The Builders

A lot of people have asked for the name of the builders putting up our house.

It's Structure Development Group in Woodland Hills. Run by Bob Kleiman and Mark Sapiro, two very white, very honest guys. Give them a call and tell them I sent you -- they may actually finish on time and I get a free tote bag.

This from Craigslist

Damage from Rita .

Reply to: anon-100381033@craigslist.org
Date: Tue Sep 27 14:31:17 2005


Attached is a photo illustrating the damage caused to my friend's home
in Houston from the hurricane Rita that passed through on Friday night.

It really makes you cherish what you have, and reminds us not to take
things too much for granted.

Creation!

"And like the Phoenix rising from the Ashes of its Pyre" Murray J. Towle

Anyway, here's a construction update.

Pyramid o' Babies

I spent Sunday shooting a video around a bunch of babies near feeding time in a really hot, low-ceiling room; their sleep-deprived mothers, and this wonderful Mother Goose, standing helplessly nearby.

I worked for 10 years in the movie business -- filming in many different parts of the world with prima donna movie stars, pets, stunts -- even fake snow -- and I don't think I had nearly as much fun as watching a bunch of toddlers slowly meltdown on a set (much to the chagrin of Ed, the soundman). Still, it looked really good.

BBQ Man Love

Michelle shocked once wrote in her song COME A LONG WAY that "you could drive for miles and never leave L.A."

Even with all of the endless choices and the hustle and bustle that a big city brings, for the most part, like all people, we are creatures of habit -- preferring to go down the same roads to the same places on different days -- the only thing we change is the color of our shirts and socks.

Every once in a while, a guy (especially one married with kids) needs to get out and sit with a bunch of other guys and soak in the wine of communal testerone. Usually this involves beer and sports, but since I don't have time to watch games and beer makes me fat and ornery, bbq is the next best thing.

Growing up in the San Fernando Valley, I was a fan of Dr. Hoggly Woggly's Tyler Texas BBQ. My dad would take the family there to sit in their red booths and eat ribs and chicken and hot links. Walking to the car afterwards, our clothes would all stink from wood and our hands were sticky from the red sauce. It was BBQ heaven for me.

Though Hoggly's is still there, since last night, I look at it like an ex-girlfriend during my single days-- something I wouldn't mind going back to every once in a while for old time's sake, but not as interesting as the current one.

The Current one, as of last night is Baby Blue BBQ in Venice. Started by a couple of guys from North Carolina, this place is the real deal. Simple decorations, loud music and a bunch of servers who look REALLY happy dishing up some of the best ribs, chicken, catfish and pulled pork over beans I have ever had. The ribs weren't just boiled and slathered with ketchupy sauce. They were rubbed and slow cooked and perfect without anything on them. Of course, some of the sauces were so good I had to pour them on, including the 3 pepper BBQ sauce.

The chicken was less interesting, but still really good by any standard. All the sides were great, the best being the beans topped with pulled pork.

Dessert was a peach cobbler thingie that was not too sweet and not too tart. Just right.

Before leaving the restaurant and the company of my fellow brethren, I picked up one of the to-go menus. It said something like "all our sauces and desserts are made onsite and with love. Our prices reflect real market costs" or something like that.

I left feeling a bit heavier, but with a clear and somewhat liberated mind. We need more places like this in L.A., and other cities, places that give us reason to get off the beaten path and follow the call of the wild.

Why I Ride

Slab

They poured the slab at our new house yesterday. All clean and pretty and new. Must be a fun job.

Demolition 2

I decided to put my demolition video up with a new soundtrack to test out this video ipod thingie.

Diamond In The Rough

After you have a kid or two, one of the most important things you can do to keep from killing your partner is to drop the little creatures-of-need with a strange, foreign speaking, slightly untrustworthy woman with a cell phone and silver teeth and get away for a few hours.

The wife and I have been doing just that lately -- dinners with friends, an occasional crappy movie (won't someone fire someone about those things?) and, through a generous friend and those convenience charge junkies at Ticketmaster, a rush of concerts. We've seen Mark Knopfler, U2, Bob Schneider, The Eagles, and just last week, Neil Diamond. That's right, I said Neil Diamond.

Yeah, he's 64. Yeah, his audience consists of 40-80 year old women from Wichita and 1/2 of the NRA who get excited and throw their walkers onstage when he sings Sweet Caroline; yeah, some of his songs have that certain cheese factor that remind me of Bill O'Reilly...and Pat Robertson when he's in a singing mood....

But I gotta tell ya, the guy is the closest thing to Elvis we've got, and I wish I had seen Elvis (even during his LARGE period).

Most of you are thinking I'm crazy. And I am. Maybe it's a hardwire thing. You see, when I was 8 years old or so, my dad thought it would be a good idea to go on a housboat trip to Lake Powell. 3 kids under ten, dog, wife, in the middle of the lake during the middle of summer. Snakes, dehydration, crappy food and nobody for miles.



Anyway, a few days into the trip, I'm sleeping in my bunk (my brother took the bottom one) and I roll off and hit the ground. Head is killing me. Concussion. Spots. The whole nine yards. No such thing as cell phones back then, and Dad's a doctor (it's true what they say) so he puts me on a low bunk in the "salon" with an ice pack and aspirin while he steers us to places unknown, telling me I would be fine.

I was too messed up to eat and I couldn't really see that well, but we continued on our journey, and the one thing I remember from those days in the salon staring at the ceiling were the 4 8-track tapes they kept playing over and over and over. That and the dog licking my face. Well one of those tapes was Neil Diamond's "Hot August Nights".

My head eventually got better and we returned to civilization so we could wait for the CD to be invented. Tonight, I turned on Rhapsody and looked the album up. Still sounds good. Think it's time for a houseboat trip.