Having a close, personal relationship with words serves me well. It enables me to experience joy whenever I create a new sentence. It permits me to add clever comments to conversations. It gives me a niche where I rest comfortably, appreciative of my avocation.
About a year ago, though, I realized that there’s a time and place when one must abandon her verbal relationships and just shop smartly. For me, the moment occurred at Ikea.
At the time, I was in the market for a coffee table. Not because I was craving one particularly. Rather, the piece of furniture that had been performing that function for several years had become worn. You see, my previous mid-living room surface space was never, in fact, a coffee table. It was, instead, a wicker ottoman that I had purchased at Pier One along with its matching chair. Although the chair had held up relatively well, the ottoman had not. It was much too busy being a “project” for the cats. And when I could see through the sides of the squat, textured rectangle, I knew the cats had completed their project. I also knew it was time to move the piece to the curb and replace it with something less tempting to feline trouble-makers.
Before going to Ikea, I went online to peruse their coffee table options. My friend and neighbor, Debbi, who is my go-to girl when it comes to interior design, perused the website with me. She immediately zeroed in on a coffee table that was light in color, had simple lines, and would therefore blend in well with the other pieces in my living room. Beyond that, it was dirt cheap. But I immediately protested when I saw what Ikea had named this table: “Lack.”
“I can’t buy a piece of furniture named ‘Lack’!” I told Debbi.
My veto power having been enforced, we continued to peruse the pages of coffee table options. We found two or three pieces that also would work well in my living room, and although their prices were quite a bit higher than the one assigned to “Lack,” these tables, at least, did not have loser names.
… So with my pre-shopping research behind me, I headed up to Burbank.
I saw the tables in person. I studied them. I circled around them. And once I had given the matter twenty minutes or so of observation and thought, the choice was clear.
Lack.
(What can I say? Deb was right.)
I recorded the information I would need in order to retrieve my new table from the shelves of inventory, and I headed down to the ground floor, where customers are lured through a maze of goodies that are so small and so inexpensive, one needs a tremendous amount of willpower to resist impulse-shopping.
I didn’t succumb to any unexpected lures, I am proud to say, but I did purposefully spend some time in the lighting section. I already had planned to look at the offerings there, as I needed to replace the floor lamp in my living room.
I should mention, at this point, that much of my living room is all about mobility. With the exception of the furniture pieces that are flush with the wall, I like to be able to move things around. Furniture mobility serves art-making, exercising, and cleaning. So… when I saw a ceiling-directed lamp that featured a junior lamp, which could be moved from its parent and turned about any which way, I was impressed. When I saw that it was only ten dollars, I was even more impressed. Sure, I’d assemble it! What the hell!
It’s name? FINAL.
Yup.
Before leaving the impulse floor, I stopped by the shelves of lightbulbs and collected enough boxes to ensure that my new lamp duo would remain illuminated for years to come.
Then, I headed to check-out.
My prize purchases of the day – “Lack” and “Final” – may have come with negative, downer names, but the bottom line was a source of joy. I had spent less than sixty dollars.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
City Mouse; Country Mouse
In the fall of 1983, I had a once-in-a-lifetime vacation. I jetted from New York to London, where I would meet my sister, Martha, who was flying in from the D.C. area. From London, Martha and I – two 20-something sisters – would begin a ten-day experience together in England.
Because Martha had spent her junior year in Bath (and because she makes most anglophiles appear to be relatively indifferent to the U.K.), she did all the planning. Accordingly: We would spend the first two days in London. We would then take the train to Bath. After two nights there, we’d travel further into the country’s southwestern region. And after two nights in Devon, we would return to London for the final three days of our adventure.
The first 48 hours in London entailed sightseeing in a jetlag blur. We took in as much as we could. As for the train to Bath? Relaxing and easy. When we approached a particular town, I remember getting excited about the architecture and the way the old buildings lined up on series of hills.
“Look at that!” I said excitedly, directing Martha’s glance to the train’s window.
“That’s Bath,” she said, smiling.
It was fun to traipse around the university town where my sister had lived for two semesters. We did a great deal of walking, and at one point, we happened into a Chemist’s. (Note, that’s the English equivalent of a pharmacy/drug store.)
Within the Chemist’s was a little machine, designed to allow patrons to check their pulse. And for whatever spontaneous reason, I placed my hand on the gadget and positioned the tip of my index finger so as to get a reading.
The machine replied with a rather alarming, fast-paced “d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-!!!”
Oh my.
I removed my hand, and my sister took her turn.
This time, the machine was less concerned. “Du. Du. Du. Du. Du. ” (it said.)
Hmm….
Several days later, our Devon experience behind us, we were back in London. Walking about, we came upon a Chemist’s, and perhaps because we were needing a sundry or some postcards, we walked in.
Within a few moments, we spied one of those pulse machines. This time, my sister went first.
Her index finger primed in the correct position, the machine responded: “d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-!!!”
Oh my.
Then, I took my turn: “Du. Du. Du. Du. Du. ”
So, here’s my theory:
We seek environments that provide balance.
