Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Give and Take

This morning, the wife and I headed out to the pinky toe of the San Fernando Valley to look at ovens and have our first budget meeting with the company building our house. It was fun picking out the kitchen of my dreams, and the cost meeting was suprisingly easy -- no out-of-control costs...yet. We spoke about a lot of details (like door handles and tile) and met the interior designer (who was anything like the South Florida big-haired weirdo I imagined her to be.

Exhausted, we returned home and switched on the TV. The news was full of reports from the South on the devastation from Hurricane Katrina. I saw the streets full of water, looters walking out of stores with bags full of stuff, and people looking around in fear and disbleief. My wife spoke to someone whose family lived in New Orleans. Her mother may be in the Astrodome, but she's not sure. There's only one radio station on the air, the rest is static.

It was an interesting contrast -- me building a house, and these people losing theirs. I can't imagine what they must be feeling. The utter loss. As I sat and watched the newscast, a Simon and Garfunkle song, Bookends, crept into my mind.

""Time it was and what a time it was it was.
A time of innocence, a time of confidences.
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph.
Preserve your memories; they're all that's left you."

Let's help.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Perfection







There are very few things in life that are perfect -- a baby's skin, a sunset over the ocean; the timeless note played on a finely tuned guitar.

Sometimes people mistake pure perfection with manufactured perfection. They think that only by changing and refining something can it be truly pristine. That's true in some cases, but real perfection isn't made, it's found.

I've written before about American Flatbread, a frozen pizza originally started by an organic foodie in Vermont and sold in supermarkets around the country. After blogging about them, I received an email from Clark, who owns Food Remembers, the West Coast version of the bakery/restaurant. He invited me to come by if I was ever in Los Alamos, a town 50 minutes north of Santa Barbara.

Some people may think it's crazy to drive an hour to try some pizza, and though I believe that most of the time life's more about the journey than the destination, in this case, the destination makes the journey.

The restaurant is on the main street at the edge of town (the town is only 1 mile long). A dog sits on the front porch, greeting customers. The place is only open two nights a week -- the rest of the time it's a bakery cranking out hordes of frozen pizza for distribution in 20 states west of the Mississippi.

The first thing you notice when you enter the "dining room" is the open hearth oven in the center of the floor. A group of people assemble pizzas off to the side (Clark was in charge of assembly on this night) and smiling waitresses bring the custom-made pizzas, salads and deserts to the tables.

I can't really explain how good the special heirloom tomato pizza tasted. It was a combination of flavors I have never had before. Same goes for the crisp salads.

After 40 minutes, it started to get hot in the dining room, so they opened some large barn doors to the outside patio, letting the sun and a gentle breeze carry the smokey smell of the wood-burning oven into the air.

The great thing about American Flatbread is that they don't disguise the main ingredients of the food with other tastes. It's food without distraction -- pizza without noise.

The same was true with the desserts. Homemade Apple pie (1/4 of a pie) with organic ice cream, chocolate and angel food cake with berries. All amazing.

So if you find yourself traveling an hour north of Santa Barbara on a Friday or Saturday night (or if you need to remember what food really tastes like and feel like a drive) stop by and see Clark. You'll wonder why you waited so long.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Thank God for Mrs. H

My in-laws are in town for a week and we had them over tonight to our apartment here in hot Santa Monica, where the temperature doesn't dip after the sun goes down and air conditioning is something you get when you walk into The Gap.

After a long day of work, I returned to find my son running around wildly with some sort of dried food on his shirt, my wife twirling her hair and S & R standing around looking for entertainment and some food.

So I did the best thing any American, whipped husband whose parents live in the same city and whose in-laws live across the country and only visit once every three moths would do -- I cooked.

When I was a teenager, one of my favorite places to hang out (other than at the skateboard park) was the Hallers. I would head up with my best friend E, play some tunes, listen to him get in a fight with his younger bro and then sit down for some chicken that defied explanation. I mean, this stuff was like nectar.

After many years of lost contact, our paths crossed again, and I asked her for the recipe. I've looked forward to the day I could make the chicken and relive the flavors of my youth.

Well, my friends, that day came tonight, and boy am I a better man for it. That lucious, slow cooked lemon sauce melted away any tensions I had about a small space seeming even smaller and summer heat seeming even hotter. (The bottle of wine may have helped a weensy bit as well.)

Anyway, thank you Gi. You don't know how happy you've made me. Now what am I going to eat tomorrow?

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Letting Go

There have been a lot of things changing in my world lately -- the demolition of my house, moving into a new apartment; my son growing from an infant into a little boy.

This evening I particiapted in a business meeting where we basically ended a project and told everyone the product of our endeavours. We followed it up -- Hollywood style -- with a steak dinner at a posh Hollywood eaery.

On the way home from the dinner (which was filled with lively conversation between people from different cultures and businesses) I was driving home on Wilshire Boulevard when I hit a serious traffic jam. After 10 minutes of crawling, I saw the reason. A car had gotten T-boned coming out of a gas station and, from the fact that they closed off one of the major streets in L.A., someone must have died.

I thought about this poor soul's life being ended so quickly and this project ending; then my family, home asleep in bed -- safe. Sad that my ending a business project happened to coincide with someone's life ending -- but it made me appreciate everything I have (and have been given) and what I need to do with it.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Demolition Daze

Mashuga's FotologNothing like moving pictures to convey the sheer terror of construction. Hide the kids and click on the bulldozer for a movie.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Honey, There's a Tractor in the Living Room



Well, after some minor delays, at 10:39AM yesterday my house became a pile of mulch -- a pile of very expensive mulch. A gaucho excavator named Manny climbed onboard his trusty yellow steed and proceeded to jump up and down on my house like it was Bozo at a trampoline party. If I had not been focusing so much on the somewhat queasy feeling in my stomach and my inability to blink, I may have better appreciated the art with which he shredded our 50 year old house in 45 minutes, all while dangling a cigarette from his mouth.

