Gun Turret.

As you all know, I'm a genius. I mean -- after all -- I do have a patent.

With that fact established, I really think that I am entitled to create sovereign laws to protect me from the nuisances of others. I have two laws that I'm considering related to noise.

Law #1: If your car alarm goes off and your car is not being stolen, I am entitled to take a baseball bat to it without retribution.

Law #2: There are numerous "entrepreneurs" that enjoy pushing their shopping carts down my alley in search of recyclables in trash bins. The practice is so prevalent, that most trashcan bins have locks on them.

At 6:30am, an "entrepreneur" decided to move all of his collectables from his cart to an abandoned shopping cart located beneath my window. This transfer was done without finesse, and was unbelievably noisy. It woke me up.

So here is my law…. I would like to install an unmanned tranquilizer gun turret on my roof. It would operate between the hours of 10pm to 10am. If you were pushing a cart through my alley way, it would recognize you by either the visual silhouette of person pushing car or by smell, and you'd be shot with a dart that made you sleep until normal operating hours.

I know this sounds harsh, but how am I expected to save the world with these constant distractions? So let it be written. So let it be done.

…

I went to see Cold War Kids at the Casbah. Fantastic show. One of my musical highlights of the year was seeing Hospital Beds performed live.

…

Juliana and I drove over to the San Diego Museum of Art in Balboa Park to catch the last day of the Warhol exhibit. At the same time, an exhibit by the abstract artists, the Matta's (father and son), had opened up. I have developed a bad habit of simply skipping past abstract art or any piece whose visual aesthetics differ from my own. Juliana is a huge fan of abstract art and connects to it, so I had an engaging time dialoguing with her about different pieces, and seeing the artwork through her eyes. I learned a lot.

We had eaten very little all day, and as we were starving, we decided to stop by the taqueria to grab some food on the way home. I pulled up to the drive-through. The cashier gave me my total and I reached into my pocket to retrieve the money.

I'm not sure the reason. Maybe my foot just slipped. Maybe I was overly excited about the carne asada. Maybe I wasn't thinking. But whatever the cause, my foot fell off the clutch, causing the engine to stall. I haven't stalled a manual transmission since I was seventeen. I went to start the car and it wouldn't turn over. Damn. I tried three more times to no avail, with each time draining the battery further. The starter turned, but the engine wouldn't catch. I couldn't figure out what had happened. It had always been a reliable car.

I needed to get the car out of the way. There was a parking spot available off to the side, in a space approaching the exit onto El Cajon Blvd. I asked Juliana if she could drive while I pushed the car over to the space. I expected her to get out and walk over to the driver's side. Instead she effortlessly hopped over the daunting center console and gear shift, right into the driver's seat. It was like we were in a car chase and I needed her to drive so that I could shoot bad guys out of the car window. Needless to say, I was very impressed. (I was also embarrassed that I had stalled the engine in the first place, but Juliana couldn't have been sweeter or more understanding.)

With me pushing and her steering (without power steering no less), we were able to get the car out of the way. We positioned the car in a space where a five foot slight decline led to El Cajon Blvd.

Juliana and I were still starving. As I was worried that I may have flooded the car, I thought that we should just walk to my condo across the street and eat. Time may do my car some good.

After I ate, I accumulated some tools and returned across the street. I tried starting my car again and the engine still wouldn't catch. I made a few more attempts and my battery was barely alive. I figured I had one last chance.

Growing up, I feel fortunate that I was able to collect some practical experiences along the way. Being around my dad, I learned how to change a tire, gut an elk, and a little trick that would prove helpful now -- jumpstart a car.

To jumpstart a manual transmission car, you get it rolling while in neutral, throw it in second gear, and then drop the clutch. Hopefully it starts. I faced a few challenges in doing this. First, it was just me, so I would have to get the car moving and then quickly jump into it and do all of the fancy clutch work. Secondly, I only had a slight downward slope to work with and five feet until I would encounter oncoming traffic on busy El Cajon Blvd. And if I didn't get it started, I could possibly be sitting in said traffic.

I got out and pushed the car. Once I got it moving I jumped in… threw the car in second gear… dropped the clutch… it didn't work. I quickly hit the brake. I was almost on top of the street. I had one last shot. I repeated the process and dropped the clutch. The engine stuttered and sputtered and then started. I drove away triumphant. I took the car onto the highway so that the alternator could charge the battery.

