tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-354326612023-11-16T03:54:15.664-08:00Graeme Stone's Publishing QuestGraeme Stone is a writer living in Los Angeles. This is his column on the publishing business from a beginner's view.
To learn more about him, go to www.graemestone.com.Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-29746902233166655462012-06-15T00:22:00.002-07:002012-06-15T00:22:51.124-07:00The Starting Gate: Cairo BoundI’m finishing up touches on “Untitled Middle Grade non-fiction project.” Now if that’s not sexy and mysterious, I don’t know what is. <br />
<br />
When my agent and I finish the edits, I’ll be first to tell you when it goes to an editor. When it does, we’ll wait for the editors to respond. See? So exciting. <br />
<br />
I will be releasing some short stories soon on Amazon and will announce it here. <br />
<br />
Oh yeah, and I"m off to Egypt in a week. Well, first I have to go to France, Germany and the Netherlands. I know, it's just awful. I really wish I could get out of it, but I have to go.<br />
<br />
Seriously though, I''m working on a larger project, fiction, adult market and am trying to finish that before school starts in the fall. I'm going to school to get my Masters in Linguistics in the fall.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNEK4kR5CKwQRmMcQ0kaFu8k7Lp8ZLxWM35_1ZlkZfs4OOLFJefAUjv2RzaMOzJ1XXV3QUyiWVOmVt22IlbPXp-bCALF4IPGi6-ql2lKmG-O-DsA9wxLfBrDN8QziY9MQSllX/s1600/Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNEK4kR5CKwQRmMcQ0kaFu8k7Lp8ZLxWM35_1ZlkZfs4OOLFJefAUjv2RzaMOzJ1XXV3QUyiWVOmVt22IlbPXp-bCALF4IPGi6-ql2lKmG-O-DsA9wxLfBrDN8QziY9MQSllX/s320/Image.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Suitcase is Trying to Kill Me!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So rather than bore you with all that here, I'm creating a new blog. Writing stuff here. Cairo/Travel stuff there. It's called, This Suitcase Is Trying to Kill Me:<br />
http://graemestone.blogspot.com/Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-7030261396891307342012-01-16T09:02:00.000-08:002012-01-16T09:04:08.377-08:00I took your advice and started a humor blogHey,<br /><br />A lot of you have suggested picking a topic that I can sustain that is not related to work, publishing, or writing. Well, I took your advice and have started a blog that's just humor. Check it out and join if you think it's funny. It's called Graeme Stone's Diatribe.<br /><br />Happy New Year,<br /><br />Graeme<br />http://graemestonesdiatribe.blogspot.com/Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-18778054662062652392010-05-19T08:51:00.000-07:002010-05-19T09:39:14.194-07:00Take Your Time<div style="text-align: center;">You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by;<br />but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.<br /><br />- J.M. Barrie<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPUkAmhWPD80_c7YiA7WM5QLEahKJ_eXtG5x5QgLKhC37w9OI_7nv8IrClzDtJ1eRJbJDn6y9qcJWUYHJe6TKAtpCp58wrN8CKAuFg4Ra1nVVl8XIWQuMcG8eaj1pqc1DUK44Y/s1600/IMG_1733.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPUkAmhWPD80_c7YiA7WM5QLEahKJ_eXtG5x5QgLKhC37w9OI_7nv8IrClzDtJ1eRJbJDn6y9qcJWUYHJe6TKAtpCp58wrN8CKAuFg4Ra1nVVl8XIWQuMcG8eaj1pqc1DUK44Y/s320/IMG_1733.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473021315404379378" border="0" /></a><br />We rush. Through everything. Through traffic, through the newspaper (online or off), through our day. It's exhausting. So why do we do it? Everything needs so much tending that we worry the weeds will get us if we stop too much, too often, or even at all. And yet, when we do, there's a certain delight in those stolen moment where nothing is happening but nothing. A sigh. A certain relaxation of the shoulders. That can't be <span style="font-style: italic;">bad</span> for us now can it?<br /><br />Today, I'm stealing a couple of hours. One to go to the bookstore to wander among the shelves and see what jumps out. I've been meaning to buy a calendar since... oh yeah, January (do you see how much time goes by?). I also want to check out the iPad at the Apple Store. That's right. To add to my collection of all thinks "i". A woman I encountered was using one and my eyes lept to it and I thought "that is <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> cool, I'd love to see one of <span style="font-style: italic;">those</span> up close." So rather than just hoping that a calendar will just saunter down my wall, or that an iStore will open in my back yard, I'm going to head out and lose some time.<br /><br />What do you do to let time slip by?Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-49502821508799259492010-04-15T00:55:00.001-07:002010-04-20T02:27:46.428-07:00Tax Banshee Fun<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3h7hso1d8tXbxUoI_wtRb0K_WcLY2WYfu9iIRl81XN8-HPGCvDpVo-3pobzD2wHNM9_JGY9Nqy5aRzc3nGN0M5g3rpLeEaSJGD74ow3xMG3qOVRNEuehSTUKoCp2AmTmeWxzm/s1600/ScreamingBansheeTax.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460276691763556514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 211px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3h7hso1d8tXbxUoI_wtRb0K_WcLY2WYfu9iIRl81XN8-HPGCvDpVo-3pobzD2wHNM9_JGY9Nqy5aRzc3nGN0M5g3rpLeEaSJGD74ow3xMG3qOVRNEuehSTUKoCp2AmTmeWxzm/s400/ScreamingBansheeTax.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>To celebrate tax day, I wanted to bring some levity to all the number crunching. Hallmark might be kind of corny, but they've really branched out in recent years. And one of their most hilarious creations is the Screaming Banshee. And the Tax Banshee is the best. Click the link below to watch the video.</div><br /><div>Enjoy</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="http://www.hallmark.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ecard%7C10001%7C10051%7C542866%7C147551;-102001;11441;-102254%7Cecard%7CP1R3S%7Cecards?cardType=premium&isComboCall=false&template=o&categoryId=-102254">http://www.hallmark.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ecard%7C10001%7C10051%7C542866%7C147551;-102001;11441;-102254%7Cecard%7CP1R3S%7Cecards?cardType=premium&isComboCall=false&template=o&categoryId=-102254</a></div>Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-3681449436466627202010-04-12T06:17:00.000-07:002010-04-12T06:26:05.530-07:00I won something!Hey you guys,<br /><br />This is probably one of my only sincere no-jokes-attached blog entries, so get it while it's from the heart. I went to the LA Writer's Day on Saturday, and won first place for my YA novel entry "The French Class Confessional of the Mysterious Mr. Bridge." It was very exciting to be called up front with the other winners, to hear my words read aloud, and to get some external validation that yeah, the writing works for others too. There were so many echoes from the conferences I've gone to where published authors spoke of their days starting out, figuring it out, and finally breaking out. Writing can be very solitary and isolating; it was wonderful to see my people for a day, and hear so many great speakers. So much humor and frank advice.<br /><br />I was lucky enough to have dinner with some other writers (you know who you are!), and they even got to meet Luis, my partner, who some people were convinced was just a "Jan Brady/George glass" figment of my imagination.<br /><br />Newly inspired, I'm back at they keyboard, channeling all the energy I've got leftover after cleaning the house, tending to the cat box (nothing like a pet to keep you grounded), and making sure I get out for some fresh air now and again.<br /><br />Keep at it, there are rewards.<br /><br />Now get back to your books (and that goes for me too!)Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-33908862665811366772010-04-07T15:01:00.000-07:002010-04-08T14:36:41.886-07:00What I Saw on the Street - PennysaverWho has time to write anymore! I'm going to try vlogging for a while. I mean, if the Pope does it, so can I, right? Oh, that's flogging?! Oh. I stand corrected.