Look: I'm a Californian. There are certain rules Californians abide by. One of them is to never end a sentence with a preposition.
I'm joking. I just broke that rule. Rule-breaking is what we do in California. Drug laws are optional, speed limits are just conservative suggestions, and contravening societal norms is the official state pastime.
But seriously: all kidding aside, the first rule of being a sane Californian is this: avoid crowds.
Crowds are everywhere in California, and much like hurricanes, they are capricious and pervasive during certain times of the year, but can be anticipated and predicted with a degree of scientific accuracy. So over the decades, we've developed certain strategies for avoiding the other 38 million ass-hats that live in our lovely state and circumventing crowd-related calamities.
For example:
Purchasing a year-long pass to Disneyland so you can take a day off and go there on Wednesday instead of having to fight your way through the weekend throngs and ticket lines.
Getting the hell out of Dodge (i.e., the L.A. Basin) before 3:30 p.m. on a weekday, or else you'll be stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on Interstate 15 as the commuters head home to the High Desert. On weekends, you get out even sooner (or don't go at all), as everybody and their mother with a boat or a hole in their pocket will be leaving at noon for Lake Mead or Las Vegas.
Making a reservation at Cheesecake Factory or Joe's Crab Shack or Red Lobster or even the goddamn hot dog stand on the corner, 'cause you're SOL if you don't, buster. (Or rather, SIL—standing in line, something the average Californian has about 20,000 hours of experience doing.)
Picking the tiniest, dumpiest, lousiest backwater on the map and going to that town's DMV office, 'cause you'll have to camp out overnight in front of the one in your town and wait in a line around the building otherwise.
Get the picture?
Unfortunately, there's no escaping some crowds. If you're planning on a day in Santa Monica, Malibu, Venice, Long Beach, or any of the other coastal suburbs (or their fabulous beaches), you're going to get stuck in traffic. Just accept it. You'll have to fight your way in and fight your way out.
If you're anywhere near Grauman's Chinese Theatre on a premiere night, you'll be weaving through packs of sozzled socialites and dodging homicidal Lamborghinis. Might as well get used to the idea.
And unfortunately for me, there seems to be no getting around the crowd (literally) anywhere in the vicinity of Tiananamen Square on a holiday weekend, rain or no rain. The place was packed with tourists, both Chinese and foreign. Miss H, Miss J and I had elbowed our way through the square and taken a breather in Zhongshan Garden, but now it was time for the main event: the Forbidden City.
Miss H, Miss J and I joined the inchoate mass of people funneling into the palace at the main gate. I marveled at the great honking picture of Mao Zedong which adorned this structure. It seems that the Chinese people can't get enough of the Great Architect. His mug's everywhere: on the Forbidden City gates, in private homes and businesses, on postcards and stamps and posters, and on every single bill of every denomination of the yuan. (Yikes.) This one, however, took the cake: tall as a house and glowering over Tiananmen Square as though still ticked off at those student protesters from 1989.
We passed under the enormous, intimidating archway and found ourselves in a broad courtyard flooded with human beings:
I was annoyed and dismayed by the crowd. My imagination wanted to run away with me, but the roiling stew of people foiled it at every turn. I marveled that I stood on a patch of ground which Chinese peasants had been forbidden to look upon for five centuries. I wondered what kind of defensive fire the palace guards could call down upon the invaders or rebels who somehow surmounted the main gate and entered this vast yard. But the people shouldering me aside and tripping over my feet rather distracted me from these delicious ideas.
We passed the next great archway (whose doors were studded with great metal knobs, presumably for defense) and found ourselves in...um, another courtyard. Rather similar to the first, I might add.
We were rapidly tiring of this game. The only difference between this yard and the last one was that this new one had a ticket office in it. In the mist-shrouded distance lay the most impressive gate yet. It possessed great, majestic wings which branched out from the central structure as though to lock visitors in its mighty embrace.
...and which were also coated with ugly scaffolding.