…

Juliana was coming over one evening, so I decided to wait for her outside, on my small and quaint, yet busy street corner.

While standing there I saw a bicyclist cross the street as a car hovered at the stop sign. I saw the driver's face and yelled out as I knew what was about to unfold. But it was too late. The driver didn't see the bicyclist and at the worst possible time, the driver hit the gas, as the bicyclist was located squarely in front of the car. The bicyclist was thrown up onto the car's hood and the bicycle launched into the middle of the street. The car stopped and the bicyclist fell to the ground.

It's odd seeing something about to unfold and being helpless to stop it.

The bicyclist was upset but okay. The driver was apologetic but trying to deflect fault by saying that he didn't see the bicyclist (obviously) and that he had come to a complete stop. They both started to discuss who had come to a stop first. They went back and forth without either conceding or coming to a conclusion.

They both then turned to me and asked.

I had seen the entire thing happen in front of me. My engineering side wanted to say that the bicyclist had stopped first since he was in front of the car when struck. For that to happen he would have had to have started first which by association, meant that he had stopped first. But when I thought back, I simply couldn't remember. So I had to be honest.

"I don't know," I replied.

This made me think of eye witnesses in trials. How do they observe and remember stuff that happened so quickly or briefly? How do they recall it a year and a half after the fact when called to testify? After my experience, I'm skeptical to put much faith in the process.

I've never been accused of being the most astute person, but still.

How To Create a Bookmark for $6.

I was excited to see my friend's Denver-based band, Devotchka, play the Casbah Saturday night. I've known Tom for almost twenty years. I had last seen the band play in Denver on New Year's Eve, when they sold out the 600-seat Oriental Theater.

I'm perpetually early to everything. This time I planned on casually strolling over to the Casbah around 9:30pm. Around 8:30pm I got a call from Amber. She had inside information that only 40 tickets remained, and they were going fast. I hustled down there. Standing in line, the doorman said that the tickets would be gone in a few minutes. I just made it.

The opener was local band, Bunky. It was the first time I had seen them perform. Absolutely amazing. They're my new favorite band. Their song, Heartbunk, may be one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs I've ever heard. But beyond their great songwriting and hooks… beyond Emily's amazing voice… one of the most engaging aspects of the show was the fact that the band was having a great time on stage. Emily's smile and sense-of-humor were infectious… the band's banter entertaining. For me, my enjoyment of a show increases exponentially when I see that the band is enjoying themselves up there. You accompany that with great music and I always leave with a warm fuzzy feeling.

Their CD has been permanently cemented into my car's CD player since Saturday night (FYI… their music is available on iTunes). Personal favorites include the aforementioned Heartbunk, Chuy, Boy/Girl, and Baba. I even have a special fondness for the noisy dissonance of Gotta Pee.

I saw the Cure play in Mountain View five years ago. They sounded great, but there wasn't a smile to be found on stage. I mean, it is the Cure, so this isn't surprising, but I remember leaving the venue feeling largely indifferent.

American Idol gets lots of viewers and attention, but here's what surprises me… it casts its net far and wide, yet it still seems to largely pull in crap. While I'm a random viewer, I'm rarely impressed with any of the talent. However, I can go out to any venue in town, on any night, and always find one band that blows me away. And I'm not just talking about people who have impressed me, but people whose music I would take with me if I was marooned on a desert island. In the last few months I've seen two dozen bands perform and I've encountered many incredibly talented people (Heather Duby, The Hot Toddies, The World/Inferno Friendship Society, Bunky… to name a few). And even better… not only do they sing, but they also play their own instruments and write their own songs. How novel.

I guess the point of this little tangent is that I'd love it if people went out and supported local music. Don't trust MTV or radio to define the contents of your jukebox. Get out and see people play. I think that you'll be surprised and impressed, and you're bound to find your own personal gem.

I got a chance to catch up with Tom before he went on stage. I picked his brain about life on the road and we talked about past, current, and future endeavors. Devotchka provided the soundtrack to the film, Little Miss Sunshine. I'm eager to see the movie.

As usual, Devotchka destroyed the place. They always put on the best live show. You won't find a better group of musicians anywhere.

Now… time for another one of my tangents….