<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxDF0t2UZ_v0NOuPGsCeOJmu8GJ_92zWHqUmaCSE9-SphNE8wq_dDccgqmYCe_Bb5_Hr_DCaz_h2Ww' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-69813909392273165572010-03-30T04:20:00.001-07:002010-03-30T04:26:16.296-07:00What I Saw on the Street: CVS ArtNow THIS is what I'm talkin' about.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pXeIo4eb8bk6mD9uPfO9KAqwsTysgjJPBsTqCvdAt8kIqjNiqllhPu9hLn4P0dGEgsPfn3amDZVT5aRI_iauyYHWfUU6_YJyWHxieMPXzS3RTFcM0XdLFr0FY9MLJZPvSRG3/s1600/IMG_1800.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pXeIo4eb8bk6mD9uPfO9KAqwsTysgjJPBsTqCvdAt8kIqjNiqllhPu9hLn4P0dGEgsPfn3amDZVT5aRI_iauyYHWfUU6_YJyWHxieMPXzS3RTFcM0XdLFr0FY9MLJZPvSRG3/s320/IMG_1800.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454385821083146018" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I never expected to find art at my local CVS, but there it was, staring me in the face. She said it takes about a half an hour just to do her eyes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYXI7VmrUvIPM06Sm3GDjcFDiQRpXzZxg9WAJjQ79KQBW9q6DQ53d_7dtDDMNXfDEXFjd5an6doaS3KKuEf21BdX_aUYh3J2GcCbfpHYMOsQaESZ_Il2426hkpSLJhFtwcIzo/s1600/IMG_1802.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYXI7VmrUvIPM06Sm3GDjcFDiQRpXzZxg9WAJjQ79KQBW9q6DQ53d_7dtDDMNXfDEXFjd5an6doaS3KKuEf21BdX_aUYh3J2GcCbfpHYMOsQaESZ_Il2426hkpSLJhFtwcIzo/s320/IMG_1802.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454385672607233026" border="0" /></a><br /> I love the friendly smile, the splash of hair color, and the cheetah-print eyeshadow. Where else are you going to see this? Ok, ok, I admit I have make-up envy.<br /><br />Now get back to your books!Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-62799308284866339092010-03-30T02:43:00.000-07:002010-03-30T02:47:47.807-07:00Colon-Go<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-8eaThqUmyCvQod3oJEbWKnYQdbyZgLs8YPVxfB1ntknWTxetijv51XyYN7xHy4U7T5RLbe_aPxoU3_cqpbwuA4dAoQogFhnCu1jqq9CYtSpImlwuQWChmQY-xA3wHcXLyuZ/s1600/IMG_1961.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ-8eaThqUmyCvQod3oJEbWKnYQdbyZgLs8YPVxfB1ntknWTxetijv51XyYN7xHy4U7T5RLbe_aPxoU3_cqpbwuA4dAoQogFhnCu1jqq9CYtSpImlwuQWChmQY-xA3wHcXLyuZ/s320/IMG_1961.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454361268605601058" border="0" /></a>It's hard to make puns about colons. It doesn't really rhyme with much, and the subject is just not that funny. So I'll just go straight to the photos.<br /><br />So it was all clear. A mystery bout of colitis. I hope it never returns. It was no fun. On to more entertaining blogs.<br /><br />Now get back to your books!Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-10904339451673486812010-03-09T06:23:00.000-08:002010-03-11T08:01:37.663-08:004 Liters of Yum: Timeline<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK7O5SOLT68r8hgte9ooXQ9V1Xt2FK7mwcYs0uGjdJS4EhOI7fZfJPWE_LRgzmtFLlkhseRR45upkywWP9aaI5WdUmc6NVyT7TYue24OXIIb0VN1NWX8qbjvy6K9MK8GcWj3VF/s1600-h/IMG_1937.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK7O5SOLT68r8hgte9ooXQ9V1Xt2FK7mwcYs0uGjdJS4EhOI7fZfJPWE_LRgzmtFLlkhseRR45upkywWP9aaI5WdUmc6NVyT7TYue24OXIIb0VN1NWX8qbjvy6K9MK8GcWj3VF/s320/IMG_1937.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447406973680386066" border="0" /></a><br /><br />3:53 pm – the Alarm goes off from a very pleasant nap (complete with kitty by my side)<br />4:00 pm – scramble to drink the first 4 oz glass in the first 10 minutes. By 4:08, already feeling kinda crampy. Yikes. This stuff works fast. Maybe I should move the computer from the kitchen to the bedroom for easier typing/toilet dashing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0Wdwvv-1CroD_fmvdkP4j8jA_4K_PuufV9cakJoFwIeSytdVHmeKtkqlq11sVU9Y5RfoGyUOUdKgb6Xf5LoJ8Uj1z-aMeQEupDYfQqrUt5h7R8MBXO2ymTw66EVDXnYODTy0/s1600-h/IMG_1935.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0Wdwvv-1CroD_fmvdkP4j8jA_4K_PuufV9cakJoFwIeSytdVHmeKtkqlq11sVU9Y5RfoGyUOUdKgb6Xf5LoJ8Uj1z-aMeQEupDYfQqrUt5h7R8MBXO2ymTw66EVDXnYODTy0/s320/IMG_1935.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447406724334847602" border="0" /></a>4:12 pm – 2nd 8 oz glass, here I come.<br />4:15 pm downed glass 2 with a shiver. The stuff is somehow like water, and yet like river slime. Not pleasant to drink. Took photo showing how much is 8 oz, and how HOW much more there is too go. The jug mocks me on the kitchen counter. I don’t think I’ll make it to 4:30. Any bets?<br />4:18. Houston. We have movement. Not much, but I’m sure it’s just the beginning. It’s awful living in fear of your own toilet. I keep telling myself: thinkoflunchthinkoflunchthinkoflunch.<br />4:20 pm. Incredible! It’s ALREADY 4:20!? I’m so glad. Time for another yummy glass of pre-d (as in pre-disarreha, oh God how can anyone think that this is a good way to lose weight?!) Here goes. Bottom’s up.<br /><br />4:26. 3rd glass “down.” As in, maybeIwon’tbeabletoKEEPthisdown. Nothing like nausea-inducing waves of near-puking to make you want more. Yes more. The photo is the 4th glass full, and the jug still leering at me like a whore with v.d. c’monbabyyouknowyouwantsome.<br /><br />4:29 pm. 4:30 is SO far away. Maybe I’ll do some gardening. Or Taxes! Yeah. Taxes! Anything to take my mind off of this. But wait a second! I made it to 4:30 without Niagara coming out my rear. What’s going on. When will it hit? What will happen then?<br />4:31 pm. A slight knife-edge turn in the gut. Maybe more of a fork tine. But something is happening down there. I’m so glad my houseguests from France are out for the day. And that no one else is coming over. And I can turn the heat up to 80 degrees if I want to.<br />4:32. Going for it. Glass number 4. Oh God. Involuntary salivating. As in pre-vomit salivating. I am halfway through glass #4 and it’s winning. Though they advised heavily against it on the packaging, I’ll have to judiciously sip. Ahh, the cocktail of colon cleansers: Golytely. Back to the sink incase I do actually have to throw up.<br />4:37 pm. Wild parrots fly over-head, squawking their little green lungs out. God I wish I were one of them.<br />4:42 pm. I can’t do it. My hand puts down the glass after each sip. And I’m barely able to get it down without really almost spewing it all back up. And that’s 3 and half glasses I’m not going to RE-drink. So down it stays. The directions do SAY “drink until all 4 liters are consumed, or until effluent is clear.” I didn’t know I could be put in the same categories as the Amazon and the Orinoco, but here goes. Now I say I won’t make it to 5 pm without my very own rush hour. I’m distracting myself with CNN and Yahoo News. Go Katheyn Bigelow. Heh…heh…<br />4:52 pm. Glass 4 is waiting. Waiting. And now glass 5 is behind it. I’m busy watching SNL clips on Hulu, and praying for ‘clear effluent.’ It’s like rolling intestinal dice at medical Vegas: C’mon clear-effluvient!!!!<br />5:01 pm. Ok, so clearly Vegas-style betting is not my strong suit. And maybe I have to “drink” more of the “liquid” over there. Way over there on the counter. Across the kitchen where it belongs. OhGoddon’tloseyourhealthit’sallyou’vegot.<br />5:27. Nothing. Well, something. But nothing significant. Perhaps I will have to drink more. Oh God in Heaven No Please Don’t Make Me Drink More.<br />6:09 pm. Have downed the rest of the 4th glass. Something, but not the Promised River. Am going to prep clothes for tomorrow. The 5th glass is waiting. There has GOT to be a more pleasant way to do this. Like maybe several days of starvation instead.<br />7:00 pm. Though I texted them, my housguests are back, and I’m not quite “ready.” The word “ready” in this instance means “empty.” So while chitchatting about their tourtisting down the tacky Hollywood Boulevard, Beverly Hills, and beyond, I’m wondering Will I suddenly explode during this conversation?’<br />7:`5 pm. I drive from my place to Luis downtown, the entire time wondering, Will I get pulled over, and explode during sobriety tests? Or Will I make it to the apartment building only to let loose in the elevator as it lurches skyward?