The whole thing was being restored and renovated, it looked like. Just our luck. Tokyo Tower was being renovated when I was there in August; Mao's Mausoleum had scaffolding all over it; and now this. It was just about enough for the three of us. The crowds, the drizzle, the long walk, and the castrated look of the palace under construction combined to dampen our enthusiasm. With scarcely a word between us, we three turned about and walked away from the Forbidden City. We neither penetrated its unknown depths nor paid a single yuan in admission fees. We were tired, footsore, cranky, and ready for a nap. So we returned to the Novotel Xin Qiao and had one, a sinfully good one.
When we awoke in the middle of the afternoon, we were ready for our final conquest: THE TEMPLE OF HEAVEN.
Yes, as you may have noticed, I've been out recently. I intended to keep up a more frequent blog in 2011, but working six days a week caused my entries to fall off sharply in late 2010. And I've sort of spaced out these last few weeks.
Why?
I've been sick.
For nearly three weeks, yes.
First they thought it was mono. Then they didn't. Then they thought it was again. Then, apparently, they thought it was "some sort of viral infection that will probably go away by itself."
Unquote.
Great. That's lucid.
I was prepared to ride it out. All I had was a fever and some aches. No sniffles, no sinus problems, no cough, nothing. I was living large, not going to work, mooning around the house in my bathrobe all day, Moby-Dick in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. (But please don't ask me how much writing I've done during this sudden unexpected vacation. You're better off not knowing.)
Heck, I thought I was on the road to recovery. I was feeling pretty good. I even went back to work. It sure was grand to be back in the Mooney and flying 6,000 feet above the desert floor. My right ear refused to pop coming back down again, but I shrugged it off.
Then the sore throat began.
It came out of nowhere that very evening. All of a sudden I was wincing as I swallowed. A stabbing whack of pain bolted from my palate to my tonsils every time I did.
Certain people near and dear to me insisted that I go back to the doctor. (Thanks, Ma. Still looking out for me.)
So, one doctor's appointment and a gag-inducing throat swab later, it became apparent that, not only do I have strep throat, but also an ear infection.
Now that's just mah-veluss.
What we figure is that the ear infection came on first, which explains the fever and aches I had for the first two weeks. Then the strep throat bacteria just saw its opportunity (my immune system already compromised) and dove right in.
Oh well. At least I have a definite diagnosis now (and drugs, huzzah!).
I'm kind of glad it wasn't mono. That means I stand to recover from it sooner. Mono would've created an extremely awkward situation, given that my girlfriend doesn't have it.
Speaking of my girlfriend, she's been an absolute angel throughout all this. Despite long days babysitting five rambunctious children and giving her friends rides down to lesser Los Angeles, she's never missed the chance to come up here and look after me. I still get hugs and kisses even though I'm sick and greasy and disgusting. I feel at once fortunate and extremely humbled. Thanks, Miss H. You're a doll. When this is over, you and I are heading out on the town. I'll treat you to the evening of your life.
There's just one last thing left to settle before I can do that, though.
I want those three frickin' weeks of my life back.
Somebody owes me big for this, and I'm collecting.
The hammer-headed cross-eyed lame-brained weevil who gave me this ear infection is dead. I'm going to string him up by his thumbs and burn the epithet "WAX-MEISTER" onto his stomach with a branding iron. He's cheated me out of a fortnight's pay.
And as for the scene-stealing four-flushing irredeemable ass-hat who transmitted the rest of this bacteria unto me...well, if you're there when I catch up to him, I just hope you turn away. Just look in the other direction. You've been given fair warning. It'll put you off your lunch for the next 10 years. It'll make the Spanish Inquisition look like a pillow fight.
Anyway, that's why I've been out. More and better posts should be coming within the next few days. There's exciting news in the offing, on all fronts. Stay tuned...
P.S. Oh yeah, I have a question to ask you guys. Does anybody know how to change the color of your blog title with this new blog editor thingy? I want to make it lighter. Can't hardly see the dark blue print against the control cabin of that B-17...
People often tell me I'm a lucky man. And when I say "people," I'm obviously talking about my mother. She watches me as I bumble my way through life, dodging this, ducking that, running headlong into the other, always somehow finding my way out of a jam. (Or, as happens more often, having the way out dropped into my lap.) She always shakes her head and says, "Well, Andrew, you certainly inherited your father's luck."