My sister possesses hyper energy. She is a classic extrovert, and when she is in the room, there is no denying her presence. I, on the other hand, have a rather laid-back social energy. As an introvert, I often prefer blending in with the wallpaper.
My sister’s energy needs a quiet environment. Something to meet her halfway. And for that reason, her pulse was mellow in Bath.
I also need to be met halfway. I need the excitement and fast pace of an urban environment. For that reason, my pulse was mellow in London.
City mouse and country mouse.
Our choices do not reflect absolute preferences. Frankly, a part of me (frankly, a big part of me) would love nothing more than to wake up from a good night’s sleep, step outside my back door, and say “good morning” to a cow. Similarly, I bet my sister would love to have the access I have to large art museums, a local philharmonic, and thousands of restaurants representing every cuisine imaginable.
We have chosen our locations not because we need their cows or their cuisines. We need their energy.
We need their energy in order to balance our own.
Because Martha had spent her junior year in Bath (and because she makes most anglophiles appear to be relatively indifferent to the U.K.), she did all the planning. Accordingly: We would spend the first two days in London. We would then take the train to Bath. After two nights there, we’d travel further into the country’s southwestern region. And after two nights in Devon, we would return to London for the final three days of our adventure.
The first 48 hours in London entailed sightseeing in a jetlag blur. We took in as much as we could. As for the train to Bath? Relaxing and easy. When we approached a particular town, I remember getting excited about the architecture and the way the old buildings lined up on series of hills.
“Look at that!” I said excitedly, directing Martha’s glance to the train’s window.
“That’s Bath,” she said, smiling.
It was fun to traipse around the university town where my sister had lived for two semesters. We did a great deal of walking, and at one point, we happened into a Chemist’s. (Note, that’s the English equivalent of a pharmacy/drug store.)
Within the Chemist’s was a little machine, designed to allow patrons to check their pulse. And for whatever spontaneous reason, I placed my hand on the gadget and positioned the tip of my index finger so as to get a reading.
The machine replied with a rather alarming, fast-paced “d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-!!!”
Oh my.
I removed my hand, and my sister took her turn.
This time, the machine was less concerned. “Du. Du. Du. Du. Du. ” (it said.)
Hmm….
Several days later, our Devon experience behind us, we were back in London. Walking about, we came upon a Chemist’s, and perhaps because we were needing a sundry or some postcards, we walked in.
Within a few moments, we spied one of those pulse machines. This time, my sister went first.
Her index finger primed in the correct position, the machine responded: “d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-!!!”
Oh my.
Then, I took my turn: “Du. Du. Du. Du. Du. ”
So, here’s my theory:
We seek environments that provide balance.
My sister possesses hyper energy. She is a classic extrovert, and when she is in the room, there is no denying her presence. I, on the other hand, have a rather laid-back social energy. As an introvert, I often prefer blending in with the wallpaper.
My sister’s energy needs a quiet environment. Something to meet her halfway. And for that reason, her pulse was mellow in Bath.
I also need to be met halfway. I need the excitement and fast pace of an urban environment. For that reason, my pulse was mellow in London.
City mouse and country mouse.
Our choices do not reflect absolute preferences. Frankly, a part of me (frankly, a big part of me) would love nothing more than to wake up from a good night’s sleep, step outside my back door, and say “good morning” to a cow. Similarly, I bet my sister would love to have the access I have to large art museums, a local philharmonic, and thousands of restaurants representing every cuisine imaginable.
We have chosen our locations not because we need their cows or their cuisines. We need their energy.
We need their energy in order to balance our own.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Common Idiosyncrasies
What is it about bubble wrap?
I mean, really. What’s the deal? Why is it that we all want to pop it? What is the weird thrill we get from that routine?
I can’t figure it out.
Sure, it’s kinda gratifying to hear the sound. That POP. And maybe there’s something about de-activating each bubble so it will never pop again. But… seriously: what’s the deal?
Has there been a study? I wonder. And wouldn’t it be cool, by the way, if the National Institutes of Health actually put out grant money to find out why we all like to pop bubble wrap? If that ever happened (if the NIH actually invested in the research), I’d take it as a good sign. I’d take it to mean that the national economy had bounced back and there was finally peace in the Middle East.
… It’s been a long time since I thought about writing for television. It's also been a while since Frasier was part of the prime-time line-up. But I had this great idea once…
What if Niles Crane (Frasier’s brother, in case you lost your cliff notes) discovered bubble wrap… And: what if he had no idea that other people liked it, too.
Think of it: Niles Crane with bubble wrap.
Niles Crane not knowing of the common idiosyncrasy.
Can you imagine?
I envision him with a small square of bubble wrap in the side pocket of his newly dry-cleaned Armani blazer.
I see him entering Café Nervosa and becoming quickly giddy after surreptitiously putting his hand in his pocket and doing a quick POP.
“Ooh!” he says, cutting himself short.