<br />8:00 to 11:30 pm. Two more delicious glasses of Holly Golytely await me. Yes, I brought the jug with me! I wouldn’t want to go anywhere without it! Finally, around 9pm, what I’d started involuntarily chugging at 4pm finally started to become that magical word “effluent.” Sometimes it was worthy of launch-pad metaphors. When the body wants to get rid of something, there’s really no stopping it.<br />It’s now 6:21 am the Day of the Procedure. I’m completely empty and ready for lunch. Forget determining what is the source of my problem, I’m starving!<br />It’s now 6:21 am the Day of the Procedure. I’m completely empty and ready for lunch. Forget determining what is the source of my problem, I’m starving!<br />6:32 am. We will leave any minute to to go the Tower Imaging Center on Wilshire. My favorite part? Talking to the gorgeous anethestesiologist while I'm still on drugs so I say embarrassing things like, 'you're MY McDreamy!"<br />And when I get my pictures, I’ll be sure post them (blame Christy).<br />Now get back to your books.Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-68714836656093995092010-03-08T09:49:00.001-08:002010-03-08T10:04:24.055-08:004 Liters of Yum<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaKNU-Yi1ER1MG1oiIK2dW6SjsEuYbGe2bvuZpTwsbJKsyc7hhLc5HQO0cKojLjA_ejqcUYt93VUG6KR57-XYfUDrVwCzL4OZGKZ0jPQ3su1LgJdE8EohFdYS4dOCBCTIklaJb/s1600-h/4LitersofYum.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaKNU-Yi1ER1MG1oiIK2dW6SjsEuYbGe2bvuZpTwsbJKsyc7hhLc5HQO0cKojLjA_ejqcUYt93VUG6KR57-XYfUDrVwCzL4OZGKZ0jPQ3su1LgJdE8EohFdYS4dOCBCTIklaJb/s320/4LitersofYum.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446321927840235970" border="0" /></a>The thought of drinking 8 oz of fluid every ten minutes until this 4-liter container is empty is enough to make me sick.<br /><br />Which is why I'm drinking the stuff in the first place. I'm having a "procedure." The kind where they put you "under." It's for "Colitis". Inflamation of the... (insert high school Latin here). They're not sure why the "itis" is happening, but it was enough for an emergency MRI. What a joy that was. Nothing like an early morning enema on a sore bowel to get the day started. Then my doctor scheduled a colonoscopy for a week later, and antibiotics to calm the area down. Calm it down from what? Nuts & Seeds? Lactose intolerance? Cancer?<br /><br />All I know is that the instructions for this Golytely (don't you just love the clever Audrey Hepburn-esque product name?) will make me trot to the toilet like a race horse, and I'm not allowed to eat anything after taking it. Until TOMORROW AT LUNCH! And the fear of all that "evacuation" is making me not want to eat today. So over 24 hours fasting and boy do I have an appreciation for all things illness related. We really do only have our health.<br /><br />It's incredible how thin a line separates us from feeling good, or from even feeling normal. Go without drinking water half the day and see how you feel. Try skipping food for more than 8 hours. Now imagine that this is a state in which much of the world lives for a lot of the time and it really puts a new perspective on things.<br /><br />I keep wanting to be productive, or use the down time productively, but all I can wonder is 'what is it?' 'Will they find something?' 'Will they find nothing?' and more importantly, 'What am I going to eat after I wake up when the procedure is done?' (I have a sneaking suspicion it will involve the Girl Scout cookies that I bought.)<br /><br />Stay tuned.<br />In the mean time, get back to your books!Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-57573297536344012982010-02-17T16:17:00.000-08:002010-02-19T08:01:18.113-08:00What I Saw on the Street: Uh Yeah, LA is just Like Everywhere ElseSometimes I fool myself into thinking that LA is just like any other place. Part Big City, part Small Town. But then I see this on the rooftop of my partner's building. Yeah, of course, a fitness model being photographed at sunset on a ledge overlooking the city at sunset. Something you see everywhere. Right?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj49CtKTL6fJ9mdlpmWcwZngS7UchVyku0e0nKzsXjpNDiofm2zle8CpnVEQwA8rbYrxfoMWeLv9u-npvmTiR2MxBGEYSpDzZ5LT0zwe5ZI6SMak1QDvisyJecW7g_TXL_nHXlm/s1600-h/DSCN1644.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj49CtKTL6fJ9mdlpmWcwZngS7UchVyku0e0nKzsXjpNDiofm2zle8CpnVEQwA8rbYrxfoMWeLv9u-npvmTiR2MxBGEYSpDzZ5LT0zwe5ZI6SMak1QDvisyJecW7g_TXL_nHXlm/s320/DSCN1644.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439372112298281746" border="0" /></a><br /><br />But I think maybe a closer view is needed, don't you?<br /><br />T<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoeUgHBiuCjU2olZgLqMgdMVJ2WMU3s63BxSoVvl7IpGOaY5iqfI8WQADBgN7KPtU8TGsuU9L85Q3zGbFnGSGAaNLKHakkIaaUzQbn3oU7kfnDCNzO7IIyA1KLl3B2DAa6xRex/s1600-h/DSCN1646.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoeUgHBiuCjU2olZgLqMgdMVJ2WMU3s63BxSoVvl7IpGOaY5iqfI8WQADBgN7KPtU8TGsuU9L85Q3zGbFnGSGAaNLKHakkIaaUzQbn3oU7kfnDCNzO7IIyA1KLl3B2DAa6xRex/s320/DSCN1646.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439380182233754690" border="0" /></a>his is Mark. He's 26ish, and has 8% body fat. And he's, well, gorgeous. And sweet, too. I console myself with my 25% body fat with the knowledge that, were our plane to go down in the Rockies in one of these winter storms (he's on his way to star in an action movie, I'm on my way to sign with a NY editor), I'd have to kiss him good-bye like Kate did with Leo in TITANIC, or like Ralph Fiennes and Kristen Scott-Thomas in THE ENGLISH PATENT. Because at 8% body fat, there is NO WAY that he would survive. I would be the lone lover, sailing (or flying) back to civilization to tell my brave tale. Oh Mark, we could have been so happy together. Instead, you'll just have to live on in my rooftop memories...<br /><br />Alright he rest of you, get back to your books!Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-19381441290075331842010-02-02T06:26:00.000-08:002010-02-05T03:58:42.312-08:00What I Saw On the Street: SIGNS OF THE APOCALPYSEHow is that Madison Avenue continues to come up with New products. Just when you thought chocolate milk was as stable and nostalgic as an After School Special, they go and invent Chocolate Flavoring Straws. Not flavor<em>ED</em> mind you, but <em>flavoring</em>. Screw nouns, these folks have moved right in verbs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMTIF5shlmTJuiZbiU1TNOD0U3_UcWz-fAOoNmnQ7y9a7hVPVJMCb5oH8O-Lvj9H-T7WyJtFySOEqE5Hykr_xDGZ2nBBiEBKDULSgp69bok21ptvjsvDGK-f0_E941i1XkoFh/s1600-h/IMG_1811.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMTIF5shlmTJuiZbiU1TNOD0U3_UcWz-fAOoNmnQ7y9a7hVPVJMCb5oH8O-Lvj9H-T7WyJtFySOEqE5Hykr_xDGZ2nBBiEBKDULSgp69bok21ptvjsvDGK-f0_E941i1XkoFh/s320/IMG_1811.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434725459071081842" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpI7e8yHKSa_FtgSdLivD1oGUswkCagJqlIEuUtTX2npQ3yTDEzjMaXZ1XxMw3XMEUxRKgdeWkzSRUeahLC6DzXwwkz-CMwoyAWPrBM8G0gxQt0rE9UQQmK09an-J5bJsrwvZ1/s1600-h/IMG_1812.JPG"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 131px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpI7e8yHKSa_FtgSdLivD1oGUswkCagJqlIEuUtTX2npQ3yTDEzjMaXZ1XxMw3XMEUxRKgdeWkzSRUeahLC6DzXwwkz-CMwoyAWPrBM8G0gxQt0rE9UQQmK09an-J5bJsrwvZ1/s320/IMG_1812.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434725342806529522" border="0" /> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu86XFCc3vVDS1oZ5fowstDR87Uj1kler5WHVsWL0XFm_7wMsj1IqaKpmyBtklPzNVa4K0Tkqq2T3-2bAn1_RHrELNsrs8mrnJEv8RVaQDILf2mrWHo4OhRONJK_vtS3vAMUQV/s1600-h/IMG_1813.JPG"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 173px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu86XFCc3vVDS1oZ5fowstDR87Uj1kler5WHVsWL0XFm_7wMsj1IqaKpmyBtklPzNVa4K0Tkqq2T3-2bAn1_RHrELNsrs8mrnJEv8RVaQDILf2mrWHo4OhRONJK_vtS3vAMUQV/s320/IMG_1813.