Lovers Lane to Crazy Train

 

  I pulled into my friend’s place of work (a large industrial building in north Valencia that rests atop of a hill).  I walked in and noticed several employees standing at the large window facing the view of the valley. Behind the veil of dark tint we all became peeping Toms. It was explained to me that a few couples, some during their lunch hour, come to this location to park (an older term describing front or back seat fornication).  This particular couple in their late thirties put up sun visors destroying the nice view of the valley, but not our view of their indiscretions.  A few full moon appearances later, they got out of their vehicles and decided to finish dressing.  My guess is that the cost of motels lately has made some people more creative. The customary holler of “get a room”  no longer applies.

The purpose of my visit was to accompany my friend on a job to analyze possible damage to some furniture after a move. Approximately one hour in traffic and we arrive at an apartment in West LA, situated on a…you guessed it… cul-de-sac.  We waited for a reply at the gate buzzer.  She picks up and instead of saying hello says: “You’re late.  I will have to walk all the way down and let you in, otherwise you will get lost and waste my time.”

I turn to my friend.  “It’s only two minutes after our appointment time – is she for real?”

“Welcome to Looney Tunes,” he comments.

She greets us at the gate and demands that we don’t walk behind her, instead, we are asked to lead.  “How do we find your apartment?” I ask.  “Don’t worry, I’m sure you will find it!”

My friend chimes in, “You have to direct us. We don’t know where you live!”

After she gives us some misguided direction, we get to her door. Suddenly, she holds up her arm like a crossing guard directing school kids and says, “You have to wear shopping bags on your feet before you touch my hardwood floors.”

I rolled my eyes and complied with the inane request to expedite our visit  to her personal sanitarium.  I whipped out my trusty measuring tape, and then as if I pulled the devil himself out of my camera bag she goes off the deep end.

“No cameras – no cameras – I said no cameras!  You are trying to take advantage of me because I’m a woman!”

“No ma’am. I need to take photos so I know what it is I need from the shop,” I said.

She frantically searches for her cell phone and while walking away says , “I’m calling your boss!”

My friend pulls her aside to try to reason with her. “Look, I am the boss, and we are here to help resolve the issues with the supposed damage which you have yet to provide.”

She used some expletives and that was enough for my buddy. “We’re out of here!”

She rants some more, and then completes a one-ninety ( her train track is that warped) . “Wait. I will compromise. I can cover up my things with a blanket so you don’t invade my privacy.”

Reluctantly we placed the bags back on our feet and tried again. One photo into our escapade and she asks me to look at her glass entertainment center.  “Can you look and find some scratches for me, I know they are there?”

Wanting to say more, I just simply said, “No.” It wasn’t my place to psychoanalyze this woman who clearly needed to be back on her meds. Then my friend approached her one more time; from the wrong angle apparently.

“You’re cornering – you’re cornering me! She shouted. 

“Look – we are really trying to…”

She cut him off mid sentence and says, “You’re a real fucker!”

We removed the 99 cent store bags from our feet and flew the cuckoo’s nest.

After a long and silent drive home I pulled up to my driveway and noticed a new BMW in Jack’s garage. And then out comes Dianne, dressed in a black negligee, ushering out some young guy wearing a suit and tie. Must be a client.

I spy

Kaye is the latest addition to the cul-de-sac; a young looking, thin and frail woman in her forties. She has actually been in her home for several months but is somewhat of a recluse. I recently had the pleasure of a one-sided introduction in the middle of her driveway while my dog was relieving himself on her lawn. She eased the window down and said…nothing.  I immediately apologized for my dogs loose bowels and promptly began gagging during the clean-up with the microscopic sized bag my wife ties to the leash.

After she was done with what felt like a voyeuristic candid camera moment she unrolled her window further and said, “I just got back from church.” 

Before I could even respond, her window was up and she was pulling into her garage.  The stories from around the cul about her are mostly that she watches everyone and everything through her upstairs window—I’m glad I switched from tightey-whities to boxer briefs when I go to get the paper!