I know that murder is wrong. But there really need to be exceptions. The last couple of shows I've attended there's been that one asshole that thinks the show is about him. I'm fine with people getting into the music and feeling passionate about the experience. But it's another thing when you're just being a distracting attention whore. There was one guy that would randomly appear in front of the stage, only to flail about, acting like he was having an epileptic seizure. He was completely disconnected from the music. I think that it should be legal to put him down. Another guy just kept obnoxiously yelling random stuff like an unfunny class clown. I just wanted to tap him on the shoulder and say, "It's not about you. Fade into the background." Then I would cap his ass.

The second thing… if you're there, please pay relative attention to the band and the music. There is a reason you paid twelve dollars -- to see the band. A couple was basically humping eighteen inches away from me with neither person interested in the music. It was distracting, and not in a sexy way. They thought they were alone in a hotel room with the clock radio turned on. It's one thing to grind in rhythm to the music. It's another to look like you're shooting a late night Cinemax movie. Although I will admit, there are two caveats to this rule… Caveat number one -- the lesbians making out in front of me… kind of hot. It would have been hotter if one of them hadn't been wearing a spiked dog collar and had hair shorter than mine. Caveat number two… if I'm with a woman, I'm free to hump away. It doesn't sound fair, but these are my rules.

Okay, enough talk about humping. My grandma reads this journal for Christ sakes.

Seriously. My grandma reads this journal.

…

On Sunday I ventured to the Del Mar Racetrack to lay some money down on the ponies.





It was a college alumni event and we were located on the infield. While it was a great place to socialize, it wasn't a good place to see horse racing. At most, only about a quarter of the track was visible. Although the ground level view did provide an interesting perspective. I realized how fast those horses traveled. They blazed around that track.



I've only been to the horse track four times in my life, and the periods are spaced far enough apart that I forgot everything I learned previously. For my first bet, I went with a trifecta box because it's cool to say trifecta. I did no research. I just picked three horses and gave the guy six dollars.



I understandably lost.

I learned the lingo. For the remaining races I picked a horse to show (finish in the top three) and won about a quarter of the time. It's a universal fact that gambling makes everything more interesting. Even though I only laid down $2 for each bet, I found myself riveted to each race. If you ever find yourself restless or bored, just start wagering on stuff. It's like an adrenalin shot to the heart.

My triumph… for the sixth race I picked one horse to place (2nd place or higher) and another to show and both horses cooperated and finished in that order. I collected my massive seven dollars in winnings and plotted the extravagant purchases that would follow. It was a good day.

Art: Jill Laying Down.

Jill Laying Down (ink and colored pencils on paper sketch, 8 x 5").



A close up....

Laguna.

When I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area, I used to take day trips all the time… Santa Cruz, Monterey, Napa Valley, Tahoe, Redwood forest…. For me, the ultimate expression of freedom is getting in the car and driving with the windows down. And while I stay active in San Diego, I rarely drive outside the city limits. It's not because I don't have the desire, it's quite simply because I don't know where to go. In the Bay Area, you could drive an hour in any direction and be in a completely different world to collect new adventures. In San Diego, day trip destinations are not as obvious to me. You have ocean immediately to the west. Mexico immediately to the south. Extensive desert to the east. And the continuous metropolitan entity of Los Angeles to the north.

Aching for a day-trip on Sunday, I chose Laguna Beach for my destination. It's an hour north of San Diego.

Laguna began loosely as an artists' commune, and for this reason I have a desire to connect with it. But I have problems making this connection. The town always seems continuously fleeting, aloof, and evasive to me.

I blame one thing: parking.

However, the town is not completely at fault. Mostly it is, but I will take part of the blame. Now I am willing to throw money at a problem if I can make it go away. With that being said, I'm not sure why this is, but I absolutely hate paying for parking when I don't think that I should have to. As a person, I'm rather lax and laid back. I accept things at face value and don't take an opinion of them either way. But the one thing that affects me adversely is if I feel like I'm being taken advantage of. Paying for parking can sometimes hit that singular nerve.

Now my paying for parking issue is purely contextual. When I go downtown, I am content to pay. That is expected. When I lived in San Jose and drove up to San Francisco every three weeks for fun, I was perfectly resigned to park in the Fisherman's Wharf parking garage for twenty bucks. There is a Stoic saying that goes, "Is a little oil spilled or a little wine stolen? Then this is the price to be paid for happiness and nothing is to be had for free." The cashier at the pay booth drank some of my wine and I was fine with that.