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434725241802762818" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Your food product will now <em>flavor</em> other food products! This is the most exciting development since perhaps GOOBER, the peanut-butter/jelly hybrid jarred foodspread of the 1970's, or the do-it-yourself salsa/chili/Velveeta party dip. </div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyb-kTPP7O6GDpJ3EsIDVqf4AArsGBN3JLpM5umbsY-84PL4hjgA2gXtFjRfjkNE0Ek6WJWsjzOpXNHsdkAoEfRzxlhpCmyn_xb6uLJrO7sBNeP4np2TKMo8iRfCORoG4cK8i/s1600-h/smuckersg.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 164px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyb-kTPP7O6GDpJ3EsIDVqf4AArsGBN3JLpM5umbsY-84PL4hjgA2gXtFjRfjkNE0Ek6WJWsjzOpXNHsdkAoEfRzxlhpCmyn_xb6uLJrO7sBNeP4np2TKMo8iRfCORoG4cK8i/s320/smuckersg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434726005449892434" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_eIOCE3Mk6Klwg9BLZl_fwrq6GbpP21LxQfDUyCl-lLXiRfLgA9mzHmD89ROU5a1XzWQSJl5iIULJ7q_Euhfj2uknKy3bs9eDcnzyE5j6a6F0fkJj8ByXekYlMMVZqGku52nH/s1600-h/velveeta_spicy_cheeseburg_s4x3_lg.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_eIOCE3Mk6Klwg9BLZl_fwrq6GbpP21LxQfDUyCl-lLXiRfLgA9mzHmD89ROU5a1XzWQSJl5iIULJ7q_Euhfj2uknKy3bs9eDcnzyE5j6a6F0fkJj8ByXekYlMMVZqGku52nH/s320/velveeta_spicy_cheeseburg_s4x3_lg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434726639889459682" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div> </div><br /><div>I'm not much of a football fan, but maybe I can make an attept to slyly enter straight-guy sports-world by bringing some Flava-Straws to a SuperBowl party this weekend. It's sure to pursuade everyone that I'm with it, that I'm hip, that I'm so Lady-Gaga-NOW, right? Right!!?? Oh, wait, Lady Gaga's not a straight-male reference? Oh, no. I'm doomed! Doomed!<br /><br />Now get back to your books!<br /></div>Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-70980280350074386022010-01-27T12:50:00.000-08:002010-01-27T13:20:36.252-08:00No "Blow and Go"!<span style="font-size:130%;">It really is the little things.<br />Like leaves in the laundry room.<br />How?<br />How do they get there?<br />And the dust, too?<br />Ok, so I'm a guy, and I live in my own place.<br />I can't blame any roommates. And I can't say that it's </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >all<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">dryer lint.</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />So where is it coming from?!<br /><br />From this guy!</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlaoU01Dq2WMdboYzEH51bBOA3eeAT_d685_uNP9hL3sZaT4WQa6I16wiq4Frv10DZducz9t98K4GXSgnJGyvrovDvDgmhrXuqFzfcf9nKGss1_37zLndnysdy8QN0gms4c2EN/s1600-h/IMG_1799.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlaoU01Dq2WMdboYzEH51bBOA3eeAT_d685_uNP9hL3sZaT4WQa6I16wiq4Frv10DZducz9t98K4GXSgnJGyvrovDvDgmhrXuqFzfcf9nKGss1_37zLndnysdy8QN0gms4c2EN/s400/IMG_1799.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431528582414104818" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">And believe it or not, it took MONTHS to figure this out.<br />The yard guy (Juan), comes every Wednesday when I'm not home. Days later I would go into the laundry room to fetch something from the fridge (it's a small place, the fridge is on the service porch), or to do laundry. And it was always, well, dirty. Eww, a dirty </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >laundry room</span><span style="font-size:130%;">! Who wants that?<br />So I'd vacuum, figuring that the lousy door, or the old windows, or maybe the gas vent for the water heater was letting in dust. And </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >leaves</span><span style="font-size:130%;">? It was like having a ghost, but not being able to admit it at first. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Hmm, leaves? Ok...I'll just go with it...</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />But then I noticed that the floor mat by the door was sometimes moved away from the door, as if by a gust of wind. But it's just not that windy in sunny, weatherless southern California. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Hmmm...</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> Really, what </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >could</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> this be?<br />I moved into this place in June. It November before I finally figured it out.<br />The Yard Guy! The Blower!<br />As he goes by the back door, he uses the hurricane-in-a-backpack they're all sporting these days. It's enough to blast under the gap in the door. In just a few seconds, leaves, dust and sand are blasted in. Dust settles everywhere, the leaves scatter, the mat moves. And when I wandered in one day, I finally had a Newtonian moment: Aha! It's the Blow and Go!<br /><br />Well today, no more. I waited in hiding (see photo from behind kitchen window and screen), and popped out at the appropriate moment. Finally, no more tornadoes in my laundry room. And what's funny is that I caught my neighbor asking Juan for EXACTLY the same thing at her back porch. And she's lived there for THREE YEARS. So now I don't feel so bad.<br /><br />Sometimes it takes a while to figure things out. And sometimes it's the little things that make a big difference. Right now I've got things so clean that I'm eating off the laundry-room floor!<br />Now get back to your books!</span>Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-80481952644428240402009-08-17T14:00:00.000-07:002009-08-17T14:17:51.864-07:00What I Saw on the Street: Why Would You Ever?!Ok, maybe I've just never been an overwhelmed, sleep-deprived parent, but this warning really made me wonder.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZVmto7kEj_WLIn9jGC3SQlT6f_lLt0dxRKPN8Zp-HL_meLmzVGmaahvF2AeSEWOvHg0AAvMPrChzSBFShvfVaE6rOk-PNIbP6eTZPrKMSiUZXVN_YkULlsdw8JTxJc3XS7zA/s1600-h/IMG_0926.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 92px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZVmto7kEj_WLIn9jGC3SQlT6f_lLt0dxRKPN8Zp-HL_meLmzVGmaahvF2AeSEWOvHg0AAvMPrChzSBFShvfVaE6rOk-PNIbP6eTZPrKMSiUZXVN_YkULlsdw8JTxJc3XS7zA/s320/IMG_0926.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371043046092497330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Mostly because of where it was located. On this fold-out baby-changing rack.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1m1DLZ7jOHWG5hyphenhyphenE1A-qn5ecVf5cbt5arDXVbqtmdJThCDC2e3Y_Ig7qC72SWX6KWibSnmAqPZDkIUQYHSdJomCgKcjjBcVEvKhtPOcbPKYL7bEbphaRSoyQISLYWl-7vTn03/s1600-h/IMG_0927.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1m1DLZ7jOHWG5hyphenhyphenE1A-qn5ecVf5cbt5arDXVbqtmdJThCDC2e3Y_Ig7qC72SWX6KWibSnmAqPZDkIUQYHSdJomCgKcjjBcVEvKhtPOcbPKYL7bEbphaRSoyQISLYWl-7vTn03/s320/IMG_0927.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371043631726932082" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In this lovely rest room.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimR1s8Yfv_cgLe_gms_ZYTunI6Xq8MBnl3Fs33D7k-h4mUI0mrOeFYI5Q0CpwVihsT6VbxRNDrkWOMWwzhj8jSrx1_Bn_-HvWxHa6WSXj6MneAthr2gYpQd2xW5OBan4zHi9Ed/s1600-h/IMG_0928.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimR1s8Yfv_cgLe_gms_ZYTunI6Xq8MBnl3Fs33D7k-h4mUI0mrOeFYI5Q0CpwVihsT6VbxRNDrkWOMWwzhj8jSrx1_Bn_-HvWxHa6WSXj6MneAthr2gYpQd2xW5OBan4zHi9Ed/s320/IMG_0928.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371043930354631986" border="0" /></a><br />Now is it just me, or are there very few circumstances that would result in leaving a child unattended here? Maybe a massive earthquake involving the ground splitting between you and the changing rack? Or maybe security guards storm the bathroom that you're sharing with Larry Craig (they don't see the baby) and you're hauled away to bathroom jail somewhere? Or maybe aliens abduct you and their tractor beam doesn't 'perceive' the baby.<br /><br />These are just some theoratical possibilities. Because I can't even imagine forgetting my luggage or cell phone in a place like this, much less something I worked on for at least 9 months.