Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Food trucks.

I love em. Especially the Canter's truck. Egg salad please and thank you. A couple weeks ago, while on a mind-bending adventure with my favorite five-year-old, we saw this one. Needless to say, there was no line.




Help.

Rob said this girl reminded him of me.


Compliment? I say yes.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Cash Resurrected and Re-Imagined

i (rob) personally think that a good deal of Johnny Cash's best stuff was recorded in the twilight of his life, with producer Rick Rubin, including the recently released "Ain't No Grave". there was a music video made for the track, and some dude decided to artsy-fartsy-fy it up, and the result is almost more haunting than the song itself, if that was ever possible.

anyway, hope you enjoy it as much as i did -- unless you're an epileptic. then you're not going to remember it. you'll wake up in an ambulance somewhere, wondering how you got there.











Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Signs of my brain's own private apocalypse.

  • Today on the way to school, I saw a little wiener dog limping on the side of the freeway. So I did what any rational person would do. I impetuously pulled over, turned on my hazards and jumped out of my car. On the driver's side, of course. Because, naturally, that's where the Mack trucks speed by at 65 mph. Then I chased the little bugger. He was hopping on three legs and he had porcupine quills all up in his business, which only made me more determined to save him. What I was going to do when I caught him is entirely beside the point. Let's not forget where I was demonstrating all of this heroism: on the freeway. In Los Angeles. On the interchange between the 5 to the 10. In my infinite wisdom, I chased him up the 5, across a median and across another on-ramp before it occurred to me that I was being a damned retard. So I ran back to my car, tried to look up animal control, could only find Pet Finder, gave up, and finally called Rob and made him take care of it. Which he did because he's so awesome.
  • On Saturday, I saw a dead baby bird on the side of the house and, like I assume all mentally stable people do, started weeping. I made Rob promise that he would bury it while I was at work. Then on the way home, there was another baby bird in the same spot. I was about to get all up in Rob's face for neglecting to give the baby bird the front yard (more like a front dirt-patch) burial it deserved, but I noticed this one was breathing. Being a 26-year-old grown woman, I immediately started hyperventilating and began to panic. (What can I say? I'm a natural.) Rob got to work saving the little fella while I crouched down and, somehow, between hysterical sobs, assured the little bird that it shouldn't worry and it was going to be OK. However, I can see how having a giant lady hovering over you and blubbering would not be super comforting for a tiny woodland creature who's just trying to make it in this city like everyone else. Rob saved the little guy, restoring him to the nest we found on the side of the house and I held the ladder while intermittently gasping for breath and wiping my eyes. Everything's back to normal now, except that I obsessively check the spot where I found the birds, just to make sure no more have fallen out of the nest. So far, so good.