But let me tell you why parking in Laguna is evil. There are parking meters absolutely everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. Along the beach. On sides-streets and alleys. On thoroughfares from the beginning of town to the end. Along the narrowest of streets to the widest. Like plastic cups at a frat party, they are absolutely everywhere. Well, why don't you park in a neighborhood and walk a ways, you ask? Nope. All residential parking requires a special permit.

I went up on a Sunday so of course the next logical thought is that the meters must be free on Sunday. Nope. Not true in Laguna. And not only are they not free on Sunday like they are in every known corner of the world, but they operate from 8am to 7pm. Everyday.

Now you're saying, just shut up, Bryan, and put your money in the meter you cheap-ass. Well here's the next problem. I have issues for sure. But let me highlight one of them. I am always conscious of time. It doesn't matter where I am or what I am doing or what I have to do, but I am constantly aware of the ticking of the clock. Here's where this becomes a serious detriment in Laguna: all of the meters have limits on how long you can park there. And not only that, but the parking officers patrol the area with ubiquitous aggression. I parked my car in a space, and before I even got out of it, a parking Mafioso has marked my tire with chalk to ensure that I moved my vehicle before my time expired.

So as soon as I maxed out the meter at three hours, the countdown began in my head.

If you think that oil companies have a racket, they don't hold a candle to Laguna's parking mafia. It is unreal. And during the entire day I didn't see an entire cop, but I did see loads of parking enforcers. I'm convinced that you could commit any crime you wanted in Laguna and as long as it didn't involve parking, you would easily get away with it.

So here is what I did over my three hours in Laguna. I ate lunch at a good French restaurant called C'est La Vie where I ordered a mighty tasty ahi tuna sandwich. The waiters and waitresses were all French which added to the ambience.

I dashed in some art galleries – a thing that Laguna is famous for. I found a few things that caught my eye but nothing that impressed me greatly. I must rant a bit – please skip this paragraph if you're tired of my art expositions. There is an art reproduction printing method known as Giclee (pronounced gee-clay). Back in the day, if you bought a Giclee print it meant that it was produced using a special technique, equipment, and process. It had some weight. The problem is that the term has now been diluted to nothingness now. It is abused by artists who use the term to describe anything that they turn out of their ninety-nine dollar printer at home, and this abuse has filtered up to galleries and printmakers. This leads casually to this observation. I was absolutely amazed by how many galleries I walked into that sold prints for a very high amount of money (some ranged in value from $2500 to $10,000 for what amounted to a poster). I saw very few originals hanging up on the walls. Now prints are good economically for artists. If you can paint one thing and sell it an unlimited amount of times, that's good financially. It's like printing money. If you only sold originals then you got paid once and it disappeared. But I can't understand why someone would walk into a gallery and buy a poster for $5,000 instead of an original. It makes no sense to me. And everything now is Giclee this and Giclee that. It seems like it is 95% of the market and I find this unfortunate.

After perusing a few galleries I walked along the beautiful path that lines the beach.







If you ever see a painting of Laguna, there is a 90% chance that it is of this view:



At one point along the cliff-side boardwalk, I descended stairs to get close to the rocks.



Waves crashed.



This image always conjures up a story that I find terribly haunting.

The waves in Northern California get big. Halfway between San Francisco and Santa Cruz sits the town of Half Moon Bay. Just a short distance out, when the winter storms come down from Alaska, waves reliably reach heights from twenty five to fifty feet tall. Waves pack unbelievable power and they crash against the rocky coast in dramatic fashion.

When I lived in the Bay area there was a story on the news about a newlywed couple who were exploring the Northern California coast, near Monterey, on their honeymoon. They had driven down the coast and got out of their car to take pictures of the incredible ocean view. The man wanted to take a photo of his love set against the scenic backdrop. She perched herself on the rocks. Suddenly a wave crashed against the rocks with mighty force and swept her into the sea. The man instinctively, yet dangerously, dove into the frigid water after her. His attempt was futile. She had drowned. Again, I find this story to be so hauntingly sad, and I'm reminded of it whenever I see waves crash forcefully onto the rocks. (I had originally seen this story on the local nightly news, but have been able to locate the article on sfgate.com.)