<br /><br />Now get back to your books!Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-14091906464592397222009-07-17T04:58:00.000-07:002009-07-17T05:05:42.735-07:00Last year: nada. This year: Glaucoma?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwMeTwLwB-eUWF2vRHM9AIZJvNcdqMFMh4AZl4aSmw9PXuSRvwCHI_MSVnJUCQqvWhu312q2hhTlNUfZr3jh1VXGNbm6EATEYuYQH5B80CPWl0T5Tln6dPHkzbwQwyE2md4oLs/s1600-h/DSCN1441.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwMeTwLwB-eUWF2vRHM9AIZJvNcdqMFMh4AZl4aSmw9PXuSRvwCHI_MSVnJUCQqvWhu312q2hhTlNUfZr3jh1VXGNbm6EATEYuYQH5B80CPWl0T5Tln6dPHkzbwQwyE2md4oLs/s320/DSCN1441.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359398605385002658" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:blue;">Yes, this really is me, facing down one of those Clockwork Orange-esque eye-test contraptions that you sit your mug into when you go to the optometrist. Having fairly recently re-acquired insurance (after a 6 year gap), I get eye checkups every year now. And just to remind me that time was passing, God gave me a hiccup this time. Last year: nada. This year: Glaucoma?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:blue;">Yes, <i>that</i></span><span style="color:blue;"> glaucoma. As in: pressure-on-the-eye-that-eventually-causes-blindness-disease. My internal eye pressure which was normal last year was high enough this year for my doc to order more tests and put me in a waiting period. To say the least, I was pretty unexcited at the prospect of going blind sometime in the future. I have always taken good care of myself, and the idea that nature and fate were going to curse me just out of a random throw of cruelty darts was really getting me down. My eye doctor told me not to worry (easy for <i>her</i></span><span style="color:blue;"> to say, she’s got glasses, and apparently nothing to worry about), and that I should come back in 1 to 3 months for a follow up.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:blue;">I chose 1 month. Best to find out when my eyeballs were going to explode from the volcanic pressure that I was sure was mounting even as I felt my way along the corridor outside, wondering if I’d even be able to see it next time.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:blue;">A month is a nice length of time when you’re on vacation in Hawaii. It’s an eternity if you’re waiting to find out if a cloak of darkness will eventually descend upon your eyes. The realization of mortality, of human limitation, and all that I have not achieved fell like mattress-sized dominoes. I wondered if I would still be able to write if I could not see. Maybe this was a good time to switch to that acting career everyone always told me I should pursue. Or maybe it was time to dip into savings and go to Hawaii before I couldn’t see it anymore.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:blue;">When I revisited my eye doctor, I went through a round of tests, much like looking at an old computer game. I was sure I was missing peripheral dots of light… that my plunge into blackness was just around the corner. Would I get a cane? Or a dog? Would I have to move back home where I’d ramble around the house like Lynn Holly Johnson in “Ice Castles” until finally rescued by a Robby Benson-like hero? It was all too much to think about. Until she told me that my pressure was fine.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:blue;">“Fine?” I asked. I’d already checked with relatives to see if there was a history of glaucoma. I’d already begun working on my ‘Well, I’d love to keep working for this company…but’ speech. What? I’m not going blind?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:blue;">She said that sometimes the pressure rises and they don’t know why. It was just a glitch. I left feeling two feet taller than I’d felt in years. I took off my sunglasses and really <i>looked</i></span><span style="color:blue;"> at everything around me.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:blue;">The truth is that it could come back, or I could be in an accident, or that maybe there’s a transatlantic plane in my future that’s headed for the bottom of the ocean. But in the mean time, I have the knowledge that the future is unsure. The only thing that is sure, is appreciation. Look around. See, hear, taste, feel, and do.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255);">Eyesight is as tenuous as life itself. Lose one, and the other is drastically different, or ceases to exist at all. So finances be damned, maybe I'll be taking that trip to Hawaii after all!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255);">Now get back to your books!</span></p></span> <!--EndFragment-->Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-27919172904954835682009-07-10T03:54:00.000-07:002009-07-10T04:30:42.542-07:00What I Saw in My Kitchen: Eye vs. Orange<div><span style="font-family:Times;color:blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Ok, is it just me, or does this bisected orange look like a science diagram of a human eye?</span></span><span style="font-family:Times;color:blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZYHjg6fnkTbZlMgHaPjikuLs56cYW_wvYnNTmuKjUoohEk_5NAJv0_IKIra8Z1QSllW6eGyHg2-SBrixkZNdDZHOADKhV4sVrUUZunFK81SZR7yshy6ml7KGJt1Qv3eedeQTl/s1600-h/OrangeVsEye.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZYHjg6fnkTbZlMgHaPjikuLs56cYW_wvYnNTmuKjUoohEk_5NAJv0_IKIra8Z1QSllW6eGyHg2-SBrixkZNdDZHOADKhV4sVrUUZunFK81SZR7yshy6ml7KGJt1Qv3eedeQTl/s400/OrangeVsEye.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356792247902212978" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="595" color="initial" style="text-align: left;width: 595.2pt; border-collapse: collapse; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border- "><tbody><tr><td width="464" valign="top" style="width:463.95pt;border:solid windowtext .5pt; padding:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt"><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255); ">No, I did not drop acid in my kitchen. But you know how patterns and shapes in nature repeat and borrow, right? Like the “clouds” in your coffee look strangely like the soft, dried foam that remains after high tide recedes on a beach. Or how the veins of a leaf resemble the branches of a winter tree seen at a distance.</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:blue;">Well when I cut into this orange, I was struck by how much like a human eye it looked like. No, no the L’Oreal Eva Longoria long-lash kind, but the kind you might see in a science class diagram. It’s a little antiseptic, yes, but pretty fascinating to think that nature crosses barriers as wide as fruit and the human being to borrow designs that work for her. Just something to look at next time you’re slicing citrus… or at the eye doctor.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255);">Now get back to your books.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-74215327710609608682009-07-10T03:37:00.000-07:002009-07-10T03:52:43.650-07:00What I Saw on the Street: Advertising Misstep<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_yJsK8AdCg7dSTsGpbc8FrlhkSJ1HuIzJFscSX76DvgmcwA504LGw3AsXX4_DmB90fW41ypfPxeic6cy45jMTRg2XQf5_F2BHSeZNnIyADnuBFStPitKVxALGFxKRBQxa5Yi/s1600-h/ComeCloserThan....jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_yJsK8AdCg7dSTsGpbc8FrlhkSJ1HuIzJFscSX76DvgmcwA504LGw3AsXX4_DmB90fW41ypfPxeic6cy45jMTRg2XQf5_F2BHSeZNnIyADnuBFStPitKVxALGFxKRBQxa5Yi/s320/ComeCloserThan....jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356782425569618386" /></a><br /><div>I’m not sure exactly when advertising and pornography crossed swords (pun intended) but doesn’t this ad from a “classy” parfumier do just that? If they decide to follow it up with something even more daring, where is there to go? Come Even Closer? Or maybe something really classy like Pearl Necklace. Sorry. I didn't make the ad up, I'm just running with it. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now get your minds out of the gutter and get back to your books.</div>Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-33299503811476399182009-07-09T04:47:00.000-07:002009-07-09T04:51:15.821-07:00What I Saw on the Street: The Escaped Shopping Cart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50TfMBgDPUTmUTrjvOoEe84CvillTDsFlKdgbQ3lOP1JB7wS9-IXzvamQ9vRllGiENXV5BZSgaQNzqFEqA4I86aIOY3H7fybTHyzfCEGSWPyBPNC-XCVm-OdKlo6TKeOVnkip/s1600-h/DSCN1650.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50TfMBgDPUTmUTrjvOoEe84CvillTDsFlKdgbQ3lOP1JB7wS9-IXzvamQ9vRllGiENXV5BZSgaQNzqFEqA4I86aIOY3H7fybTHyzfCEGSWPyBPNC-XCVm-OdKlo6TKeOVnkip/s320/DSCN1650.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356426255759971714" border="0" /></a>Ok, I’m obviously a mystery fan, but it’s even better when you see the mystery outside the local Super A Foods/ El Pollo Campo. How? How did this shopping cart a) lose its wheels? And b) how did it make its way to the curb?<br /><br />Let’s say you’re shopping, and you lose the wheels. I’m down with that. It could happen. But would I then continue to drag the cumbersome and rather uncooperative cart all the way to the curb to catch the bus?<br /><br />Or let’s say the cart just became defective. Would the employees drag it all the way to the street instead of just leaving it out back for the garbagemen to take it?<br /><br />In my entire life, I have never seen a shopping cart without its wheels, much less one that has managed to find its way to the curb, where apparently, it’s waiting for a bus to the wheel factory. Who knows, maybe next week, the cart will have returned from its travels and gone back to service at the Super A Foods. Now to track down the disembodied wheels somewhere...roaming the streets of Los Angeles, looking for a cart...Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-4556140399103425802009-06-21T00:44:00.000-07:002009-06-21T00:50:35.000-07:00They Melt in Your Mouth, and In Your Conscience<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsz0B3iAajyhL4JnCBbKTZU1vTcEoN0S0mVzt71jGHL4X9Z1Oxr4dIG9Y2LqIUdoylT-1JE-CHvEXUM4JHvSObophozVL9WdHOHM9ADrKx9S15GSt4byHqvaKGPqsFPYWb9qvE/s1600-h/M&M2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsz0B3iAajyhL4JnCBbKTZU1vTcEoN0S0mVzt71jGHL4X9Z1Oxr4dIG9Y2LqIUdoylT-1JE-CHvEXUM4JHvSObophozVL9WdHOHM9ADrKx9S15GSt4byHqvaKGPqsFPYWb9qvE/s320/M&M2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349684118787904274" border="0" /></a>I’m trying to lose weight. Not that you can tell. But I can. At work, over the long and lonely nights that are the “Sunrise Shift” atop the 25th floor of an empty office tower, the vending machines call to me. “Come….” They say, “behold our wares, taste of us, we are sugar.”<br /><br />I try to resist. But at 4:15 am, trying to stay awake while editing legal documents, a tempting way to revive oneself (albeit temporarily) is the loud crunch in ones own ear of the beloved M&M.<br />Always peanut. Never chocolate.<br />Chocolate is too sweet, too easy, too…junior for my adult palatte.<br />Only the slightly larger, almost imperceptibly varied curvatures of the peanut buried beneath the factory-glazed coating can satisfy a discerning landscape of sugar-enhanced tastebuds waiting for a flavor journey. <br /><br />The outer coating strikes like glass at first, and to the first-taster, it must seem like he’s about to eat rocks. Then the thin layer of not-too-much-milk-chocolate gives way to the yielding flesh of the peanut that has nested there, fresh as the sun-baked Georgia soil where nature’s tender rays brought it to fruition.<br /><br />The crack/yield/flesh is too much for just one M&M. Oh no! You must have more. And therein comes the genius that is dieting on these rainbow’s end of indulgent would-be waist-busting beauties. They come in very small bags. Bags that cost almost a dollar each. One bag is enough to satisfy my eternal craving for crunchy and salty and sweet all rolled into a shell of hardened candy goodness without having to resist a tray of say…cookies. But don’t get me started on those.<br /><br />For now, take up my battle cry of M&M! America’s Next Subway Diet. The US Solution to the Biggest Loser Desert Plan. And if the little marbles of mmm never make it past the vending machine front-lines of sugar-satieting service, then perhaps their modest placement in the pantheon of national sweet-n-savory snacks is right where they belong. May they never go the way of Bacon Thins, Mother’s glazed animal cookies, or (gasp) the cheap but oh-so-satisfying Marathon bar. Indeed, may it be M&Ms that last a long, long, long, long time.Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-78302601682554071822009-06-20T04:31:00.000-07:002009-06-20T15:20:49.709-07:00What I Saw on the Street: Dirty Robbers!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7pOsUgPMBC8IT6mQ1KKdS-xAq_ZWQUn4fAUfTXA8d6SeLXGaKzuqKxt_hoeb2PkOzVWHsiJOhiArf60L8DE4LduKJucL-tp68IbUUea3ObWqDdX95084A0ZLBdvjKGQYFmjh/s1600-h/DSCN1647.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7pOsUgPMBC8IT6mQ1KKdS-xAq_ZWQUn4fAUfTXA8d6SeLXGaKzuqKxt_hoeb2PkOzVWHsiJOhiArf60L8DE4LduKJucL-tp68IbUUea3ObWqDdX95084A0ZLBdvjKGQYFmjh/s320/DSCN1647.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349372087613236082" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); text-decoration: underline; "><table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="582" style="width: 581.85pt; border-collapse: collapse; border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border- color:initial;"><tbody><tr><td width="464" valign="top" style="width: 463.95pt; border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-top-color: windowtext; border-right-color: windowtext; border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-left- border-top-width: 0.5pt; border-right-width: 0.5pt; border-bottom-width: 0.5pt; border-left-width: 0.5pt; padding-top: 0in; padding-right: 5.4pt; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 5.4pt; color:windowtext;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">Sometimes just a walk down the street is enough to make you smile. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">Like this small sticker I saw on a power box on Hope Street. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">Ironic, no? Right downtown, in the heart of LA’s business district is </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">a sign that really tells it like it is. Now if they only had this sign posted </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">on the roads so people could be <i>really</i></span><span style="color:black;"> aware of what’s going on. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">As it is, the PC police will probably remove this sticker, so I was quick </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;">to get it on film before it’s gone.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span><img style="text-decoration: underline;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrhcV-KTkIGLxlVrHa4MOLa3NWCOpBVQLD756t-rxMGCpP1SpwFIVf7IF77GUPaNVoNQixsesjNI5D7X5JW4ZuCpULaCNnwGraerALFsRqk9uSa6ky0SDIAItZzTR4euEjf6I/s320/DSCN1646.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349371887051925122" /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); text-decoration: underline;"> <!--StartFragment--> <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="582" style="width:581.85pt; border-collapse:collapse;border:none;mso-border-alt:solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt"><tbody> </tbody></table> <!--EndFragment--> </span>Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-41548089613543445862009-06-19T02:41:00.000-07:002009-06-19T02:50:46.393-07:00What I Saw on the Street: Handy Man Haulin'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqTW0CdRp7PvmoaNjpd6we-JdysLeBUONpqMw0-GrQOHHmwDv6rzFeOQEfLDjwHvMrKxMzud43rbw8ZZFOGKD6Fq8BdaSF6xSd-dGYJRaIYTz1UucNfX_8gJ_yZmzeb5oEOcBg/s1600-h/HandyManHaulin2.