Later that same day…
I see him moving about furtively in the kitchen of Frasier’s condo. Daphne is there, and because it’s the 5th season, Niles’ crush is obvious to everyone but her. So, there they are, “doing the dance,” and for whatever reason, Niles’ jacket pocket hits the center island every so often.
“POP!”
“Niles!” Daphne says, responding to the sound, her tone vaguely flirtatious.
“POP!”
“What am I hearing?” she asks then, her smile charming.
Daphne gets that knowing look on her face.
(She’s psychic, you know.)
“Is that… bubble wrap?” she asks, raising her eyebrows seductively.
“What are you talking about?” Niles replies, his face white.
“What’s in your pocket?”
“Oh…. Nothing.”
“Oh!” Daphne says, scolding him in the way he craves. “Don’t say nothing! There’s something there! I think it’s bubble wrap!”
“Bubble wrap?” Niles repeats, his eyes melting (his brain genuinely not comprehending the common popularity of bubble wrap).
“Cough it up now!” she insists.
Daphne then meets Niles’ hand as they extract, together, the small square from his pocket.
“Bubble wrap!” Daphne exclaims. “It’s so much fun to pop it!”
“Yes,” says Niles, looking lovingly at her as they pop some bubbles together.
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
I mean, really. What’s the deal? Why is it that we all want to pop it? What is the weird thrill we get from that routine?
I can’t figure it out.
Sure, it’s kinda gratifying to hear the sound. That POP. And maybe there’s something about de-activating each bubble so it will never pop again. But… seriously: what’s the deal?
Has there been a study? I wonder. And wouldn’t it be cool, by the way, if the National Institutes of Health actually put out grant money to find out why we all like to pop bubble wrap? If that ever happened (if the NIH actually invested in the research), I’d take it as a good sign. I’d take it to mean that the national economy had bounced back and there was finally peace in the Middle East.
… It’s been a long time since I thought about writing for television. It's also been a while since Frasier was part of the prime-time line-up. But I had this great idea once…
What if Niles Crane (Frasier’s brother, in case you lost your cliff notes) discovered bubble wrap… And: what if he had no idea that other people liked it, too.
Think of it: Niles Crane with bubble wrap.
Niles Crane not knowing of the common idiosyncrasy.
Can you imagine?
I envision him with a small square of bubble wrap in the side pocket of his newly dry-cleaned Armani blazer.
I see him entering Café Nervosa and becoming quickly giddy after surreptitiously putting his hand in his pocket and doing a quick POP.
“Ooh!” he says, cutting himself short.
Later that same day…
I see him moving about furtively in the kitchen of Frasier’s condo. Daphne is there, and because it’s the 5th season, Niles’ crush is obvious to everyone but her. So, there they are, “doing the dance,” and for whatever reason, Niles’ jacket pocket hits the center island every so often.
“POP!”
“Niles!” Daphne says, responding to the sound, her tone vaguely flirtatious.
“POP!”
“What am I hearing?” she asks then, her smile charming.
Daphne gets that knowing look on her face.
(She’s psychic, you know.)
“Is that… bubble wrap?” she asks, raising her eyebrows seductively.
“What are you talking about?” Niles replies, his face white.
“What’s in your pocket?”
“Oh…. Nothing.”
“Oh!” Daphne says, scolding him in the way he craves. “Don’t say nothing! There’s something there! I think it’s bubble wrap!”
“Bubble wrap?” Niles repeats, his eyes melting (his brain genuinely not comprehending the common popularity of bubble wrap).
“Cough it up now!” she insists.
Daphne then meets Niles’ hand as they extract, together, the small square from his pocket.
“Bubble wrap!” Daphne exclaims. “It’s so much fun to pop it!”
“Yes,” says Niles, looking lovingly at her as they pop some bubbles together.
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Some Things Just Take Time
I smile every time I drive by the Baskin Robbins on Western Avenue.
(Baskin Robbins – renowned for its 31 flavors.)
I don’t smile because I love ice cream (which I do). I don’t smile because I particularly love their ice cream (I actually haven’t tasted it in years). I don’t smile, for that matter, because I’m proud of resisting the urge to turn into their parking lot. (Most often, in fact, when I drive by the local franchise, I’ve just been to the grocery store, so if I were craving ice cream, I would have bought some already.)
I smile because of their new logo.
There’s the B (for Baskin). The straight-edged left side of that letter is blue (the rest is pink).
There’s the R (for Robbins). The straight-edged left side of that letter is pink (the rest is blue).
Combined, the initials make for a two-toned BR, and because of the colors assigned to those letters, the pink part of the B and the pink part of the R create “31.”
And here’s the reason I smile: Baskin Robbins has been around for decades. But it was only in the last year or so that somebody noticed the “31” within these initials.
I can’t help but imagine the pitch meeting, when the marketing people put up the PowerPoint presentation. There it was in pink and blue. Perhaps the most obvious logo ever to appear to mankind.
… So many of us work so hard, believing in what we do. We create product. We market our product as best we can. We find buyers.