The cliff-side boardwalk casually winds about the coastline. It was warm and humid outside. To obtain temporary solace from the weather, I dipped inside the Laguna Art Museum which had a nice display of artwork by early Monterey artists. I found myself frequently glancing down at my watch, trying to determine the latest time I could leave the museum and still make my car in time. As usual, I arrived at the car much earlier than I needed to, so I zipped into some additional art galleries before departing.

I don't know how many times I've driven south on the 5 from Los Angeles. But whenever I do, I'm always anxious to get home. This is unfortunate, because there is a scenic rest area right after San Onofre that I want to stop at but either miss because I'm not paying attention or am too eager to get home. This time I took the exit.



I then continued home.



(The odd thing about this journal entry and many like it is that I just wanted to say that I drove up to Laguna in three sentences and include a few pictures. I'm always amazed how these entries grow and evolve as I'm writing them. This is good for me as a writer… I'm not sure how it is for you the reader.)

No Pandas Since Everyone Knows They're Bitches

I have a season pass to the San Diego Zoo. I really enjoy my time there. I ventured to the zoo this morning as I hadn't been in a while. Even beyond the animals, the extensive grounds and steep hills make for a nice walk.

It was so crowded at the zoo that I found it difficult to approach the exhibits, so as I walked around I spent a lot of time in my own head, as I often do. And a particular question popped into my head… let's say that the clock strikes midnight and the zoo is void of all people. All of the cages open and the animals are free to wander and mingle. But they're all cool. No animal tries to eat another. It's a good vibe. Which leads to the question… if you're an animal and you want to have a poker game, which animals do you invite to the table?

People who know me well can predict this guest list exclusion: absolutely no birds are invited. I hate birds. Sorry flamingos.

I'd certainly invite the brown bear because he would have good stories to tell. If you're ever camping and you encounter a brown bear, sit down on a stump and listen to him because you're going to hear some great tales.



Not only that, but during the game you could always have this exchange:
Brown bear: Your turn, Bry. Are you in?
Me: Does a bear shit in the woods?

I'd definitely invite a camel. If for no other reason than he wouldn't drink too much beer. I mean, c'mon, he's a fucking camel. He travels thousands of miles in the desert without tasting a drop of water. He's not going to be doing keg stands in the kitchen.



I like turtles, but since they can reach a hundred years old, you'd have to hear a lot of stories about when gas was a nickel. Sorry, but no turtle.

Now here's the kicker: what animal would you invite to get the party started? Which animal would be the one to make the jokes? The clichéd answer would be the hyena. But this would be a horrible choice. This would be like inviting Robin Williams. It sounds good on paper, but after five minutes of his hyperactive routine, you'd want to shoot him with a tranquilizer dart. A hyena would be obnoxious. If you really want to invite a cool animal, here's where you go… invite an otter. You've never laughed so hard until you've hung out with an otter. They're the life of the party.



Have you ever seen a sad otter?



You most certainly couldn't invite a panda bear. They get all of the attention and special treatment at the zoo. The zoo always advertises the pandas. They get shown panda porn on TVs in their exhibit. Two pandas hump and it makes national news. In order to even see the pandas, you have to get into a special line while people constantly tell you to be quiet. Pandas would be snobby and want you to open a bottle of wine. We don't need that kind of attitude.

I posed my zoo poker question to Amber tonight and she brought up two terrific points. You couldn't invite a giraffe because its long neck would help him catch peeks of other player's cards. In the same vein, you couldn't invite a kangaroo because it could hide cards in its pouch. While I think playing cards with a kangaroo would be a pure delight, the risk of cheating is just too great.

The idea that koalas get stoned off eucalyptus is a myth, but they still don't seem to be too cognizant. It sounds bad, but I think that it would be easy to score some easy chips from a lackadaisical koala. The koala is in.

With all this being said, for a table of six, me included, here are the other five animals I would invite to my poker game:
1.) Brown bear
2.) Otter
3.) Camel
4.) Koala
5.) Zebra (because it's a hip animal)

…

My HOA rules allow me to have a pet, but it cannot weigh more than twenty five pounds. This is limiting. I loathe tiny dogs and am not a fan of cats. I'm not looking for a pet, but if I were, I'd want a Fennec fox. I saw one at the zoo today and it’s a cool animal. It's too small to fetch a beer but it does eat insects. And while it's not manly to say, it's pretty damn cute.