Apparently, Dad does the same thing. He and I just roll through life, sanguine as you please, and when disaster strikes, we have to scramble to rebuild the dike. But we manage it somehow, either by hook or by crook. Pop even jokes to Ma that his middle name is "Damage Control." Looking at some of the tight spots I've been in, I can't help but think Dad's passed something on to me resembling chronic good fortune.
But there's no use denying it any longer. I'm broke. Not quite flat broke, to be sure; I have enough money for maybe two months' rent, if I was living in an apartment. Possibly three, if I was in a cardboard box by the reservoir.
So when I finally decided two nights ago that, yes, my computer had picked up a virus, my motherly caring side naturally wasn't the first on the scene.
Nice going, bozo, my inner accountant groused. How you gonna pay for this? You might have to hawk those Monty Python DVDs after all. And ya thought you were out of the woods...
I gave it my best shot. I deleted all my temporary Internet files. I ran Ad-Aware and AVG, my anti-spyware and anti-virus programs respectively. Nothing doing. The virus was still in there somewhere.
My folks happened to have a copy of Kaspersky Internet Security 2010 lying around, so I installed that and gave it a go. It detected the virus, but it couldn't delete it: it kept freezing up.
Well, shoot. I heaved a sigh, got up the next morning, and took my poor abused Toshiba into town to be fixed. Repairs would have cost me $200, which, as I've already pointed out, I don't have.
It was right about then that a small dose of my genetically-enhanced luck kicked in.
As I am standing in front of the repair counter, filling out the paperwork to have my laptop diagnosed and cleaned, my brand-new cell phone starts ringing. I put down the pen and answer it. It's my best buddy John, whose house I am going to for a barbecue later in the evening. He actually works at the same computer repair shop where I've taken my laptop. He's not there, though; he's home. He has strep throat, but he hasn't called off the party. He just wants to remind me that I don't have to bring any side dishes; he's got it covered. Bring a bottle if I so desire; he's got Scotch and beer out the wazoo. I say okay, thank him, hang up, and keep filling out paperwork.
I finish the forms and hand them to the repair person. Just as she's beginning to fill in fields on her computer screen, my cell phone rings again. It's Dad. He wants to know what's wrong with my computer. I tell him that I've only just finished the paperwork, and diagnostics haven't commenced yet. I'll call him back when I hear anything. Dad says okay, and we hang up.
The repair woman is almost finished filling in those fields, and is about to lay hands on my laptop and start plugging in wires, when my phone rings again.
It's John. It's loud in the store and I can barely make out what he's saying, but I do catch a few revolutionary words: "...bring your computer over to my house and I'll fix it."
I don't remember exactly what I said in reply. My mind had gone somewhat blank. Accepting $200 of repair fees and then finding out you're reprieved five minutes later...that pulls the rug out from under your brain, so to speak. I stammered a thank you, thought up some feeble excuse for the repair lady ("Uh, can we hold on for a moment? I've just thought of something else I might try"), and boogied.
The expression "weight lifted from one's shoulders" gets tossed around a tad excessively these days. It's lost its power as a result. As I stepped out of the shop into the bright winter sun, I realized how powerful it truly was. I felt, quite literally, as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. There was a little extra spring to my step, a noticeable lightness in my innards. I wouldn't have to spend $200. That wasn't as good as being in love, true. But whew anyway.
Shopping for a bottle for John's party was all the sweeter. In the end, I settled on some tequila and margarita mix. Who says you can't have margaritas in January, anyway? I ask ya, who?
I went home and dumped some stuff off (including that long sought-after library copy of The Epic of Gilgamesh). Then I drove back to John's house with my diseased computer. He popped in a repair CD, ran some programs, isolated the virus, and killed it. Then (over the course of the party) we ran some more scans and tests. Both of us pronounced the machine cured at a quarter to two, after a spotty all-night vigil.
Maybe Dad's karma rubbed off on me when he called right before John did? Who knows?
Thanks to the help of a friend, I was able to get the dang virus off the computer for free.
John, you're a lifesaver. I take back what I said about you being a square because you won't go to Australia with me.
And I got to party in between the scans we ran, too.
Beat that for luck.