As a very small fish in a very large pond, I appreciate driving by Baskin Robbins. I appreciate realizing how long it took for some wise soul to see it. The “31” and the logo that would eventually emerge had been there all along.
I visited my mother last October, and one evening, we were imagining what it would be like to have a substantial amount of spare cash. “If I had some money to spend,” I told her, “I would hire someone to do my marketing.”
My mother’s facial expression became sweetly curious. “You mean the grocery store?” she asked, with a certain trademark innocence.
“Right,” I wanted to reply, with my own trademark sarcasm. “The grocery store... Because if it weren’t for all those pesky trips to Ralphs and Trader Joe’s, I’d undoubtedly have a bestseller under my belt!”
Marketing is a science. The best methods change constantly, and the process takes time. It should neither be underestimated nor taken for granted.
(Baskin Robbins – renowned for its 31 flavors.)
I don’t smile because I love ice cream (which I do). I don’t smile because I particularly love their ice cream (I actually haven’t tasted it in years). I don’t smile, for that matter, because I’m proud of resisting the urge to turn into their parking lot. (Most often, in fact, when I drive by the local franchise, I’ve just been to the grocery store, so if I were craving ice cream, I would have bought some already.)
I smile because of their new logo.
There’s the B (for Baskin). The straight-edged left side of that letter is blue (the rest is pink).
There’s the R (for Robbins). The straight-edged left side of that letter is pink (the rest is blue).
Combined, the initials make for a two-toned BR, and because of the colors assigned to those letters, the pink part of the B and the pink part of the R create “31.”
And here’s the reason I smile: Baskin Robbins has been around for decades. But it was only in the last year or so that somebody noticed the “31” within these initials.
I can’t help but imagine the pitch meeting, when the marketing people put up the PowerPoint presentation. There it was in pink and blue. Perhaps the most obvious logo ever to appear to mankind.
… So many of us work so hard, believing in what we do. We create product. We market our product as best we can. We find buyers.
As a very small fish in a very large pond, I appreciate driving by Baskin Robbins. I appreciate realizing how long it took for some wise soul to see it. The “31” and the logo that would eventually emerge had been there all along.
I visited my mother last October, and one evening, we were imagining what it would be like to have a substantial amount of spare cash. “If I had some money to spend,” I told her, “I would hire someone to do my marketing.”
My mother’s facial expression became sweetly curious. “You mean the grocery store?” she asked, with a certain trademark innocence.
“Right,” I wanted to reply, with my own trademark sarcasm. “The grocery store... Because if it weren’t for all those pesky trips to Ralphs and Trader Joe’s, I’d undoubtedly have a bestseller under my belt!”
Marketing is a science. The best methods change constantly, and the process takes time. It should neither be underestimated nor taken for granted.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Jimmy Fallon is a Happy Man
While I am not a fan of late-night talk show politics (an especially hot issue these days), I’ve always been a fan of the programming. And my earliest experience on this score was watching The Dick Cavett Show. Now, I’ve got to admit, if I saw a tape of that program today, I would probably be a little put off by the relentlessly bookish tone of the dialogue. But, at the time of my appreciating it – I’m guessing I was ten or so – I loved the repartee between the host and his guests. I just loved it.
I should probably explain (in case it isn’t remarkably obvious) that my parents were always rather lenient regarding my bedtime -- particularly on Fridays and Saturdays. And why shouldn’t they have been? It’s not like I was outside stealing hubcaps or smoking crack. I was inside. I was downstairs. I was watching Dick Cavett, for God’s sake.
But in my junior high years, something changed in me, and that’s when my parents started worrying. That’s when I started watching Johnny Carson. I can’t remember the moment when I switched allegiances, but the lure was strong. Maybe it was the show-biz nature of his program. Maybe it was the lack of outright, intellectual sparring. Maybe it was Johnny’s sexy charm. Regardless of the reason, I had changed teams, and this made my parents curious. One night, my father parlayed that curiosity into joining me for the full ninety minutes of The Tonight Show.
I remember turning to Dad throughout the program, smiling and wondering if he would smile too.
But as he sat there, Dad didn’t emote.
When the show was over, though, he did offer one thought as he stood and walked away. He told me that he really loved Ed McMahon.
Right, Dad, I thought, rolling my eyes.
And just as I knew my father was kidding, I also knew that he was expressing a truth. He didn’t love Ed McMahon. He just envied him. He envied the man who could make such a bankroll simply by laughing at his boss night after night.
Over the years, I continued to watch Johnny (remaining indifferent to Ed). And for many of those years, Johnny was followed by Letterman, whom I also grew to love. Classics, both. Their sardonic, often deadpan approaches defined late-night television for me. The dry delivery, the laid-back take – that was what I had come to expect at the end of my day.
When Johnny left, Dave was still there, so the attitude-torch remained lit. From time to time, I’d check in with Conan or Craig, but I could never embrace their higher registers. I wanted a bass, not a tenor. For me, late-night talk had a formula that worked. Why mess with it?
Enter Jimmy Fallon.