One of the zoo handlers had the fox outside of its cage and talked about it. Because I'm a nerd, I asked lots of questions. It was an interesting discussion. Animals are fascinating critters.

Dilemma of Infinite Proportions and Grave Consequences.

Because both now appear on my TV at exactly the same time… a choice must be made… Angelina in Mr. and Mrs. Smith or Salma in After the Sunset? Which love do I go with? Which do I betray?

Palindrome (served with hot water, whiskey, and a touch of honey).

I turned 33 today. There are obvious age milestones... 16, 18, 21, 25... maybe 30. After that you seek solace in subtleties. For some reason 32 doesn't seem very old but 34 does. So right now I will find sanctuary in 33.

....

I had a magical weekend of musical adventures. On Friday night Adam's band, Secret Apollo, rocked the Honey Bee Hive for their CD release party. The place was packed and I had fun catching up with friends new and old. The band sounded incredible and the whole evening had a great vibe.

On Sunday I checked out Oakland-based band, The Hot Toddies, at the Whistle Stop. You gotta catch them if they visit your city. I enjoyed their show immensely and I can't use enough adjectives to describe their live set and their music. Amazing harmonies. Fantastic arrangements. Infectious songs. Great energy. Whimsical, irreverent, flirty, and thoughtful lyrics. I bought their E.P. at the show and have been listening to it non-stop. I can't wait until they release more songs and make a return to San Diego.

Art: Green Couch.

Green Couch (watercolor on paper, 12 x 7").

Where My Head Is At (In C-minor)

iTunes, in conjunction with my ipods, track each time I listen to a song. These songs become living entities to me. A song gets counted only if it finishes playing. Being an admirer of numbers and statistics, I feel like a parent rooting it on. I always let the song complete so it gets credit. I want it to matter.

iTunes has a special playlist titled "Top 25 Most Played." As the name suggests, it shows the top twenty-five most played songs.

I take many photographs. A lot of times I take a picture for painting reference, as potential subject matter to be later transferred to canvas. Other times I am inspired by a scene or ambience and want to capture it. I read an interview about the director Cameron Crowe. He didn't take pictures. Instead he would make mix tapes encapsulating the songs during that time period. That became his auditory scrapbook. For me, the top 25 list has become a barometer. It's a snapshot of my life.

What can by gathered from my top 25 list? I have my thoughts. I look at it and know where my head is at.

Tangentially there are other things that I can deduce from my current list….

It reveals my habit of falling into periodic obsessions. I fall into patterns where I'll frequent the same restaurant or listen repeatedly to a few artists. I'll hold the same CD captive in my car's CD player for weeks at a time. And a short time later, the restaurant, artists, and CD will be replaced by new ones. And the process will repeat itself. While the artists I've been listening to are obscure, there isn't much breadth to the list. There are a few that have been hit with heavy listening.

It proves my love affair with Regina Spektor. Oh – how I so desperately long to be the subject of one of her songs.

And song number 25 shows that daddy enjoys a little bit of South American lovin'.

The mellow, moody, and dynamic music implies that I've been pursuing creative endeavors as that style of music always accompanies a moving pen or brush.

It shows the power of getting added to the latest playlist. I create them like I'm making a mixed tape for myself. If a song gets added, it's a golden ticket to the top 25.

What else can be retrieved from my list? Well, depending on the viewer, probably many things. With high accuracy, I can determine a person's entire persona by their tastes in music and movies, and their critiques of what they've seen. If I ask a person how they felt about Lost in Translation, I know everything I need to upon hearing the response.

Just think about how quickly you could know someone if they just shared their top twenty-five list. No more relentless small talk. No more curious glances across the room. You just exchange top twenty-five lists like they were business cards, study them, then take the appropriate action. It's like having five deep conversations all filtered down into eighty words on a half-sheet of paper.

And in a few months my list will change. When I begin training to become an Ultimate Fighter, you will quickly see Slayer's Raining Blood rise in the charts (it is my irrefutable belief that this song has the heaviest opening in the history of music.. if I listen to it in the car I find myself accelerating without being aware of it).

