of people. And on these days, all the courtesies get thrown out the window, and driving becomes a ferocious, competitive blood sport.

Makes me homesick.

Kamsahamnida

My first week back in LA after the holidays, I was really grumpy.

I had been home in New York for three great weeks: I'd seen my family, cooked up a couple of great meals, hung out with good friends, caught up with my cats, seen the premiere of Dreamgirls and, of course, had loads of blissful uninterrupted time with Jody.

All that changed the evening of Friday, January 5. I was back in LA, on my own again, and—what else?—oh yes, I had lost my glasses on the flight.

Just a pair of glasses, right?

Wrong.

They were a pair of effing expensive, magical glasses.

There are very few things in life I will actually go out and spend real money on. But Jody convinced me long ago that it's wise, especially for someone in my profession, to invest in well-made glasses that flatter me: I wear them often enough; it's important that I look and feel terrific in them.

And these glasses had been more than just some vanity pickup for me; I swear, they had gotten me jobs. I had a run of several auditions where I wore the glasses because I felt they helped create the look I was going for (all lawyer/techie/professional types), and I booked all of them.

Can a pair of glasses get you a job? I don't know, but I know that these babies seemed to be working for me.

So after moping through a few days of desolation and letting it really sink in that they weren't coming back (I called and emailed JFK, Burbank Airport, JetBlue, the car service that I took in Brooklyn and the friend that picked me up here—all to no avail), I finally set about replacing them.

First I called the Upper West Side store where I'd originally purchased them. Yes, they still had that model, and they could replace them—for $720. "Um, that price has really gone up," I said, and they replied that everything goes up, and I'd had a coupon last time. I talked them down to $660, but that was as far as they'd budge.

Grrr. I had the feeling I was paying more for the shop's Broadway address than for the glasses themselves. So I got the style name from them ("The Advocate") and set about finding a replacement pair in LA.

I started at the manufacturer's website and found that they listed all of the local stores which carried their specs: 59 locations in a 10-mile radius. And I began working my way down the list, calling the shops one by one. But nobody had them: the model was no longer in the catalog, I was told, it was an old style that was no longer à la mode. Did I want to see some other pairs? No, I did not.

After reaching about a dozen places and getting a bunch of "NOs" and one "We'll call you back," I decided to call the store's own flagship boutique. Success! They had a new shipment arriving in two days, and some "Advocate" frames would be included in it. I could get them, no problem—for only $530.

Well, $530 was certainly better than $720, so I decided to suck it up. I made plans to visit them later in the week to get the glasses fitted and ground. And hanging up the phone, I felt a little better: I'd have to shell out a bundle, but at least I had been able to find them.

And that would have been the end of it, except..... the shop that had said they'd call me back actually called me back!

I'd been a little leery of them. When they'd answered the phone it had been in what sounded like Chinese, and there had been a significant language barrier during our conversation. I'd kept saying "Advocate", and they'd thought I was saying "Avocado". So when they called back, I seriously doubted they could help me.

"We found Advocate!" the gentleman said.

Mmm hmm? "Advocate", not "Avocado"?

     Yes.

In brown?

     Yes.

In stock?

     Also yes!

And I could get the frames, lenses, anti-glare coating, the works—everything I needed—for $380! Almost half off the original New York price.

When I first drove over, I got spooked again: the shop, smack in the middle of LA's Koreatown (so that's what they were speaking!) was renting space on the ground floor of a monolithic, windowless building that clearly had originally housed some entirely different kind of business. They had strung a big tarpaulin sign to one parking lot wall to announce their store's presence. There was no English to be seen anywhere in their parking lot except for the handicapped sign:


Then there was the sign that said something like (I'm guessing here): "These parking spots for tenants of 2880 West Olympic Boulevard ONLY...Violators will be towed!"


But inside, they were incredibly nice, and incredibly professional; plus, they threw in a free eye exam, and updated my prescription. And the glasses were ready two days before they said they would be. I just picked them up on Friday.

Awesome. I've got my mojo back.

So, to Jake and Julie, and the entire staff at 1001 Optical I'd like to give a very heartfelt "thanks"; or as you would say, "kamsahamnida":




_______________________________
Had to run roadside again: the track is in use by the school during the week (duh).
2.8 miles, 31:20.

Pony Express

This post will seem like another indictment of LA. But it's not.

It's about the luxury of having something that I think maybe doesn't exist anywhere else in the US except Manhattan: a 24-hour post office.

I take way too much of my New York life for granted.

I have been to the 24-hour GPO (="General Post Office") at 32nd and Eighth more times that I can remember: for late-night postcard mailings such as this one; for warranty instances where I had to have a postmark by a certain date (they'll even do that on Sundays); in the old days, I was there on April 15th every year to get my taxes in. (If you've never been there the night of the IRS filing deadline, you should go just to see the carnival that occurs for one day every year—it's like when they blow up the Macy's Day Balloons. My favorite part is that Bayer or Bufferin, or someone similar always sets up a truck to dispense free headache pills. But I digress.)

So yesterday was the day that I had set aside to do a big postcard mailing. The kind you send to casting directors every month or so (if you're diligent) to remind them what you look like and tell them what you're doing.

My postcard, by the way, looks like this:



My day began, however, with an unexpected war against ants.

As I mentioned before, it's been cold here. (And I have to say, all my snarkiness aside, it's been a problem. I personally still have not been cold, but something like ¾ of the local citrus crop has been destroyed by frost. Prepare to spend a lot more on produce next month.)

So, if you've ever lived in California, you know that ants are kind of a fact of life here. Particularly in the summer months. And, as I discovered, during the winter months when it gets really cold outside (either that, or it was the fact that my roommate made fruit punch Wednesday night and didn't clean up well). Whatever the cause, yesterday I was greeted by kitchen counters teeming (yes, teeming, thank you very much) with hundreds of ants.

And so yesterday morning was spent pulling everything off all the kitchen counters, spraying them with ant spray, leaving the house for a while, coming back and cleaning up the carnage, cleaning the counters down to the tile with bleach and other chemical-filled products, and reassembling the now-ant-free kitchen.

All of which took me until early afternoon. At which point I got down to business and began to get my mailing together. Which involved:

• figuring out which casting directors the postcards were going to
• cross-checking their addresses online in case any had moved since my last mailing
• composing some breezy copy about my latest accomplishments
• adding personalized notes for the casting directors I knew personally
• mail-merging the whole thing and having it print out on oversized labels
• adhering those labels to the backs of my postcards
• creating a label trumpeting my Without a Trace appearance, to go on the front of the card next to my face, where it will garner even more attention from the bored receptionists at the casting directors' offices
• stamping them all
• signing them all

Normally, this kind of thing takes me 3-4 hours. I've gotten pretty good at it, but the clock was ticking, and I wanted to get it in the mail last night so that it would hit people's desks Friday morning. The advantage of Fridays is twofold:
1) you're arriving on a light mail day (as opposed to Monday, which is a heavy mail day); and
2) some CDs take their mail home and you're with them all weekend.

So I did all the above stuff, and was running late, and wrapped up at about 7:30.

And then (can you see this coming?), then I went online to find the location of LA's 24-hour post office.

To discover there isn't one.

In fact, the latest any post office in LA is open (that I could find, anyway), is 7pm.

Oops.