When his show debuted last March, I was curious to see what this SNL alum would do with Conan’s old spot on NBC. So, after Letterman, I switched channels and watched.
During the first week or so, I sensed a discomfort, particularly during the opening monologue. He didn’t seem up to the routine of a typical late-night talk show host. But… I kept watching, and as the weeks and months unfolded, Jimmy Fallon established his own routine.
And now? I am beyond impressed. With less than a year under his talk-show belt, Jimmy Fallon has done something I would never have thought imaginable in all my years of following Dick, Johnny, and Dave. Jimmy Fallon has made late-night talk not just a comic place, but a genuinely happy place.
The minute he steps through those curtains, he is more than comfortable and competent. He is – or seems to be – filled with joy. And that joy then gets spread – to the band (Roots; joyful in their own right); to his announcer, Higgins (Lydia’s non-smoking half); to his studio audience; to his guests; and to folks like me, who are relaxing on couches or in beds across America.
Late-night happy.
A new concept.
I, for one, have never needed it more.
I should probably explain (in case it isn’t remarkably obvious) that my parents were always rather lenient regarding my bedtime -- particularly on Fridays and Saturdays. And why shouldn’t they have been? It’s not like I was outside stealing hubcaps or smoking crack. I was inside. I was downstairs. I was watching Dick Cavett, for God’s sake.
But in my junior high years, something changed in me, and that’s when my parents started worrying. That’s when I started watching Johnny Carson. I can’t remember the moment when I switched allegiances, but the lure was strong. Maybe it was the show-biz nature of his program. Maybe it was the lack of outright, intellectual sparring. Maybe it was Johnny’s sexy charm. Regardless of the reason, I had changed teams, and this made my parents curious. One night, my father parlayed that curiosity into joining me for the full ninety minutes of The Tonight Show.
I remember turning to Dad throughout the program, smiling and wondering if he would smile too.
But as he sat there, Dad didn’t emote.
When the show was over, though, he did offer one thought as he stood and walked away. He told me that he really loved Ed McMahon.
Right, Dad, I thought, rolling my eyes.
And just as I knew my father was kidding, I also knew that he was expressing a truth. He didn’t love Ed McMahon. He just envied him. He envied the man who could make such a bankroll simply by laughing at his boss night after night.
Over the years, I continued to watch Johnny (remaining indifferent to Ed). And for many of those years, Johnny was followed by Letterman, whom I also grew to love. Classics, both. Their sardonic, often deadpan approaches defined late-night television for me. The dry delivery, the laid-back take – that was what I had come to expect at the end of my day.
When Johnny left, Dave was still there, so the attitude-torch remained lit. From time to time, I’d check in with Conan or Craig, but I could never embrace their higher registers. I wanted a bass, not a tenor. For me, late-night talk had a formula that worked. Why mess with it?
Enter Jimmy Fallon.
When his show debuted last March, I was curious to see what this SNL alum would do with Conan’s old spot on NBC. So, after Letterman, I switched channels and watched.
During the first week or so, I sensed a discomfort, particularly during the opening monologue. He didn’t seem up to the routine of a typical late-night talk show host. But… I kept watching, and as the weeks and months unfolded, Jimmy Fallon established his own routine.
And now? I am beyond impressed. With less than a year under his talk-show belt, Jimmy Fallon has done something I would never have thought imaginable in all my years of following Dick, Johnny, and Dave. Jimmy Fallon has made late-night talk not just a comic place, but a genuinely happy place.
The minute he steps through those curtains, he is more than comfortable and competent. He is – or seems to be – filled with joy. And that joy then gets spread – to the band (Roots; joyful in their own right); to his announcer, Higgins (Lydia’s non-smoking half); to his studio audience; to his guests; and to folks like me, who are relaxing on couches or in beds across America.
Late-night happy.
A new concept.
I, for one, have never needed it more.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Signs of the Times
I try not to go to that “fear place,” but these days, the indicators of struggle are everywhere. It seems that the majority of apartment buildings on my block have For Rent signs out front. And on nearby commercial streets, there are more than a few empty stores. Other stores – not yet empty – soon will be. The large, brightly-colored notices of liquidation and huge discounts foretell their futures.
Must everything go?
As an independent contractor, I can only hope that the work will keep coming. Sure, I can take some proactive measures, and doing so might help, but there are no guarantees, and that precariousness can be a bit unsettling. Having an income that changes month-to-month isn’t new, of course. I’ve been self-employed, and therefore dependent on the needs of a collection of clients, for ten years. Some months are less lucrative than others, but I’ve always managed. And, until recently, I’ve never felt drawn to the fear place.
But, the unease is in the air. It’s around every corner. It shows up in facial expressions. It underscores overheard dialogues. It is the story behind the unprecedented number of signs placed in yards and windows.