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS9KzAMWPFm_biT8mYwMgIXAMdQ1PKuXmVjCjhehiEwz53psdsg9QsEqyUJGJXxmTzQGA0q2jujt7QgrhdKXPg9LuF0RUSCpBefsNmlkSc10zw6phkn6_PfkWUyZit73f06o0r/s1600-h/HandyManHaulin4.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS9KzAMWPFm_biT8mYwMgIXAMdQ1PKuXmVjCjhehiEwz53psdsg9QsEqyUJGJXxmTzQGA0q2jujt7QgrhdKXPg9LuF0RUSCpBefsNmlkSc10zw6phkn6_PfkWUyZit73f06o0r/s400/HandyManHaulin4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348972402548263282" /></a>Now you don’t see a truck like this every day. But you might see one every day — at Kmart. Right there in swanky Burbank, just one street over from the IKEA/Bed Bath & Beblond Complex lurks a low-end, barely-staffed, so-ready-for-five-finger-discount Kmart. Surely a blight on the neighborhood, hidden barely by it’s proximity behind a Ralph’s grocery. I can even imagine Burbank Galleria architects' slightly altering the entrances, windows and store layouts to hide the Nuevo Mall-riche-ness from America’s dirty, early, unretouched retail roots.<br /><br /><br /><div>But what a wonderful truck this is. In the face of an economic meltdown, I imagine that this non-Apprentice-ready entrepreneur is probably picking up some business from the newly-down-and-out who need a lot of stuff hauled away. And need a paint job? He’s ready.<br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqTW0CdRp7PvmoaNjpd6we-JdysLeBUONpqMw0-GrQOHHmwDv6rzFeOQEfLDjwHvMrKxMzud43rbw8ZZFOGKD6Fq8BdaSF6xSd-dGYJRaIYTz1UucNfX_8gJ_yZmzeb5oEOcBg/s1600-h/HandyManHaulin2.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqTW0CdRp7PvmoaNjpd6we-JdysLeBUONpqMw0-GrQOHHmwDv6rzFeOQEfLDjwHvMrKxMzud43rbw8ZZFOGKD6Fq8BdaSF6xSd-dGYJRaIYTz1UucNfX_8gJ_yZmzeb5oEOcBg/s400/HandyManHaulin2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348973128696466498" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div>You don’t get these kind of pictograms except in primitive caves, and the sides of do-it-yourself-man vans by guys who create their own opportunities, even if the tons of scrap metal they’re haulin down the high way in their Roald-Dalh-esque junk jalopy may threaten your life in a sudden stop, blowout, or a 'but-officer, I-was-jus'-reaching-for-my-coffee moment.'<br /><br />Maybe we’re turning a corner in LA. A corner where Zza Gabor will be eclipsed by the return of some Joads like this guy who might just be moving up in a world that’s long been over due to come back down a notch or two. Who knows? Maybe IKEA and Bed Bath and Beblond will end up going Chapter 11 along with Linen’s & Things and free up some store front glass for this guy to display his wares, and maybe even his painting skills. With his ‘naïve’ approach to art, maybe he’ll be selling on canvas and not just putting a brush to the walls. I say more power to him. He's not asking for billion dollar bail-outs, that's for sure. <br /><br /></div>Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-10120906277807783352009-05-24T10:31:00.000-07:002009-05-28T02:50:07.184-07:00What I Saw on the Street: "i" Family<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBq_RLYuU-wFWPrZC75VtMySBzVjAvUsofN4h-kPPRsZumZ1Jg1ccGD-YM6wYRiGFV7ov7ochaFSWUSfcylvffsdZDYI6tlFtT59co_2c98mjawzs53CGDfyx0aHQQxdsBnsSY/s1600-h/FamilyXDecal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBq_RLYuU-wFWPrZC75VtMySBzVjAvUsofN4h-kPPRsZumZ1Jg1ccGD-YM6wYRiGFV7ov7ochaFSWUSfcylvffsdZDYI6tlFtT59co_2c98mjawzs53CGDfyx0aHQQxdsBnsSY/s400/FamilyXDecal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339445783774273570" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Ok, so it's not exactly digital, but these windshield family stickers are a wave of the digital age. i Family. or M"i" Family. or Famil"i".<br /><br />Iconized representations of everyone from baby to grandma and cat included, they are a plague on the already competency-challenged Angelinos. And there's a down side.<br /><br />Not to be morbid, but whenever I see one of these family stickers on the back of a car or truck, I can’t help but wonder what happens when the unthinkable happens. When Jr. or Tina or Grandma or Bobo the dog doesn’t make it. Do you go out and scrape them off the window? Put an “x” through them? Put a halo over their head? It just seems like if you go and put everyone in your family on a windshield, you, like bugs, are asking for it. Me, I’m not putting my loved ones on a windshield. It’s the last place I hope they end up.Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-55364768765196646022009-05-24T10:30:00.000-07:002009-05-24T10:30:30.968-07:00What I Saw on the "Street": Have You Been Xlerated?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWK5Z2ceVO9Z1iVpwmBFnu1FFlCavrlUnOFbQ8-vkKU2zm0QUzurqP0xgTZE_7KH6jbIduB0-mAXWapjZS0CVeLS7-_JP_eDaLe1GK9sBiLA6_ps6AtTR2GNa8oAfDa87mQscn/s1600-h/XleratorDryer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWK5Z2ceVO9Z1iVpwmBFnu1FFlCavrlUnOFbQ8-vkKU2zm0QUzurqP0xgTZE_7KH6jbIduB0-mAXWapjZS0CVeLS7-_JP_eDaLe1GK9sBiLA6_ps6AtTR2GNa8oAfDa87mQscn/s400/XleratorDryer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339438496485022594" border="0" /></a>Have you been Xlerated yet? No, it’s not a ride at your local Six Flags, it’s a turbo-charged air blower in your local bathroom. Not to be outdone by the simple but now-woefully-outdated hand-dryer, the Xlerator has gone 2.0 reboot. This ain’t your mamma’s hand dryer. But you might wish it were.<br /><br />Featured in water-and-paper conscious establishments all across LA, this device boasts "xlerated" drying time by blasting water from the washer's hands. What it doesn't boast is that the air pressure is so xtreme that the skin on your hand will fold and flap like a turkey waddle.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='232' height='192' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyAL1mN2NI6fibqLftlBgd0YHTBUHOXUip-FpyYl8cQIbZpdkRbLZfFKggVou_jegwT3hSAJ9dM2A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><br />Not what anyone wants to see, much less an age-conscious gay may facing down an army of OC/Gossip Girl look-alikes every day on the city streets. Maybe don't need to see that right now in my fragile, close-to-shattering, delicate frame of mind.<br /><br />Watching my hand ripple and turn into a skin sail, I immediately Roger Moore's brush with death in the G-Force Simulator from 1979's "Moonraker". His face ripples back and we get a look at what a dive in a jet plane would look like with Joan Rivers flying it to plastic surgery hell. No thanks.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsVnEYTjCPtvjBvl2KqtPvqo-D-v6V9IVxjRg91RPl-deG0vngNDBXlbsk_sZiqlugpSfOt5B_tIAZLGy8VUoW9VJ0O2wEaJXC7Dh9jNgZC7QMQQY6S8c5ae4bgB9AyMW_qbD0/s1600-h/MoonrakerGforce6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 114px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsVnEYTjCPtvjBvl2KqtPvqo-D-v6V9IVxjRg91RPl-deG0vngNDBXlbsk_sZiqlugpSfOt5B_tIAZLGy8VUoW9VJ0O2wEaJXC7Dh9jNgZC7QMQQY6S8c5ae4bgB9AyMW_qbD0/s200/MoonrakerGforce6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339440754997912370" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizu-Z4H_J2qbmNxL6cO50iqcs3dCEvwHqnCVaIoiBUD1RUoTa_P8uqA1GWdbzCE22dJC30UPBgYIMyP2fsENtgLMN7ZvwDWxw7naOWGyZWsSnV_1cTRtLPG0PJeUten0a5-DzO/s1600-h/MoonrakerGForce3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 95px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizu-Z4H_J2qbmNxL6cO50iqcs3dCEvwHqnCVaIoiBUD1RUoTa_P8uqA1GWdbzCE22dJC30UPBgYIMyP2fsENtgLMN7ZvwDWxw7naOWGyZWsSnV_1cTRtLPG0PJeUten0a5-DzO/s200/MoonrakerGForce3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339440498733955906" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3LqdtyajMQ3QDlLKEdxUve3XTxBaAGrvDxtv3Sdb85i0iEwKnEfw8vBj59pl5O-Ipa5Y33ib0bkzK7SMOA346MkhAVehZ1PI_zBF_fH7veI-6otUi7xlpO1UWPXN4Uv_Hkgd/s1600-h/MoonRakerGForce.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3LqdtyajMQ3QDlLKEdxUve3XTxBaAGrvDxtv3Sdb85i0iEwKnEfw8vBj59pl5O-Ipa5Y33ib0bkzK7SMOA346MkhAVehZ1PI_zBF_fH7veI-6otUi7xlpO1UWPXN4Uv_Hkgd/s320/MoonRakerGForce.