Sadly, I have to announce that Raven has flown from the cul-de-sac.  She and her two boys moved away last week without as much as a goodbye.  Truth be told, the real reason might be that she is looking to start over in a community where no one knows her. Her local boyfriend still drives here in the middle of the night and parks out front of the cheaters nest for a couple minutes, probably to reminisce –then he speeds off in anger.

Remember Raven’s bad landlord? Well, he’s back, renovating the house. It started with demolition and then mounds of junk in the garage, and then frequent visits to the garage late at night. The following day, a small fire breaks out in the garage. The trash heap, according to Kaye who came to investigate, was smoldering and beginning to scorch the walls. The landlord was nowhere to be found. Just as Kaye was about to call the fire department one of the workers shows up, unlocks the garage and promptly smothers the fire with a water hose and buckets of dirt.

The worker calls the landlord and he arrives within minutes. The first thing out of his mouth is, “did anyone call the police?”

He appeared relieved when his worker said no, however, Kaye went home and soon after, the police arrived with the fire investigator. Since I wasn’t around to witness the event I have to go by Kaye’s testimonial; she states they questioned him for at least an hour while he was detained in handcuffs. The authorities eventually left the scene issuing only a fine.

Today the crew is repairing the garage. I think I will keep my fire extinguisher handy!

Fres-no!

 When the idea of going to Fresno was first brought up I thought, why would anyone want to visit…isn’t it usually the contrary? A colleague of mine presented me with an idea for a book. I liked the concept and the fact that it would not take an arm and a leg to start – just a tender ass from driving. Off to the agricultural pit of America we went. Several hours later, of which half I spent trying to tune out some horrible country music, we made our exit toward our final destination. I turned to my cohort and said, “How is it possible that there are wineries out here?”

 “Got to go through a few oysters before you get a pearl,” she said.

Hungry for a snack we stopped in at a fast food joint. While waiting for our order we noticed some locals. This couple was arguing over whether Taco Bell was better than Carls Jr; I couldn’t help but gawk. The good ol’ boy table behind us couldn’t resist either.

 “Damn, that girl didn’t get hit by the ugly stick…she fell through the whole forest!” And, “That girl could eat an apple through a picket fence!” A bit of an understatement considering her teeth were pointing up and not out.

 The remainder of the trip was enlightening; I can’t wait to describe what we found.

Exposéd

  

 

Here we go again-another post pairing. Not all Cul-de-sacs are created equal, and not every body is either. Thank God! The evening started out rather unsuspecting with the usual suspects on this particularly warm night. As the evening progressed and the drinks flowed into double fists, more and more people began showing up. The additional people are friends but they are outside the gathering we normally have. 

The evening took a turn when I triple dog-dared my friend to drop trou and jump in the pool. He thought about it for about a split second and then he launched himself, full Monty, into the middle of the pool. It was a mix of laughter and screams and then one by one all followed suit…no suit! The water was a 90 degrees which made it comfortable.

 Natural or synthetic seemed to be a focus of the water follies; the girls were more interested in a hands-on approach to each other rather than paying attention to the opposite sex. The peer pressure was getting thick but I was sober and not easily swayed. Don’t get me wrong, I love to streak, skinny dip or drop trou-I’m usually the first one in with no takers, but it felt different this time.

Then my wife went topless. I guess it’s been awhile since I have seen her get loose.

 And then there were two; me and another bud that are undoubtedly the biggest nudists in the bunch and no one could believe we were the last men standing. Succumbing to the pressure, my buddy casually walked to the end of the pool, with the moon casting a spot light, he disrobed slowly and did a Ron Burgundy monologue closing out with, “cannon-balls!”

I laughed so hard I nearly shat myself, but I still wasn’t going in. Not two minutes go by and all the guys are pleading with me, “If you get naked so will Brooke-come on!” Even my wife was egging me on…of course I couldn’t let her down. Being the streaking professional that I am, I was able to run, leave my clothes pool side and dive away from the all male bath house.

 Warm water or cold…there is always shrinkage!  Well, at least I don’t have hair on my backside.