Last Saturday afternoon, I decided to walk to my local triplex to see a 4:00 showing of It’s Complicated. When I called to check on movie times, I was grateful to learn that my neighborhood theatre has remained a place where one can see a matinee for less than ten dollars. And while the current $6.00 rate represents an increase over the $4.50 they charged for matinees six or so months ago, it still felt like a bargain. I’ll admit that the screen is not huge, the sound system is sub-par, and there was no usher to direct me to my pre-assigned seat, but the activity was well worth the price of admission. It helped take my mind off the signs.
Ironically, on my way to the theatre, I saw a For Rent sign that jarred me just a bit more than any I have seen since the downturn started hitting home. The sign was in the window of a small place on Franklin, just a few doors west of the Vermont Avenue intersection. For someone who is unfamiliar with this neighborhood and who hasn’t – as I have – walked past that property on a regular basis for more than fifteen years, the sign probably announces nothing other than the availability of yet another rental residence. But for me, the message was more specific. It told me that the Psychic Advisor has moved.
Seeing the emptiness of an establishment that once featured neon window dressing advertising Tarot Readings, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the lady who made her living envisioning other people’s futures. Did she not see it coming? Did she look at her palm with a new set of corrective lenses one day and realize, in that moment, that she never, in fact, had much of a wealth line? Or, was she running from litigious former clients whose own futures had not panned out quite as nicely as she predicted they would?
Of course, I could be wrong in painting the picture so negatively. For all I know, she might have cashed in her 401K and moved to Palm Springs. Or maybe she hit some lottery numbers and moved up the hill. Hmm… I’ll have to keep that possibility in mind next time I go on my mansion hike. Maybe I’ll see her neon sign in a bottom floor window of one of those houses that undoubtedly is equipped with no fewer than two elevators. And if I do see it… and if she’s still charging only $10 for a reading, I’ll invest in her powers.
But, I have a feeling I’ll never see her sign again.
(Call me psychic.)
Must everything go?
As an independent contractor, I can only hope that the work will keep coming. Sure, I can take some proactive measures, and doing so might help, but there are no guarantees, and that precariousness can be a bit unsettling. Having an income that changes month-to-month isn’t new, of course. I’ve been self-employed, and therefore dependent on the needs of a collection of clients, for ten years. Some months are less lucrative than others, but I’ve always managed. And, until recently, I’ve never felt drawn to the fear place.
But, the unease is in the air. It’s around every corner. It shows up in facial expressions. It underscores overheard dialogues. It is the story behind the unprecedented number of signs placed in yards and windows.
Last Saturday afternoon, I decided to walk to my local triplex to see a 4:00 showing of It’s Complicated. When I called to check on movie times, I was grateful to learn that my neighborhood theatre has remained a place where one can see a matinee for less than ten dollars. And while the current $6.00 rate represents an increase over the $4.50 they charged for matinees six or so months ago, it still felt like a bargain. I’ll admit that the screen is not huge, the sound system is sub-par, and there was no usher to direct me to my pre-assigned seat, but the activity was well worth the price of admission. It helped take my mind off the signs.
Ironically, on my way to the theatre, I saw a For Rent sign that jarred me just a bit more than any I have seen since the downturn started hitting home. The sign was in the window of a small place on Franklin, just a few doors west of the Vermont Avenue intersection. For someone who is unfamiliar with this neighborhood and who hasn’t – as I have – walked past that property on a regular basis for more than fifteen years, the sign probably announces nothing other than the availability of yet another rental residence. But for me, the message was more specific. It told me that the Psychic Advisor has moved.
Seeing the emptiness of an establishment that once featured neon window dressing advertising Tarot Readings, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the lady who made her living envisioning other people’s futures. Did she not see it coming? Did she look at her palm with a new set of corrective lenses one day and realize, in that moment, that she never, in fact, had much of a wealth line? Or, was she running from litigious former clients whose own futures had not panned out quite as nicely as she predicted they would?
Of course, I could be wrong in painting the picture so negatively. For all I know, she might have cashed in her 401K and moved to Palm Springs. Or maybe she hit some lottery numbers and moved up the hill. Hmm… I’ll have to keep that possibility in mind next time I go on my mansion hike. Maybe I’ll see her neon sign in a bottom floor window of one of those houses that undoubtedly is equipped with no fewer than two elevators. And if I do see it… and if she’s still charging only $10 for a reading, I’ll invest in her powers.
But, I have a feeling I’ll never see her sign again.
(Call me psychic.)
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Shopping at Trader Joe’s: An Investment of Time
Living in L.A., I can claim a connection to Ground Zero of the Trader Joe’s phenomenon. This is where it all started, and this is certainly where Trader Joe’s started for me.
I remember the first time I walked into a Trader Joe’s. I didn’t grab a cart or even pick up a basket. I was on my way to a dinner party, and I had just dropped in to get a reasonably priced bottle of wine.
The next time I ventured into TJs, I still didn’t need a basket. My two arms sufficed – for the wine and the cheese. (Another social gathering.)