Most people ask me how I felt watching it happen. I'll tell you: I felt like crap, like I was perhaps making the biggest mistake of my life (even though I know I'm not). Between moments of detached voyeurism -- like watching a car crash about to happen and not being able to turn your head -- thoughts of "hey, wait a minute. This is my house!" jumped into my mind, only to be replaced moments later by the reality that it was too late to turn back now -- like speeding up before a turn -- so I might as well enjoy the ride and hope I don't crash.

I left as they started picking up my mulch-house and loading it into a dumpster. A few hours later, after all the workmen had gone for the day, I unlocked the chain link fence and walked the property. All that's left is some grass, the little shed I built for the cats that came along with my wife, and the large Sycamore tree that now looms larger than ever over the entire yard.

I wish I had millions of dollars so I could just keep the property exactly this way -- not build a house and make it a park for all the local kids to come play in. I think my old house would have liked it that way.

I started back to my car and reached into my pocket to fish out my keys. I noticed that I still had the key to my front door on the ring. I stood there for a second, staring at the lot, listening to the birds chirp and a dog bark from down the street. I took the key off of the ring, dropped it on the ground and covered it with some dirt, reminding myself that you should only keep what you really need -- everything else should be left behind.

(photo courtesy of Bret H. Thanks for the great shots!)

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

D-Day

According to the count-down timer on my desk, tomorrow at 8AM they will bulldoze my house.

The tree trimmers came in yesterday and cut back a lot of the leaves on the huge sycamore in the backyard. I'm amazed at how light the yard is now. Makes me wonder why I didn't do it sooner.

Last night I was there to meet some deliverymen who picked up our couch for some friends. Sitting in the shell of my house, with all the windows and floors gone, I felt really quite and at peace, like the feeling you get watching a storm come rolling in from the ocean -- the barometer drops, the air turns crisp and there's an unmistakable stillness in the air.

Let's hope this is an easy one.

Monday, August 15, 2005

A Shell


About a month ago, I started selling some of the extra stuff I had that I didn't think I would need in the new house. I was not all that into it, since I figured the salvage company would take a lot of what we had. One Saturday, while taking down my garage door for a couple from Torrance, a wild guy with cowboy boots shows up and starts looking around.

"Anything in particular you want?" I said. "It's all going."

"I don't want anything," he said. "Nothing. Zilch. It's all going down."

"Great", I thought. There's some crazy guy in my backyard looking around like he's planning an ambush.

It was only a couple of minutes later that I realized he was my demolition guy doing a pre-walk-through of the house.

"You don't want anything?"

"No. I'm coming in and leveling this place. 20 minutes and it's a pancake."

I felt really bad. Not only was it a waste of good stuff, but I was paying this crazy man with a bulldozer to dump it.

It was time to sell hard.

Over the past 3 weeks, I have moved more product than WalMart. People from Craigslist have taken just about everything possible -- doors, floors, windows and sinks. All that's left of my house are walls (with holes from random sledgehammer strikes) some concrete, a wonderful spray-painted Homer Simpson by Brady, and a roof.

We've made some good money doing this, but more than that, I feel good that our stuff is going to become a part of other people's homes. The chart above shows where the various pieces of our house have gone.

Wednesday, the bulldozers come and take what's left away. Boy, will they have a short day.

Monday, August 08, 2005

The Buffalo are Coming!

Vegans look away...I just heard from my friend Mary at Ray's GoodStuff in Montrose, Colorado. She says that Ray has finished his latest batch of Buffalo jerky. A limited supply this year due to some buffalo mating weirdness.

These kinda calls are much better to get than that lady from ATT asking me if I want to lower my long distance bills.

Ordedr today.

Friday, August 05, 2005

New Music

One of the worst things about corporate radio and the iPod is that you are very rarely introduced to some new and exciting music. This is somewhat lessened by the soothing feeling of hearing something familiar, but still, you need new blood to keep it interesting.

So I was pleasantly surprised to hear M.Ward's latest album, "Transistor Radio". I first heard him in a performance with Bright Eyes and I thought, "wow, that guy doesn't sound like he looks." That's always a good sign.

If you don't know these two, give them a listen. It's good, American music.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Adjusting


Well, the wrecking ball has started rolling.

On Monday, a big truck came and moved my wife, son and I from our spacious (yet not spacious enough) home to a small apartment in Santa Monica. The move was relatively painless (beside needing to grease the mover), and it actually felt good to get rid of a lot of stuff that I never really needed. Hell, parking on my lawn white-trash style felt fantastic.

The new place is comfortable, the landlord is a nice man, and the location is great, but I still can't help but feel that I'm taking a step back in time, back to my 20's, when I rented apartments all over the Westside of L.A.. Perhaps it's because, when you own your own home (or condo, or apartment, or yurt, you feel responsible for everything that goes on there. In a sense, your home becomes an extension of you. But this apartment belongs to -- and will be returned to -- someone else after our palatial abode is finished. It's like a walk-up waiting room.

Meanwhile, whenever I wallow in my unwarranted well of apartment blues, I think of this picture of my son and remember that I'm luckier than most. And besides, I don't have to fix the toilet when it overflows.