Clothing optional

Remember Jamie? Mister sparkled sandals with a good throwing arm. At first I thought it was just a coincidence, but after the third late night visit to the house of Dorkus it became clear…something gay this way comes. Without a care in the world he would walk down the middle of the street, through the side gate and meet up with Dorkus’ son, John.  I could hear some giggling and then a peculiar aroma surrounded the culdesac. The last time I smelled that was at a Motley Crue concert…I wonder if I can get a contact high?  

A few minutes later I hear two splashes into the pool; more giggling and then…yelling.

“What do you mean you’re not gay? What do you call this?” Jamie shouts.

“Keep your voice down,” John pleads.

The second story balcony light comes on and Dorkus sticks his head out the door.

“What’s going on down their?”

“Everything is cool Dad.”

I hear the gate slam shut and Jamie, with wet bathing suit in hand, is stomping his way home.

Something gay this way goes.

What’s the protocol?

 

Recently I went to my usual surf spot to tackle waves the size of a house. I did some stretching one last time – zipped up the wetsuit – waited for a lull and threw myself into the white wash. Out of nowhere a sneaker set came up and I found myself going backwards over the falls…not good.  Surfing etiquette would dictate that I hold onto my longboard at all costs. Well, I tried, but the force was too great on my arms, head and the rest of me. The board caught the wind and I felt my shoulder pop. The board went over the falls but I made it through…but I’m not out of the woods yet. Here comes an even larger set. I ignored my shoulder, bellied onto my gun and violently paddled to the outside.  I took a moment to catch my breath and evaluate my situation, and out of the corner of my eye I can see someone paddling over…Oh look, it’s Rob (no names here-starred in Thank you for smoking).  Maybe he’s coming over to make sure I’m ok?

“Hey, frickin hold on to your board, you almost killed me!”

I have surfed with him before, he’s not that good.  I respond, “Sorry, I usually don’t make mistakes like that.”

He continued to be upset with me and stated several more times, “You need to watch out, you could have hurt me!”

I start to paddle away and he starts ranting again.

“Look, I said I was sorry – you need to leave it alone!”  He did. (Over-actor!)

I waited one hour outside the kill zone for my shoulder pain to subside.  I could barely paddle, but I didn’t come out here for nothing.  Here comes another set…my ticket home. I muster every bit of paddle left in me, if I had a leather strap I would have bitten down it, and guess who is trying for the same wave?  No way Elmo! This is my wave.  He tries to stand up but he was way too early. Into shore I go and right to the doctors I headed.

So I’m stuck in bumper to bumper traffic and I spot my neighbor next to me. I pull alongside of him thinking if I stare long enough he will look over. That didn’t work, so I waved…nothing.  

Honk! Honk! He glances over, we exchanged head nods and that was it. Side by side for another hour we remained. This is weird and uncomfortable.  What’s the freeway etiquette?  Do I keep driving as if I don’t see him?  Do I keep waving like some creepy stalker? Do I invite a deafening conversation through the window?  Since he’s no longer looking over I guess I will just look at my cell phone and pretend to have a conversation.

Two weddings and a hooter of a time

There seems to be a commonality of late… events in pairs.  A week ago it was the Fourth of July disruptions, this weekend we had a pair of weddings to go to, back- to- back. 

The first ceremony took place in Westlake. It’s Friday, early afternoon and traffic was the primary concern so I relied on my years of driving experience to this area to get us there on time…we were early. There is a first for everything.

 The ceremony itself was serene, but the blistering sun produced a few uneven tans and one heat stroke.  Inside we went, only to be ushered to the outside patio…did someone say open bar!? Before we could even make it to the bar we were greeted by a tray of Captain Morgan and Coke – I’m so glad I didn’t pick this night to be the designated driver- this is the best wedding ever!  About an hour into hors d’oeuvres and idle chit-chat, about a dozen of our friends (all from the same area) casually made it to the same table in the back corner.

My wife blurted out, “No one puts Baby in the corner!” we all laughed, but in all honesty-and for the bride’s sake, the furthest away from our peanut gallery the better.  Unable to hear the DJ, we were all caught off guard when the bride and groom made their entrance to begin their first dance.  It was Blonde Demi Moore dances with the pool man- the lessons paid off.