But these experiences occurred before the introduction of the various sub-brands: Trader Giotto’s, Trader Ming’s, Trader Jose’s. These early experiences occurred when Trader Joe’s was just a friendly neighborhood franchise…
Trader Joe’s is still friendly, and I love it for that, but now that I shop there regularly (and I always need a cart), I can also state, quite emphatically, that good ol’ TJs seems to employ the most sadistic parking lot designer ever known to humankind. There are now dozens of the stores in the L.A. area (and hundreds more across the country), and I’ve yet to hear of a Trader Joe’s parking lot that doesn’t challenge the patience of the chain’s dedicated patrons.
Invariably, there is a long wait to find a parking space. Invariably, those circling the lot (entering? trying to leave?) are driving against the arrows (if arrows, in fact, exist). Invariably, the parking lots’ points of entry and exit (often combined) are completely inconvenient (and often downright dangerous) vis-à-vis the major thoroughfare on which that particular store exists.
Shopping at Trader Joe’s (here at Ground Zero, at least) is really a study in commitment. How badly do you want to shop there? What risks are you willing to take? What kind of time do you have to sacrifice?
As a self-employed person, I might be envied by other Trader Joe’s shoppers. After all, I don’t have to wait until after work or weekends to make my Giotto/Ming/Jose purchases. I have the freedom of time! I can go during the day, when – surely – the parking lot is not so full of nuts.
Guess again, nine-to-fivers. I’ve had that alleged freedom for more than a half-dozen years now, and I can’t claim to have cracked the code. The Trader Joe’s parking lot is always sadistic. It was just built that way.
And somehow, even when I don’t enter the parking lot, the time commitment is unavoidable.
Here’s a story, from a few months ago:
It’s midweek, two’ish, and I’ve just hit a good break in billables. I grab my TJs shopping list and head to my car.
Driving through Los Feliz is easy enough – maybe takes four minutes; five minutes, tops – but when I get to Marshall High (famous for the exterior shot introducing Room 222), I’m slowed down considerably. The kids have just been let out, and as they cross in front of my car, I am reminded of a riddle a peer recently shared:
Q: Why are teenagers afraid of zombies?
A: Because zombies can outrun them.
I sit in my car as the teenage zombies amble in front of it. While tedious and absurd, this delay is okay. This delay has nothing, really, to do with Trader Joe’s.
When an opportunity presents itself, I crawl on. And soon, I make the right onto Griffith Park Drive. I’ve now returned to normal afternoon driving speeds. (And I’m still making good time.)
When I get to Hyperion, the light is on my side, and there’s no oncoming traffic. I make the left. (I’m really cruising now.) Then, I see it: the ultimate parking space.
Granted, it’s a metered space, but, honey, it’s worth the price of admission. It’s the last space before that hellish TJs parking lot. And what that means is this: I can back into it easily; no other car can block me in; and when I’m done with my shopping, I can just zip right back into the Hyperion traffic. (I swear, I was able to park more quickly than it took me just now to articulate that rationale!)
Cool.
So then, after my quick parking maneuvers, I leap out of my car, dash to the meter, and guess what? Thirty-six minutes, pre-paid. (I kid you not.) This is just getting better and better.
I grab a cart that is right there, and I enter the store. I then zoom, unimpeded, down the uncrowded aisles. Pushing the cart that greeted me (and that, remarkably, has evenly constructed wheels and no stubborn desire to make a sudden left turn), I quickly find everything on my list. Not only that, each item is exactly where it should be (i.e., the crew has undertaken no disorienting rearrangement of inventory since my last visit).
I head to check-out, and the options are unprecedented. There is no wait, and that fact is true for at least three cash registers.
I swipe my card without a hitch. Then, with two full bags placed into my smooth-sailing cart, I head out the door and make the quick left to the sidewalk.
I arrive at my car in less than ten seconds, and I open the trunk. I place the bags therein and put the cart back where I found it (flush with the sidewalk newspaper dispenser).
I notice the meter... 27 minutes, still pre-paid. A gift for the next shopper.
I get into the driver’s side and put the key in the ignition. I turn it. What?
I try again.
What?
Nothing.
My car is not making a sound.
I am smiling broadly (and, oh yes, ironically) as I get out of the car and head for the trunk. I am still smiling as I open it and retrieve my groceries. I am even smiling when I approach the raised office area at the front of the store.
“Hi,” I say to the helpful crew member. “My car won’t start, so I was wondering? Could you keep these groceries refrigerated for me until I take care of the problem?”
Of course he can. After all, he works for Trader Joe’s. So he’s a friendly, happy guy.
Long story short: forty-five minutes later, I am back at Trader Joe’s. A new battery in my car, I negotiate the sadistic parking lot. Finally, I get a space, and I run in to retrieve my groceries. Fifteen minutes after that, I’m back home. Another chunk of my life has passed by; another chunk of my life dedicated to shopping at Trader Joe’s.
I remember the first time I walked into a Trader Joe’s. I didn’t grab a cart or even pick up a basket. I was on my way to a dinner party, and I had just dropped in to get a reasonably priced bottle of wine.