But at this moment in time, this is where my head is at. I now present my list of the top 25 most listened to songs over the last two months:

1.) The Engine Driver - The Decemberists
2.) Why Can't I Forget About You - The Subdudes
3.) The Dress Looks Nice on You - Sufjan Stevens
4.) Hotel Song - Regina Spektor
5.) Better - Regina Spektor
6.) Buildings - Regina Spektor
7.) Samson - Regina Spektor
8.) Fidelity - Regina Spektor
9.) The Funeral - Band of Horses
10.) Hold On Hold On - Neko Case
11.) That Time - Regina Spektor
12.) Ghost of Corporate Future - Regina Spektor
13.) Intimate Controversy - Yovee
14.) Your Honor - Regina Spektor
15.) Bohemian Like You - The Dandy Warhols
16.) On the Radio - Regina Spektor
17.) City Strolling - Yovee
18.) Fell In Love with a Boy - Joss Stone
19.) Summer In the City - Regina Spektor
20.) Under the Milky Way - Shanna Zell
21.) Chemo Limo - Regina Spektor
22.) What a Day - Yovee
23.) Dreamer on the Run - Yovee
24.) Breathe (2 AM) - Anna Nalick
25.) Hips Don't Lie - Shakira

They Used My Iron For the Stone.

I recently celebrated a year in my condo. One of its selling points was its hardwood floors. I really enjoy having them. With all of my oil painting and clumsiness, they've been invaluable as the splattered and spilled paint cleans up easily. Now, I didn't receive a hardwood floor manual when I moved in. Maintenance and care seemed simple. And they are.

Except.

I had some dried goop on the floor. I usually cleaned this stuff up with wood floor cleaner bequeathed to me by the previous owners. But being in a hurry, I grabbed the closest suitable spray.

Pledge.

I realized that I had made a mistake immediately following application when I received a knock on my door. I opened it to find the Olympic curling team standing there.

For you see, when you spray Pledge on a hardwood floor, it creates a spot so slippery that sheer contact will send you sliding off the face of the earth and into infinity. It's like a tube of KY and can of WD-40 had sex and left a wet spot. I have foolishly created the slickest place on earth.

Part of the problem is that the affected area is small so it's easy to forget. I take normal strides while walking in the condo and upon hitting that spot I almost always lose my balance. It is the virtual banana peel of death. For my own safety, I may need to cordon off the area with police tape.

Heat Wave.

I know that complaining about the weather in San Diego is like complaining about having too much money and too much sex. But all things are relative, and this includes weather.

For two weeks every year, San Diego gets hit by a combination of intolerable heat and humidity that makes it feel like Cambodia. All I have to combat this is a small AC wall unit located in my living room. It has a range of three feet. To feel its effect you need to sit on top of it naked.

Yesterday was unbearable. Since there was no way that the limited range of my AC would be felt in the bedroom, I had to reconfigure things. I have a hallway door that dissects my living room from the two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I closed it and sought refuge in my main room. Essentially my life resembled that of a poor college student. I lived in a single room and slept on the couch.

I also created an arrangement with the fans to maximize the flow of cold air. I knew it was an effective scheme when NASA came over to test the aerodynamics of its rockets. I essentially slept in a wind tunnel.

To tackle the heat today I drove to the beach and went surfing.

I've developed a weekly ritual where I spend every Thursday night after work at Guava Beach Bar and Grill in Mission Beach. They have great food, great deals, and it provides a friendly and casual vibe. I arrive armed with journal and pen. After I eat I scoot over a block and walk along the boardwalk. It's a great way to end the day. A friend recently talked about the southern tip of Mission Beach. I had never been. When I went to Guava Beach this past Thursday, I walked from there to the southern tip of MB. It made for a rather lengthy walk – 3.5 miles round trip – but my journey was beautiful as it was accompanied by the setting sun, and led me to the serene and quaint destination. The southern tip of Mission Beach borders the San Diego River. Sail boats pass through (there is a visual aspect about sail boats that I enjoy). There's a grass park that overlooks the ocean and hovers like an island in the middle of the beach. This provides a welcome sanctuary as I hate sand. Well, hate may be a strong word. Let's just say that I have an adversarial relationship with it. There is also a wooden lifeguard tower that I have become infatuated with. It looks rickety and haphazard – like something you'd see on some isolated tropical beach. I loved this place.