 Although I was happy to see some food, I noticed we were the first table served salad and bread; I think they were sending us a message. Along with the bread came a huge plate of butter balls!

“Please pass the butter balls,” someone asked. Then someone had to say they were too salty and the conversation turned smutty.

“Oh, I like my balls salty!”

“I have the biggest and the saltiest balls of them all!” note: If you have to tell everyone how big your balls are…it just makes us believe the opposite.

And then the plate of butter is passed to my usually modest wife.  Everyone is laughing hysterically.  There are two balls of butter remaining on the plate, so what does she do? She pulls the plate to her face and places her tongue between the butter balls. Someone from our table was fast with their camera…can’t wait to see where the photo will appear.

It took about five minutes of clinking the wine glasses before they could get our attention; it was time for the best man speech.  It was really more like a long roast and sadly, no Christopher Walken impression (for those of us that know him).  The bride’s maid continued the oration and I watched an elderly guy slowly fall asleep.

 Earlier, the bride’s maids had passed out room keys to the bachelorettes at each table to be returned to the groom (when prompted) as a joke.  Well, the single women at our table wanted no part of the prank. Unexpectedly, I found both keys on the table in front of me…what the hell, I’ll do it! One of the girls took a rose from the centerpiece and shoved it over my ear, (it still had a thorn) I winced, grabbed my wife’s shawl and sashayed my way up to the head table.

I slammed the keys down in front of the groom –I took the rose from my ear and threw it against his chest, simultaneously shouting, “Take your keys back you bitch!” I sauntered back to my table and received a series of high-fives and a few astonished expressions – mainly my wife.  Later I found out the bride was not amused. 

The muffled speaking started again, but everyone was on their way to hammered town, so we all just continued our own subject matter, of which one I overheard.  It was about poker odds and bad beats in a tournament… one out of four wedding guests surveyed said… boring!

The temporary dullness made way for a food fight, or should I say, toss the bread into the cleavage.  I’m not sure who won, but from my vantage point, I feel the victor. There was only one party-foul during the ambush,  someone threw something wet and was a bit off target – the embarrassing result was that she appeared to be lactating.  The evening came to a close with some dirty dancing and a he loves me, he loves me not flower shared between two of my macho buddies.

Day 2

We’re off to Irvine for another wedding.  I was both excited and apprehensive; this was my first Jewish wedding, but we didn’t know anybody except the bride and groom. We exited the freeway and turned down synagogue row – I named the street that because we turned into the first synagogue by mistake.  The ceremony was about to begin and I was handed my first yarmulke (it’s pronounced yamaka and is also called a kippah). 

I turned to my wife and said, “Do they know I’m not Jewish?”

“If they couldn’t tell by how tall you are then they certainly could tell by the fact you’re wearing the kippah on your forehead.”  

After the ceremony we walked out into the adjacent reception hall to find our themed table.  Our centerpiece was a picture of their dog with a story of how the groom proposed in a dog park. What they didn’t say was how they were both kneeling in dog-do during the momentous occasion.  They really area cute couple, mazel! 

Now comes the dancing, and I spot a well endowed woman in a strapless dress three sizes too small. I could have sworn someone whispered in my ear and said, “Welcome to Hooters, what can I get you?”

I leaned over and advised my table buddy, Lisa, to arm herself with her bazooka sized camera and get ready for a photo op.  When the band began to play the next song, I’ll stop the world and melt with you - all the attention from our table was aimed at the dance floor. When the band sang the lyrics “o-pen wide,” it happened.  Wardrobe malfunction!  Her boob sprang out like a jack-in-the-box and without a second thought she pulled up her top and kept on dancing. There were more occurrences but it just seemed like she was doing it for the attention and the bit was losing its appeal. The way I see it; there was no five drink minimum and I didn’t have to break out a roll of singles.  When the song was over my applause went to the blonde Janet and the band.

Overall, it was an entertaining weekend… and I got a free hat!