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339442323618898114" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I don’t even want to see it on my hand. So as sanitary and fast as the Xlerator might be, I’ll be looking for paper towels, the old fashioned hand-dryer, or maybe just wiping my hands on my jeans. So what if people think I wet myself. At least they won’t think I’m old. Oh- Wait a second…Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-29648743567363224242009-05-16T15:34:00.000-07:002009-05-16T16:34:52.063-07:00What "I" Saw on the Street: Apartment Hunting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqWXH1FLdoAEZ1loDFld4VJIKfIC5mzh2JVbYQWA2-fvKrvLaxf9T_YJhSnakw5Xc0XiSNB0jLOltsnB5yqER2dUDXBfFdmoHITGbnbIq0iByRtFn-R32zAnZZQmmlOpd_Knc/s1600-h/WhatGoogleMapsSaw.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqWXH1FLdoAEZ1loDFld4VJIKfIC5mzh2JVbYQWA2-fvKrvLaxf9T_YJhSnakw5Xc0XiSNB0jLOltsnB5yqER2dUDXBfFdmoHITGbnbIq0iByRtFn-R32zAnZZQmmlOpd_Knc/s320/WhatGoogleMapsSaw.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336558327846456242" border="0" /></a>First, I put "I" in quotes because this first picture is actually what Google "saw." I love it when the Google Camera is in front of a large object so that whatever it was you were looking for is not visible. Not even from the robo-satellites that are apparently photographing the entire planet.<br /><br />here's the house I live in now.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjakymlWexZhskWubXt4khUL7mj_65QOOyxk1eiGeH6h2b8Edt67B8UI9P2l0-RL4G1DIgNKJ73MVlZDgYSnQKPX-PMYBrncDddMC-47-RSRTtK2xH2Uvvb4zTK5Jok5cQPP95N/s1600-h/1251SRedondoHouse.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjakymlWexZhskWubXt4khUL7mj_65QOOyxk1eiGeH6h2b8Edt67B8UI9P2l0-RL4G1DIgNKJ73MVlZDgYSnQKPX-PMYBrncDddMC-47-RSRTtK2xH2Uvvb4zTK5Jok5cQPP95N/s200/1251SRedondoHouse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336565419919521842" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj37k4cUdBuds3JAbxsIYuvQZdUyeyv85xdqHuOmZFABn1trWPATgjF9W9kR8rzcqQFdbCkAxMmf-hQ_Kp8AjedCjyDHIhghiAps4RVTi1sAO3QbhU3JeBCz9BKpBynA1dUticB/s1600-h/1251+S+RedondoMap.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj37k4cUdBuds3JAbxsIYuvQZdUyeyv85xdqHuOmZFABn1trWPATgjF9W9kR8rzcqQFdbCkAxMmf-hQ_Kp8AjedCjyDHIhghiAps4RVTi1sAO3QbhU3JeBCz9BKpBynA1dUticB/s200/1251+S+RedondoMap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336566816969644466" border="0" /></a>Even from space you can see that it's a four lane, divided road, that yes, is the fire/police/wailing siren corridor. See why I'm trying to move?<br /><br /><br /><br />And here is a house that someone else wanted me to move into. And when I say "house," what I really mean is garage.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichGrfd4tDckSQpAUa8lRY04JEAcBqCIGLhPM0MXiF8q-bSsuMe_xo4tgU3XhQuhP1SoCmKaZxagTzVIwhGN0QWSa1Le7rb_YGjf6-YCj_NdZ_Oe3cTD_7HmuQHY94D06pEXLC/s1600-h/GarageApartment2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichGrfd4tDckSQpAUa8lRY04JEAcBqCIGLhPM0MXiF8q-bSsuMe_xo4tgU3XhQuhP1SoCmKaZxagTzVIwhGN0QWSa1Le7rb_YGjf6-YCj_NdZ_Oe3cTD_7HmuQHY94D06pEXLC/s400/GarageApartment2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336567611113289186" border="0" /></a>When I asked the landlady who had lived here before, what I really meant was "who died to vacate the place for me?" She was very enthused to tell me that her <span style="font-style: italic;">mother</span> had lived there. Now <span style="font-style: italic;">that's</span> love. No, her mother didn't die (she only WISHED she had), she moved in with another daughter. A daughter (I'm guessing) with no spare cellar, garage, or closet to put her. The landlady was proud to show off the new appliances (they really were new, she scored points there). But the bedroom was the size of a cell, hard-tiled on the floor, with one small window. Well, really, it was a ventilation grid. The bathroom was equally dark, and I only ventured to put my head through the doorway in case maybe there was an automatically locking door and she was planning to keep me there as an unwilling domestic.<br /><br />"The last girl was here two years," she exclaimed. 'And then the pneumonia set in?' I thought. Then the landlady then showed me the best feature of all. When you want to lose the view of the cars in the driveway and just get away from all the fresh air and sunlight, just click the garage door button the side of the wall.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDa4KiFfTyOgFZ2mctEf8P7DK15Zfxn6MmXo6EDB7iKkWehF9WqHsH0A4YxzGn1fu5raHRq46NcV9ffJsg52xKvCTvv5rfi2eZ7UVHc8M1HG5zsAUkK_SxplC7FhYuxxBoAHdr/s1600-h/GarageApartmentView.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDa4KiFfTyOgFZ2mctEf8P7DK15Zfxn6MmXo6EDB7iKkWehF9WqHsH0A4YxzGn1fu5raHRq46NcV9ffJsg52xKvCTvv5rfi2eZ7UVHc8M1HG5zsAUkK_SxplC7FhYuxxBoAHdr/s400/GarageApartmentView.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336568147543840818" border="0" /></a>Down rolls the automatic door, each segmented panel lurching quietly into place until the white, aluminum wall slams like a whisper into the coarse brickwork of the driveway...brickwork which is your kitchen floor. Perfect for stubbing your toe on a Sunday morning.<br /><br />I began to wonder if I had any enemies I could send the listing to. "Christian" teachers who had beaten with a ruler in school. Bullies who'd made my life hell. And then I came up with the perfect tenant. Bernie Madoff. He'd love the savings. And the TB, it's totally free!Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35432661.post-3985400245308944702009-05-12T16:31:00.002-07:002009-05-15T04:01:19.917-07:00What I Saw On the Street: Box Man<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimNPnQ5Y3uFgJTdsw8IZ7twuioI3uQhy_o8IF20U3dYtABCBCq96Bi-701gMJ1aH1rJlV9rmp9UvGWnt-S2MzYEYJrEgCjaoIQUC7RuTd1S6sQlB_zhv6rbiDBmpC80UJxnunV/s1600-h/LAboxHead.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimNPnQ5Y3uFgJTdsw8IZ7twuioI3uQhy_o8IF20U3dYtABCBCq96Bi-701gMJ1aH1rJlV9rmp9UvGWnt-S2MzYEYJrEgCjaoIQUC7RuTd1S6sQlB_zhv6rbiDBmpC80UJxnunV/s320/LAboxHead.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336003565774681090" /></a><div>I'm starting a new blog feature that I call "What I Saw on the Street". Whether it's stainless steel "balls" hanging from the back of a trailer hitch, or a man with a box on his head on Hollywood Boulevard...there is no predicting what you'll see on city streets here in LA. Because I'm using my cell phone for most of the shots, they may have a slightly Bigfoot Tabloid 1973 quality, but I really think that adds to the whole look. </div><div><br /></div><div>Driving through town the other day, I indeed saw this man on H0llywood Boulevard with a box on his head. He was homeless, and had a beggar's cup out. Whether he knew if he got any money, I'm not sure, since the bag seemed to block most of his view. But one thing is for sure, every time I see a homeless person, it puts my problems in perspective. Some of you might have a bum here or there, or maybe a town drunk. LA has a population numbering in the thousands (the country's largest. See, LA can boast about lots of things!). There is even something called the Mission District. Not the toni section of San Francisco, it's where the missions are. As in prayer and soup kitchens and priests tending to the down-n-out. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's easy to think, 'eh, things aren't going THAT well.' But when you pass someone laying in their own decayed filth, it really makes a ride in your 1994 Geo Metro feel like you're driving a Rolls Royce. So chin-up, look on the bright side, and be glad that despite your problems, you're not panhandling on Hollywood Boulevard with a box on your head.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now get back to your books!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Graeme Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14454091813490839478noreply@blogger.com3