This is one of the great things about San Diego. Its locale and geography create so many unique and mysterious places. I lived in San Jose – a large and flat expanse. While it had some good streets, it possessed no mysteries. No hills. No valleys. No nooks. No pockets. Just a bunch of interchangeable avenues. Many cities suffer from this. Not San Diego. It constantly surprises.

I drove to southern Mission Beach this morning, with my surfboard stretching from trunk to passenger seat. I easily found parking and set up residence on the beach in front of my beloved lifeguard tower. I threw on the rash guard, put on the aqua-socks, and strapped the leash to my left ankle. Into the water I went.

A day earlier I had talked to a friend who was an avid surfer. He said that the most painful thing he had experienced was a sting from a stingray. Right now they are ubiquitous on San Diego beaches due to the warm water and breeding season. Amber had seen some when we went surfing a few weekends ago at La Jolla Shores. I made sure to shuffle my feet when I walked.

I read an interview with professional poker players. They were asked the biggest mistake that novice poker players made. Almost unanimously they said that beginners play too many hands. It's hard for a newbie to pick his or her spots. They want to get involved in the excitement of each hand. It's difficult to sit back and watch.

I think that the same phenomenon affects beginning surfers as well. I want to catch every wave. But the real art is identifying the perfect wave and taking it, while letting the others pass by. Patience pays off. Not taking it is just as important as taking it. It's not only a good strategy to adopt in surfing, but to apply to my life as well. There is something to be said for enjoying the serene moments between perfect waves.

I realized the power of this because by sheer coincidence I caught the perfect wave and it made for a beautiful ride. I selected other waves that were sub par, and I paddled the same as I did on the perfect wave, but it simply rolled past me or fizzled prematurely. Patience pays off. The key is enjoying the time between those ideal waves.

It is possible that I am delving into metaphor.

After surfing, I sought refuge on the green, grassy park. I did a sketch of the quirky lifeguard tower. After completing the ink drawing, I dipped inside my backpack to fetch my colored pencils. I then realized that I had forgotten to bring them. Desperately wanting color, I went with watercolors even though this paper reacted poorly to them.

There is something so rewarding for me personally to drawing a scene live. I don't do it often enough, but when I do, it locks that moment and experience in my memory so potently.

Art: Two Bananas, Before and After (Diptych)

Two Bananas, Before and After (Diptych).



Two Bananas, Before (oil on canvas board, 14 x 11").



Two Bananas, After (oil on canvas board, 14 x 11").

Open Relationship.

I talked with my girlfriend, Salma Hayek, and asked her if I could see other women. She said yes.

This is good.

Because now I can continue my romance with songstress, Regina Spektor. I mentioned my infatuation with her in an earlier journal entry, but with the release of her new album a few weeks ago, it has blossomed into a full-on love affair. In addition to songs I listed previously, give a listen to my new favorites: Sampson, Hotel Song, and That Time.

Now don't get jealous, Debbie Gibson. I still can't shake your love.

…

Local band, Yovee, has recently released their music catalog on iTunes.

This is good.

I play Intimate Controversy and City Strollin on a constant loop. Give a listen to IC on headphones. I like the way it was mixed. If I'm sitting on a hillside, overlooking the ocean, pondering places I've been to and those I still long to go, these are the songs I want playing.

…

With the arrival of the heat wave, I have found an actual use for the mint that grows in my mini-garden: iced tea with a not-so-little touch of mint.

This is good.

Because my mint plants were out of control and my balcony started to resemble the outfield of Wrigley Field.

…

In the latest issue of Rolling Stone they recommended KEXP's podcast in their music review section.

This is not so good.

I made this recommendation over a month ago in my journal. Damn it people – why must I always be the musical Nostradamus? How much longer can I carry you on my backs? Being a trendsetter leaves me absolutely exhausted and dehydrated. And I can't afford this drain due to the intense heat and the fact that I need to conserve my energy for the gym where I shape the earth with my massive biceps. C'mon people. I need all of you to pick up the slack and let me know about cool music earlier.

I'm fatigued from typing this. I really need an intern.

Art: Shasta.

Shasta Laying Down (pen and colored pencil on paper, 6 x 3").

Shasta (Portrait detail. Pen and colored pencil on paper, 2 x 2").