The next time I ventured into TJs, I still didn’t need a basket. My two arms sufficed – for the wine and the cheese. (Another social gathering.)
But these experiences occurred before the introduction of the various sub-brands: Trader Giotto’s, Trader Ming’s, Trader Jose’s. These early experiences occurred when Trader Joe’s was just a friendly neighborhood franchise…
Trader Joe’s is still friendly, and I love it for that, but now that I shop there regularly (and I always need a cart), I can also state, quite emphatically, that good ol’ TJs seems to employ the most sadistic parking lot designer ever known to humankind. There are now dozens of the stores in the L.A. area (and hundreds more across the country), and I’ve yet to hear of a Trader Joe’s parking lot that doesn’t challenge the patience of the chain’s dedicated patrons.
Invariably, there is a long wait to find a parking space. Invariably, those circling the lot (entering? trying to leave?) are driving against the arrows (if arrows, in fact, exist). Invariably, the parking lots’ points of entry and exit (often combined) are completely inconvenient (and often downright dangerous) vis-à-vis the major thoroughfare on which that particular store exists.
Shopping at Trader Joe’s (here at Ground Zero, at least) is really a study in commitment. How badly do you want to shop there? What risks are you willing to take? What kind of time do you have to sacrifice?
As a self-employed person, I might be envied by other Trader Joe’s shoppers. After all, I don’t have to wait until after work or weekends to make my Giotto/Ming/Jose purchases. I have the freedom of time! I can go during the day, when – surely – the parking lot is not so full of nuts.
Guess again, nine-to-fivers. I’ve had that alleged freedom for more than a half-dozen years now, and I can’t claim to have cracked the code. The Trader Joe’s parking lot is always sadistic. It was just built that way.
And somehow, even when I don’t enter the parking lot, the time commitment is unavoidable.
Here’s a story, from a few months ago:
It’s midweek, two’ish, and I’ve just hit a good break in billables. I grab my TJs shopping list and head to my car.
Driving through Los Feliz is easy enough – maybe takes four minutes; five minutes, tops – but when I get to Marshall High (famous for the exterior shot introducing Room 222), I’m slowed down considerably. The kids have just been let out, and as they cross in front of my car, I am reminded of a riddle a peer recently shared:
Q: Why are teenagers afraid of zombies?
A: Because zombies can outrun them.
I sit in my car as the teenage zombies amble in front of it. While tedious and absurd, this delay is okay. This delay has nothing, really, to do with Trader Joe’s.
When an opportunity presents itself, I crawl on. And soon, I make the right onto Griffith Park Drive. I’ve now returned to normal afternoon driving speeds. (And I’m still making good time.)
When I get to Hyperion, the light is on my side, and there’s no oncoming traffic. I make the left. (I’m really cruising now.) Then, I see it: the ultimate parking space.
Granted, it’s a metered space, but, honey, it’s worth the price of admission. It’s the last space before that hellish TJs parking lot. And what that means is this: I can back into it easily; no other car can block me in; and when I’m done with my shopping, I can just zip right back into the Hyperion traffic. (I swear, I was able to park more quickly than it took me just now to articulate that rationale!)
Cool.
So then, after my quick parking maneuvers, I leap out of my car, dash to the meter, and guess what? Thirty-six minutes, pre-paid. (I kid you not.) This is just getting better and better.
I grab a cart that is right there, and I enter the store. I then zoom, unimpeded, down the uncrowded aisles. Pushing the cart that greeted me (and that, remarkably, has evenly constructed wheels and no stubborn desire to make a sudden left turn), I quickly find everything on my list. Not only that, each item is exactly where it should be (i.e., the crew has undertaken no disorienting rearrangement of inventory since my last visit).
I head to check-out, and the options are unprecedented. There is no wait, and that fact is true for at least three cash registers.
I swipe my card without a hitch. Then, with two full bags placed into my smooth-sailing cart, I head out the door and make the quick left to the sidewalk.
I arrive at my car in less than ten seconds, and I open the trunk. I place the bags therein and put the cart back where I found it (flush with the sidewalk newspaper dispenser).
I notice the meter... 27 minutes, still pre-paid. A gift for the next shopper.
I get into the driver’s side and put the key in the ignition. I turn it. What?
I try again.
What?
Nothing.
My car is not making a sound.
I am smiling broadly (and, oh yes, ironically) as I get out of the car and head for the trunk. I am still smiling as I open it and retrieve my groceries. I am even smiling when I approach the raised office area at the front of the store.
“Hi,” I say to the helpful crew member. “My car won’t start, so I was wondering? Could you keep these groceries refrigerated for me until I take care of the problem?”
Of course he can. After all, he works for Trader Joe’s. So he’s a friendly, happy guy.
Long story short: forty-five minutes later, I am back at Trader Joe’s. A new battery in my car, I negotiate the sadistic parking lot. Finally, I get a space, and I run in to retrieve my groceries. Fifteen minutes after that, I’m back home. Another chunk of my life has passed by; another chunk of my life dedicated to shopping at Trader Joe’s.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)